“It was a joke. I hate every last one of them.”
Elianna gifted her a used coffee machine from the café, still in good working order, and a large canister of freshly ground coffee beans. “I’ll send more when you run out.”
Blakely wrapped up a framed picture of the four of them from last Christmas. It was a rare shot, and it was almost as if Blakely was reminding Emeryyou’re one of us.
She packed two suitcases, a box of books, and her laptop. The next morning, she headed out at five a.m. with a baggie of cinnamon scones from the café and cooler of snacks and water.
She spent the night in Nashville with a friend and, by midafternoon the next day, drove down Highway 98 into the East End of Sea Blue Beach. Emery rolled down the windows so the cool, dewy January air filled the car. Filled her. When her tires burped over the worn brick of Sea Blue Way, it was as if she’d driven back in time to her last innocent summer.
Eager to see the town, she drove past her turn on Avenue C toward the Sands Motor Motel. Was it like she remembered? How much of the East End had changed?
The Blue Plate Diner looked busy, as usual. The bakery, Sweet Conversations, had a crowd at the counter, and several young people exited the coffee shop, One More Cup.
The iconic skating rink, the Starlight, remained a beacon on the north shore. The sight of it made Emery feel welcomed. In her mind, it was like a pushpin in the sand, holding the east and west ends of town together.
The food trucks still lined the Beachwalk, with its Victorian lamps and row of wrought-iron benches. The Midnight Theateradvertised a film from last year. And the old shopping center with the Starlight Museum, a yarn shop, and a small art gallery had a couple of storefronts available for rent. Circling the roundabout, Emery headed back east and toward theGazetteoffice and the Sands Motor Motel.
The parking lot of Tony’s Pizza was active, and Biggs Grocery Store had shoppers coming and going. Alderman’s Pharmacy still advertised the “best soda fountain in town,” but the place looked dark and abandoned. What was going on there?
At the stop sign, Emery looked left up a slight hill toward Rachel Kirby Lane and theGazette. Elliot was driving down from Atlanta to meet with her later today.
Circling around, she made her way back to Avenue C and the motor motel. Parking in the sand-and-shell lot, she saw the old courtyard and seven cottages for the first time in sixteen years.
The cottages sat under overhanging roofs to shade from the sun and protect from the rain. The stucco exterior was painted the same seashell pink with coral trim. Several Adirondacks circled the stone fire pit. Grass sprouted between the edges of the stone pavers, and an American flag still waved over Cottage 1. A string of white lights swung from cottage to cottage, and the old grill Dad always fired up sat nestled between Cottage 3 and 4.
The owner, Delilah, waited for her by Cottage 7.
“Shew,” Emery whispered. “Here we go.”
“Welcome back.” Delilah handed her the key to Cottage 7, then held Emery’s shoulders for a good once-over. “You grew up mighty fine. I knew you would.”
“I’m not sure how I feel being back here.” Emery unlocked the door, then peered inside without moving. “Dad thought I’d be happier in an apartment or house, but . . .”
“This place has memories of your mother.” Delilah wrapped her arm around Emery as if she’d done so a hundred times. “I’m sorry I’ve not kept in touch.”
“It’s fine, Delilah. It wasn’t expected.” Emery stepped over the threshold with her suitcases and set her laptop on the round dinette table. “You knew, didn’t you?” She turned to Delilah. “About the cancer?”
“I did, yes. She told me shortly after we met that summer.” In her mid-to-late eighties, Delilah was tall and slender, refined-looking with wisdom lines on her otherwise smooth skin. She was also somewhat of an urban legend.
What happened to Delilah Mead?
She’d been a music sensation in the late sixties and early seventies as part of the dynamic folk duo Samson Delilah. Until she walked away and never looked back.
“You can stay as long as you want. I’m still in Cottage 1. My door is always open for you.”
“Thank you, Delilah. I mean it.”
“I’ll let you get settled. When you have time, let me know how it feels to be back.”
So far, sentimental and melancholy. She almost expected to see Mom on the settee under the southern jalousie window, reading a book, then falling asleep, waking up when Emery bounded in for dinner.
“How was your day,my sun-tanned girl?”
If only Emery had known then what she knew now, from the get-go. She’d have spent more time with Mom.
But she’d spent sixteen years making peace with the past. This moment was like being able to reach back and touch buried feelings and images, maybe solve the mystery of why she felt she’d left something behind.
Emery also half expected to see Dad standing at the stove,making pancakes or marinating steaks for the grill, oldies playing on the radio.
