He carefully tread through the muddy terrain. The cottage stood on a tiny knob, and the flow of mud and debris had flowed along a shallow defile on the hill’s opposite side.
Throughout his childhood, farms and hillside homes had gradually been bought up by wealthy outsiders and turned into weekend retreats, retirement homes, investment properties. His and Olivia’s families were holdouts.
The hilltop formed a trio of descending levels. His father’s ratty home and marijuana garden occupied the next property, while his grandparents’ home and vineyard crowned the gentle slope. The storms had carved a muddy furrow farther north. From where he stood, Dillon could see how old-growth trees and the vineyard’s retaining walls had acted like a dam, mostly protecting the three homes. But a minor segment of the mudslide had crossed behind Olivia’s cottage, shoving it partly off the foundations.
He climbed the front porch and took a moment to examine the home’s exterior. It looked to be fairly intact, but weathered by seven years of renters. He unlocked the front door, then used both hands and some very hard effort to pull it open.
The home was a weary shell. The power was off, and water from a burst pipe had stained the living room carpet. The hardwood floors were scarred and dirty. Dillon forced himself forward, hurting for the lady waiting in the pickup.
He swiftly made his way through the two bedrooms, the baths, the hall, the indentation where the dining table once stood. Most of the walls were riven by new cracks, some so large he could see daylight. The kitchen floor had crimped up, sealing the door leading to the rear veranda.
Dillon confronted memories everywhere. Olivia’s mother did not so much raise wildflowers as invite them to grow. She bundled them, selecting as much for fragrance as colors, and hung them around the veranda’s high beams. Out where the river of mud had erased the rear garden, she had raised vegetables and kept two dozen hives, producing honey she sold in town. There had been money from somewhere; Olivia’s mother never spoke about the life or family she had left long ago. The only family Dillon ever met was Olivia’s aunt, a big-boned woman whose size had astonished him. She had a laugh so huge a younger Dillon had wondered if maybe someday she might boom so loudly she would blow out the windows.
He walked back through the kitchen and the parlor. Stepped onto the front porch. Shoved hard on the door, jamming it shut. Pocketed the key. Started down the front steps. Crossed the yard. Olivia watched in silence as he opened the driver’s door, slid inside, and started the motor.
Dillon took it easy turning around, carefully forging a path through the slick debris. Beyond the front gates he turned right and gunned the engine, pushing the truck up the incline. Toward home.
Now that they had left her cottage in the rearview mirror, Olivia released a long breath and asked, “How bad was it?”
“I’m no expert. But it wasn’t good.”
Another breath, then, “I can’t live there, can I.” “Not without a lot of work.”
“Which I can’t afford.”
Dillon had no idea how to respond, and remained silent.
The entry to the home where Dillon had grown up was blocked by debris. But their view from the road showed him all he needed to see. The debris-flow had come closer to the house and the damage was more severe. Much of the garden was gone. One corner of the home’s foundations had been eaten away, so that the house tilted at a severe angle. A single breath, a finger’s touch, and it would join the muddy descent. From inside the truck he could see loose foundations, the cracked walls, the shattered glass.
Olivia said, “I’m sorry, Dillon.”
He drove on. “Don’t be. It was never much of a home.”
“How often did you come back?”
“A couple of times each year, never for very long. Then my grandparents passed away two years ago. There wasn’t much reason after that. You?”
“Not since I married Gavin. Mom moved to Phoenix and lived with my aunt. She claimed it was too lonely up here without me. She rented out the cottage and lived from the proceeds. The cancer took her three years ago.” A trace of a smile. “To say she and Gavin didn’t get along is the understatement of the century.”
“So she never visited you in LA?”
“Once. After I miscarried.”
“I’m so sorry, Olivia. I didn’t know.”
“No way you could have.” A silence, then, “I’m glad Mom isn’t around to see what’s happened.”
Dillon nodded. “She loved that old place, sure enough.”
As Dillon turned off the road and climbed the graveled track, he remembered running back and forth between the homes, taking trails through stands of California sycamore, arroyo willow, bay laurel, and oak. He was glad to see most of the trees had survived the storms, anchoring the property. He rounded the final bend, stopped the truck, and squinted through the rain-streaked windshield.
Dillon’s grandfather had been passionate about everything that grew on his land. The otherwise silent man sounded almost lyrical when he talked about his trees, his garden, his vines. The gentle slopes pointing west and south had held almost four acres of vineyards, producing what locals had claimed was the worst wine in all California.
Olivia said, “It looks okay.”
He nodded agreement. In truth, he thought the home looked more or less intact. This high up, the mud flow had not been so powerful, and the glade of old trees had firmly anchored the home and barn. Even the low wall surrounding his grandmother’s vegetable garden looked intact.
Olivia asked, “Do you want me to go inside?” “Not unless you want to.”
“In that case, I’ll stay right here.”
Dillon made a fast circuit, lingering just long enough to ensure the place was habitable. Once the power and water were back, he had a place to live. If he could manage to endure the memories. And the regret. He returned to the living room, breathing in the cold dusty aroma of his grandfather’s pipe. He had fought so hard to leave this place. And look where it had gotten him.
