“Can we afford it?” she asks.
“Not if it’s close to market value.”
“Where will we go?” Annie’s eyes pool with tears. She’s always been an easy crier.
“Anywhere we want.” I try to smile.
“But... this is our home.” A sparkling tear rolls down her cheek. My sister always cries like a movie star—one of her many talents I mildly covet.
“Lots of people move for jobs. Why shouldn’t we? We’ll be okay.”
Annie shakes her head. “No! Don’t give me that toxic positivity BS” My sister stands up, her eyes flashing. “This is the worst thing to happen—ever. Can she really kick us out? How dare she?”
“Um... maybe... maybe I’m wrong.” I backpedal. “I don’t really know why she’s coming. Perhaps she’ll want to keep everything the same.”
“Ugh, I hate change!” Annie heads toward the door andthen turns back. “And we’re letting this woman stay in our house?”
“She’ll probably leave when she finds out her room doesn’t have an attached bathroom.”
“Good! Because I NEVER want to meet her!” My sister storms out, slamming the door behind.
I rest my elbows on my desk, prop my head in my hands, and exhale a heavy sigh. I have no idea how to save our home.
Soon the angry notes of Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C Sharp Minor echo down the hall. Annie must have started playing early. Every afternoon my sister plays the grand piano in the hotel lobby. A surprising number of guests and locals show up for her piano performances. She has a peculiar gift for channeling her emotions into music. Today’s regulars are in for a whole lot of feelings—Annie isn’t holding back. Her notes run even faster than the piece calls for, and loud like stormy waves crashing against the coast. I sigh, listening to the furious music. I also want to cry and slam doors. But what good would that do? My only option is to smile and be polite and find some way to win over the new owner.
Ever since we heard of Reginald’s death, the fear of losing our home has kept me up at night. The cottages at Norland Park are always booked—demand is so high they could be rented out several times over. It would make financial sense for the new owner to turn our home into a rental. Our cottage—the largest, with its four bedrooms—could easily be booked all summer. I’ve done the math more than once, and even if were I to get a substantial raise—which seems unlikely—I don’t think we could afford housing nearby.
I flip open my laptop and click a new tab to review our family finances. I’ve been saving madly, knowing this day would come. But have I saved enough to buy the cottage? Once again, I think of the cute guy who offered to buy my painting—Edward.At the time, I thought taking money from him was ridiculous. I’m no artist. I only paint because I can’t afford therapy. There’s no genius in my work; it’s very pedestrian. At the time, the idea of taking money for my silly dabs of paint on canvas seemed dishonest. But facing the prospect of losing our home, I regret every penny spent, every penny not earned. Five hundred dollars would certainly come in handy. Though, to be fair, it’s just a drop in the bucket compared to the $13 million Zillow estimates as the value of Bumble Cottage—a price tag so far out of reach of my paltry income, I might as well be trying to buy the moon.
So no, I don’t regret giving that stranger my painting. The money could hardly save our home. But Idowish I had said yes when he asked me to dinner. Considering that I’ll probably be leaving Big Sur, my no-tourist rule seems pointless. He said he was from San Francisco. Perhaps I should look for a job there... and... and... what? Find him? The whole thought is ludicrous. My mother and Annie aren’t the only dreamers in the family. They’re just brave enough to say their dreams aloud. And me? I’m realistic enough to leave foolish dreams on the shelf.
Mrs. Jennings... missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance. —Sense and Sensibility
3
Edward
Stepping into the faded elegance of the Norland Park Hotel lobby feels like stepping back in time.
My eyes immediately fly to Jebediah, the taxidermied bison head hanging above the enormous river-stone fireplace. Upon seeing him, I feel a swell of nostalgia. An oversized leather couch sits in front of the fireplace, surrounded by worn but comfortable looking armchairs. Beneath it all lies a sprawling Persian rug, so faded that the colors blend into a hazy memory of brown, scarlet and gold. Late afternoon sun spills through the windows flanking the fireplace, making dust motes shimmer like fairy dust.
The room takes me back to the happy summer I once spent here with my grandpa. I particularly remember a rainy afternoon of playing checkers and eating gingersnaps with a young girl named Ellie. Ever since my mom told me the Greenwoods live at Norland Park, I’ve wondered if Elinor Greenwood might be that same Ellie—the girl who wore her hair in long, black braids and smeared so much sunblock on her face that she appeared a bit like a friendly ghost.
Meeting Ellie is one of my core memories. I was ten, nearly eleven, and it was my first and only visit to Norland Park with my grandpa. I was down at the cove, lying on my towel and shivering, pretending that the June sky wasn’t gray and gloomy. I was making a feeble attempt to readTreasure Island, a book my grandpa had given me that morning. He told me it wasone of his favorites growing up. Always eager to please him, I brought the book to the beach. But I was distracted by a group of kids nearby who were digging in the sand and running to the surf to fill buckets of water. Whatever they were doing looked more fun than my book. A shadow passed over me. I glanced up to see the gap-tooth smile of a girl about my age.
“Hi!” She shaded her eyes from the sun. “I’m Ellie. Do you want to help us build the world’s most amazing sandcastle?”
“Sure,” I shrugged, not wanting to show just how pleased I was to be invited.
“Great! We’re playing over there.” With her braids flying she skipped away to the group of kids I’d been eyeing jealously. I jumped to my feet and dropped my book, following her. The rest of the summer was a blur of green and golden days of running wild across the campground, digging moats on the beach, building forts in the woods, and playing pirates on the rocks. For six weeks, each day was a new adventure with Ellie, her little sister, and a rotating crew of kids vacationing at Norland Park. Those were the brightest days of my childhood.
Could Ellie, my favorite childhood friend, be Elinor Greenwood? Ellieisa nickname for Elinor, right? It’s possible.
Curious, I called my mom on the drive here
“Did I ever meet Elinor Greenwood?”
“Probably,” my mom says. “I think dad might have said something about you playing with her at some family event. I’m not sure.”
