Emery:
Can get the announcement in the Wed. edition. Visited more businesses about advertising. I’m not a salesperson. Blergh! That’s how my day went. You?
Caleb:
I have faith in you. Go get ’em. Things are slow here except for cleaning up after an 11 yr. old.
Emery:
Ha! I bet.
He stared at his phone, wanting to invite her to dinner, then Lizzie’s voice ran through his head. That he needed help. That he didn’tdorelationships.
Was Sea Blue Beach his final stop? Was it Emery’s? Chances were theGazettewas a springboard for a larger paper.
Back in his office, he emailed the Main Street group about the next meeting.“Lulu will want preliminary ideas from us. Ifyou have,get them to me now.”
By the time Bentley dashed into the house, calling, “I’m home” and dropping his backpack on the hardwood with a thud, Caleb had a dozen emails from Adele, Mercy, and Ivan. One from Duke. Two from Simon. Most of them suggested images of the prince and Malachi Nickle, of the Starlight, the Sands Motor Motel, the Tidewater, and the Sunset Bowling Parlor.
Simon insisted on Immanuel being included.“We’re notSea Blue Beach without Him. He is ‘God with us.’He saved the prince from drowning by washing him ontoour shores. Then sent Malachi Nickle to bring him home.I think that’s the part of our heritage we’re forgetting. So Immanuel must be included.”
Caleb wrote down all the suggestions, circlingImmanuel,God with us.
Coming out of the office, he greeted Bentley, who had a fresh bowl of cereal sitting on the coffee table while he worked Minecraft magic.
“Take your bowl to the kitchen when you’re done, buddy,” Caleb said before he wandered into the crisp, cool air of the back porch.
Growing up in Sea Blue Beach, every kid and every adult knew about Immanuel, God with us. The mural at the Starlight depicted Immanuel as a woodsman of sorts, dressed in a long coat and aCrocodile Dundeekind of hat, his brown hair tucked around his collar. But it was his radiating eyes that captivated and perplexed Caleb.
Prince Blue had hired a renowned Italian artist to paint a picture of Him on the panels of the Starlight, with children of every nationality skating toward Him. The prince had experienced Immanuel with his own eyes, walking toward him through the storm, by the light of a single star, as the Gulf’s tempest waves washed pieces of his wrecked yacht ashore alongside him.
Was He real or the result of a desperate man on a desperate night? Caleb hoped against hope He was real. Mom and Dad believed. But not Cassidy.
Leaning against the rail, Caleb watched a new set of dark clouds roll in, promising to make a ruckus later. The lawn’s winter grass needed to be cut, which seemed like a good chore for Bentley. But since Caleb was restless, maybe he’d break out the old push mower tomorrow, clear his head with the scent of freshly cut grass, stretch out a few tense kinks.
Back inside, he was about to tell Bentley to do his homework when he paused by the first box along the living room wall. It was markedMementos.
Mom sent him to Seattle with this box of football trophies, the medallion from winning the county-wide middle school spelling bee, his high school diploma, and the framed acceptance letter from Cornell. And the last family photo when Cassidy was Cassidy.
Ripping away the packing tape on the box, Caleb pressed the flaps back and laughed. Sitting on top of his letterman jacket was the cheap belt buckle he’d won for enduring the carnival’s mechanical bull. He’d forgotten all about it until the carnival came to town. How had Mom known to pack it? He’d had it with him in Seattle that whole time?
Setting the buckle on the coffee table, he reached for his letterman’s jacket. He was struggling with the snaps when Bentley peered over the back of the couch.
“Hey, what’s in the box? Is that your jacket?” He wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t fit.”
“Yes, it’s my jacket. No, it doesn’t fit since I’m all the way grown. Hey, finish your game and then homework.”
“Can I try that on?”
Caleb regarded the dark blue and white jacket with theNletter and the cluster of pins he collected for the years he lettered in three sports. He shrugged it off and tossed it to Bentley.
“Hey, it fits.” Bentley stood on the couch, arms wide. “Almost. Can I keep it? Until I earn my own?”
“Sure, but, buddy, I don’t think Minecraft is a sport.”
“I’m trying to talk Principal Tucker into making pickleball a school sport.”
Caleb smiled. “Are you now? Good for you.” In that moment, Bentley was his mother. She was always coming up with new ideas, challenging the norms. Asking, “Why not?”
