It’s still sheltered from the sea, but it’s got a peekaboo view of it in the distance. There are trees stretching up on all sides—deciduous trees, unlike the evergreens covering the rest of the island. Maples and Dogwoods and Garry Oak, their late spring leaves thick and fluttering in the breeze.
But that’s not what draws my eye. What I’m fixated on is the little cottage perched in the middle of the tiny meadow at the center. It’s wood, painted a soft blue, and two stories high.
If I could paint a picture of the most peaceful, perfect, beautiful place in the world, this would be it. It looks, actually, like what I tried so hard to describe when the therapist Mom sent me to after Dad died asked me to picture a safe place.
And when we walk around to the other side?
My jaw drops. Sun filters through the trees onto a wide back deck lined with trellises. On the trellises grow huge, mature roses somehow even more beautiful than the ones in the hotel garden. The deck has a wrought-iron table and chairs and two plush outdoor chairs. I follow the man onto the deck, not once thinking I shouldn’t be here.
Because, strangely, this feels like the only place in the world Ishouldbe.
The man sweeps his hand to the chairs, and I sit on the end of one of the loungers. I close my eyes and inhale, taking in all the smells and sounds. Roses are the predominant scent. But I smellgrass, too, probably from the little meadow on the other side of the trellises. I hear the faint babble of water.
That’s when I start to cry.
I bury my face in my hands, sobbing like an absolute fool.
I don’t know how long I sit like that, crying—wailing, actually—as I bury my face in my flouncy lap.
It must be a while, because when I finally look up again, snuffling, I’m alone.
I feel better for having let loose some of those feelings, though I still feel a little unlike myself. Like I’ve floated here on some kind of fairy bubble, landing in a safe and imaginary place where I’ll be looked after, free from harm or suffering.
I take a breath and stand up, looking around. There’s a box of tissues on the little patio table, as well as a glass of water.
He’s giving me space.
I’m so touched by the man’s thoughtfulness, I almost cry again. Whenever I had feelings with Jeff, he’d pat me on the knee and say something about Jesus. Which, frankly, I never really found helpful. Sorry, Jesus. I think it was because it never felt like Jeff really listened.
The man who brought me here—he listened. He did exactly what I needed. No questions asked.
I gulp down the water, feeling semi-human again.
Grounded.
And finally, a little self-conscious.
I look around for the man. “Hello?”
No response.
I try again, a little louder.
Still nothing. Only the sound of a bird warbling in a nearby tree and that soft gurgle of water. In the distance, I can hear the ocean, too—the crash of water against rock.
Okay, he really gave me space. Maybe he went back to work. Should I leave?
I really,reallydon’t want to leave. Not yet.
So, instead, I walk over to the trellis directly across from me.
An enormous rose is blooming, the flower so heavy it tilts forward. It’s a coral color, closer to pink than orange, but pale. It’s stunning, and I can smell it even before I cup my hands gently around it, feeling the delicate petals, butter-soft against my fingers.
I inhale, long and deep, feeling the scent calm me all the way to my toes.
It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever smelled. Or seen. Or touched.
I lift my face away, smiling.
