“Not at all.” She ruffled his thick dark hair. “You’re an old-soul man, Jackson. Your great-grandpa would be proud.”
“Well, wasn’t I named for him?”
She nodded. “Yep. Jackson was his last name.”
As she turned off the kitchen lights, she could hear strains of Dean Martin wafting through the cottage, so warm and cheerful and inviting ... She almost expected to see Poppa and Gammi dancing past her, like they sometimes did on a warm summer evening after sharing a bottle of red wine and a good seafood dinner.
“That’s nice,” she told Jackson as she carried the laundry basket of linens into the downstairs bedroom. “Friendly.”
“I thought you’d like it.” He perused the albums, setting a few aside.
“After I get the bedroom cleared out a little and some clean sheets on, I could make us some popcorn,” she offered. “You know, to celebrate our first night here.”
“Sounds awesome.” He nodded.
Bracing herself for an onslaught of old memories, she was pleasantly surprised to discover her grandparents’ personal belongings had been completely cleared out of their bedroom. Only the bed and mattress, some sparse furnishings, and an attractive selection of shells remained. Was this the work of Mrs. Campbell? Or had Poppa done it? Mrs. Campbell had mentioned that he’d acted like he was getting the place ready for her. She wasn’t sure about that, but it was a relief not to sift through clothes and shoes and miscellaneous toiletries.
It didn’t take long to make up the bed and unpack her clothes. She was glad that she’d brought her own freshly laundered bedding from home. It would be a comfort to sleep on sweet-smelling sheets. Even though this had once been her grandparents’ room, she was surprised by how at home she felt after her things were put in place.
“All done.” She sniffed as she emerged from the bedroom, spying Jackson with his hands behind his back and a mysterious grin. “Didyoumake popcorn?”
He pulled a large bowl from behind him. “I found a hot-air popper.”
“Good for you.” She reached for a buttery handful. “Yum.”
“I also found a case of root beer on the back porch.” He sheepishly pointed to a couple of cans on the coffee table. “I know you’re not a fan of soda, but since we’re celebrating, I thought it’d be okay.”
“Sounds good to me.” She chuckled. “You know, root beer was Poppa’s favorite.”
So with the fire crackling and Dean Martin crooning in the background, she and Jackson feasted on popcorn and root beer—and for a brief moment Wendy could almost imagine living like this ...always.
“This place is going to be so great at Christmastime.” Jackson laid another log on the fire. “So much better than our cheesy apartment.” He pointed to the big front window that looked toward the ocean. “I think we should put our Christmas tree right there.”
Wendy pursed her lips.
“Or maybe over there.” He pointed to the adjacent wall. “So we don’t block the ocean view. And we can’t get a little fake tree like last year. We’ll get a real tree from now on. One that reaches clear to the ceiling too. I’ll bet Maine has a great selection of Christmas trees.”
She set down her root beer, trying to think of a response—a way to subdue his newfound holiday enthusiasm. “Well, maybe we should focus on Thanksgiving first. After all, it’s just a few days away.” And so they talked about that some, discussing what they’d cook and who would do what until Wendy eventually noticed the time. “Wow, Jackson, it’s after ten. I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted. I think I’ll turn in. I’d say you should too, but since it’s not a school night—”
“I wanna go to bed,” he agreed. “According to my phone, the low tide is at 5:12 tomorrow morning. That’s supposed to be the best time for beachcombing.”
She frowned. “Sorry, but I don’t plan to be up by then. Besides, it’ll still be dark.”
“I know. The sunrise isn’t until after seven. Maybe we could go then.”
“Great. It’s a date.” She went over to kiss his forehead. “Good night, Jackson. Thanks for all your help with everything.”
“Do we need to do anything about the fireplace?” he asked.
“I’ll just make sure the logs are pushed back.” She remembered how Poppa would do that. “And secure the fire screen in place.”
“All right.” He nodded. “G’night, Mom.”
Wendy felt slightly odd as she went about locking up the house, turning off the lights, checking the fireplace. Obviously, she’d been a “grown-up” for many years, but her last time here, she’d been the kid and her grandparents took care of such things. Finally, with only the orange glow of the fireplace embers for light, she stood in the center of the cozy room. Looking around, she released a slow, long sigh that was partly relief and partly frustration.
In a “perfect” world, she and Jackson could just remain here and make this cottage their home sweet home. In a “perfect” world she could find profitable employment in Seaside—year-round. But she knew there was no such thing as a perfect world. And she knew that not only did tiny Seaside lack corporate jobs in marketing firms like where she’d been employed these past seven years, the off-season was slim pickings for locals too. Jackson wasn’t the only one doing research. She’d scoured the local newspaper’s classified section online, as well as some job websites, only to learn it was hopeless.
As the head of her household and a responsible parent, Wendy needed a secure family-wage job that included insurance, vacation time, retirement benefits—a job that would help get them ahead and build up Jackson’s college fund. And that job did not exist in Seaside.
