Norland Park isn’t just an asset. It’s a home, a business, a wonder. Is there any way I can convince my mom not to sell? She certainly doesn’t need more money. And the world doesn’t need another luxury resort...
What am I thinking? My job depends on this sale, and right now is not the time to be looking for a new job in real estate. My mom was right to warn me about the Greenwood women. One day with Elinor and I’ve already promised the impossible and am contemplating upending my career.
I need to rein it in. Elinor is a reasonable woman. It’s one of the many things I admire about her. There has to be some way that I can make this deal go through and still have a chance with her.
The sun crests over the ridge, and the slate ocean begins to shimmer. The glory of it all imbues me with an unaccountable optimism. I run back energized and excited, convinced that somehow I can make things work.
When I return to the trailhead out of breath, sweaty, and exhilarated, my phone buzzes.
It’s Elinor. The sight of her name on the screen makes me ridiculously happy.
Hi! This is Elinor. Sorry to miss the run and breakfast. I was called into work. If you’re still interested, I can give you the tour after 10
I text her immediately.
Yes! Looking forward to it!
The message is delivered and liked. Apparently, this location has cell service, which is more than can be said for most of the property. Another thing we’ll need to fix, I think as I lean against a stone wall to stretch my quads.
I step back and pause. Something about this spot feels familiar. My eyes follow the wall as it disappears into a thick tangle of overgrown morning glory vines. A patch of red stands out among the bright blue flowers.
Curious, I walk over to take a closer look. I gently pull back the vines and spot a half-raised metal flag. The sight of it floods me with memories. I pull away more of the morning glory, revealing a rusty mailbox.
Our mailbox.
I touch the cool metal and tug the stiff door open. A small white envelope, now slightly yellowed, waits inside.
My name is written in neat childish print: Eddie.
I open the note written in careful cursive.
Eddie,
Would you be my pen pal???
Here’s my address.
Please tell me all about your new house in San Francisco and if you get a dog.
Ellie
Does Elinor remember that she left me this? Is it a painful memory now, the fact that I never replied? Or is this note long forgotten, like this mailbox?
I would have written to her. Or maybe I wouldn’t. It’s hard to say. But I wish that I had. If I had, everything would be different. Better, I think.
I shut the door to the mailbox, tidying up my disturbance of the morning glory. Then I run back to the cottage with a new sense of purpose.
***
Every table is claimed at Mom’s Cafe,a squat building painted the same off-white as all the buildings at Norland Park. I’m surprised by the crowd at nine a.m. on a Thursday. I scan the busy outdoor eating area, searching for Elinor.
“Freshie!”
I turn toward the familiar booming voice and nearly do a double take. Standing there is the last person I expected at Norland Park—Brandon James, captain of my college lacrosse team and all-around great guy.
Brandon was a senior when I was a freshman, making him four years older than me. His life experiences make the gap between us feel much wider, but that has never bothered Brandon. He has always made me feel like a respected peer. As captain of the team—and a full-grown mountain man (because as a senior in high school Brandon James could grow a better beard than I can now)—he welcomed me, a gangly freshman, to the team. He saw me as an awkward kid who needed a place to belong, and he made certain I found it.
Damn! It was good to see him.
