“Yes, of course,” she waves me in. “My mom’s thrilled about having a house guest.”
“If you say so. It was kind of a jerk move demanding rooms on such short notice.”
“That may be,” she throws me a shrewd look, “but I’m guessing you weren’t the one who made the reservation.” True enough.
“I will neither confirm nor deny your suspicions,” I sayas I step into Bumble Cottage, which smells of fresh baked bread, old books, and wildflowers. Piles of books and bouquets of flowers bedeck every horizontal surface, including the top of the old upright piano. The entire back wall of the room is bookshelves organized in a beautiful, crowded chaos. Comic books squeeze in between leatherbound classics. A pile of sheet music rests on a shelf of picture books. A bust of Beethoven sits next to a stuffed Eeyore. The two probably understand each other. An old seaman’s trunk used as a coffee table anchors the room, surrounded by an inviting arrangement of a worn-in sofa, vintage love seat, and overstuffed armchairs. Driftwood, sea shells, pretty rocks, and small water colors adorn the shelves. Pink and yellow bunting hang from the corner windows, adding a festive air.
The snug room feels cozy and welcoming, and I find myself falling under the spell of Bumble Cottage. I want to peruse the titles of the books and study the family photos. I’d like to fill in the gaps between the Ellie I remember from childhood, and Elinor, the elegant woman beckoning me up the staircase at the far end of the room.
Lucky for me, the wall along the stairs has more family photos. As I take my time heading upstairs, I notice whimsical wildflowers painted on the risers.
“Did you paint the stairs?” I ask.
“Yes—I mean, I helped my mom. We should really repaint them, but there never seems to be enough time.”
“Don’t. I like them.”
“But you also thought my painting was good.”
“Are you insinuating I have bad taste?”
“I would never. Based on your wardrobe, it’s obvious you have excellent taste. But youcouldbe lying to protect my feelings.” I’m taken back by how well she reads me. I really do find the flowers on the stairs charming, but she’s right. Ifrequently resort to a well-placed white lie (or even a gray one) to keep the peace.
A photo on the stairwell wall catches my attention. It’s Ellie as a girl in a green swimsuit with long dark braids standing on a rock by the ocean. “That’s exactly how I remember you.”
“You have a better memory than I do.” She pauses a couple steps ahead of me, “For the life of me, I cannot picture your face beyond your curly blond hair. It was too long ago, and my memories are all jumbled with the stories we told ourselves about you.” She steps down a stair to stand next to me.
“Are you saying I was a legend in your mind?” I intend the comment as a joke. But Elinor answers seriously.
“Yeah, it’s really weird to think you and The Boy are the same person.”
“You don’t look like the girl in this photo anymore. But you do still make that expression.” Young Elinor watches the horizon with this far off look. “You had a similar look when you were painting on the trail.” I remember how she stared out at the cliffs and the water with such attention, as if she could see hidden beauties beyond my sight. I can’t help but think that if I spend more time with her, I might begin to see them too.
She studies the photo for a minute. “Funny you should say that. I was such a dreamer back then. But my dad got sick... and I grew up.” She shifts her head slightly from the picture to me. “I didn’t think any of that girl was left.”
Standing on the staircase a step above me, we are face-to-face, only inches apart. Her words move me in a way I can’t explain. Her expression is so sweet and wistful and her lips so very close.
It’s not that I want to kiss her...
Okay, I don’tnotwant to kiss her. I swallow and look away, hoping she didn’t notice me staring at her lips. By the time I look back she has almost reached the landing.
“This is your room,” Elinor opens the first door on the left. As I walk past her into the tidy room with dusky blue walls, she expertly averts her eyes from me. I take that as a yes—she definitely noticed my lip staring.
A mason jar with wildflowers sits on the antique nightstand. A colorful patched quilt covers the queen bed.
“Your mother’s?” I point to the painting of the sun dipping into the ocean above the headboard. The colors aren’t exactly what you find in a sunset, but they feel emotionally true. The brushstrokes are bold and full of texture.
“Yes.”
“Nice, but I like my E. Greenwood better.”
“You don’t honestly have it on your wall?”
“I do.”
Elinor opens her mouth as if to say something and then closes it. She walks to the window and pulls back the lace curtains.
I step next to her. We’re facing the same direction as the porch, but since we’re higher up, the view is even better. We can see more of the undulating coastline, the cliffs blushing in the sunset.
