THE WEEKEND PASSED and the remnants of my hangover were gone but the conversations Weston and I had were fresh in my mind. It felt good to tell him about my parents instead of wondering what he already knew.
I was thankful for his story about the hospital. Death was brutal, no matter how close you were to the passing person, and Weston reminded me I was not alone in grief.
I tucked my backpack—which housed my parent's research and camera—inside the boat and started the engine. Weston's house was dark, and his car was missing, yet I saw Masie's face in the window and waved as if she knew I was saying hello.
Since I fell behind on the project Larry assigned, I spent the morning completing a large chunk of the paper and forwarding it to the magazine team. I had time to myself before dinner and was eager to take more pictures for my parent's journal.
The discontent over their secret Clifton research slowly morphed into excitement I forgot was possible to feel, especially toward work. Even if nothing were to come of the journal, working on it made me feel a part of their legacy, and it made me feel closer to them.
The current yanked and pulled at the boat. My grip on the wheel tightened as I slid through rougher waves toward the Marshlands. When the bow thudded against the mud, my shoulders slumped in relief, and I wiped the saltwater from my face.
I spent the next hour taking photos and notes on different plants and specimens. The sky slowly shifted from a misty blue to a dull grey. I checked the radar. A storm was brewing, even though it was not supposed to earlier, and I was on land likely to flood with the downpour.
I hustled around for ten minutes, gathering as much information as possible, and hopped back in my boat. The engine roared over the crashing waves, the mainland grew closer, and the Lincoln residence came into view.
It looked even more grandeur now than it did in my memory.
A figure crouched by the shore, holding a basket. From the short dark hair blowing beneath the floppy hat (which protected her from nothing and was instead there for aesthetic), I knew it was Nora herself. I hadn't seen her since the last meeting, before I learned about Zoe's history with Weston and before she warned me about her motherly instinct.
She stood, waving me in her direction. I could see her lips moving but could not make out what she was saying, so I slowed, and my boat drifted toward their dock from the current.
"Ivey is that you? I can spot your parent's boat a mile away!" she shouted.
"Hello, Nora."
She clasped a hand to her heart. "It's going to storm, Hun'. Do you wanna come inside before it hits? You can park in our boat garage."
"Thank you for the offer, but I should head back."
"Nonsense, come and have tea!"
Like a child being told what to do, I drove toward their boat garage. The door rolled open and I pulled in to meet Nora.
"Excuse my attire. I was gardening." She waved me off, but her white and blue striped button-up, sleek pants, and rain boots looked perfect compared to my dirty overalls. Although, I did not expect her to do yard work.
I left my backpack in the storage container under the seat and followed Nora into her house. The slim memories I had of this house came rushing back as we walked toward the cream and grey colored stone and wood exterior.
While my childhood home was ornate with deep red shades and rustic brown furniture, the inside of Nora's home was cool in color and temperature and smelled like lemons, and it looked more like a show house than a lived-in space.
Nora neatly took her boots off by the back door. So, I did too.
"Take a seat wherever you'd like. Is Earl Grey fine?"
I told her yes and brushed the lingering dirt from my pants before sitting on the light blue cushions.
"Not the best day for boating, hmm?" she said, filling a teapot with the pasta arm.
"I guess not." I glanced at the sparse raindrops hitting the window. "Not a good day for gardening either."
"Unfortunately not. What were you doing out in the marsh?"
It was an innocent question, but it felt prying. "Just going for a ride, observing nature."
She smiled, placing two tea bags in matching mugs. "You remind me so much of your mother, and you know she used to stop by for tea all the time."
"Did she?"
"Yes, which means you are also welcome to come over anytime. The house gets lonely with only Tom and me here." She set a steaming mug on the table and sat opposite me. "I know Zoe has been away for years, but I'm still not used to having an empty nest."
Zoe's name triggered the image of Weston. "How's Zoe doing? Where'd she end up living?" I asked, even though I knew. A strange expression tugged on Nora's face.
"Zoe is working as a Women's Health Nurse Practitioner in New York."
I acted surprised and avoided mentioning another Nurse Practitioner I knew we both were thinking of. Before I could say anything else, Nora continued. "It's a shame you were in different graduating classes. I feel like you both would have been best friends. She's coming to visit soon; you should plan to go for coffee."
My skin prickled, and I sat straighter. "Zoe's coming to visit?"
"Yes, she's coming home to visit and helping with the fundraiser."
Nora kept talking, but I interacted on autopilot, my brain filled with thoughts of Zoe and Weston seeing each other again.
I felt guilty for my territorial feelings over Wes, but he was my only true friend right now and the only person I felt safe with sharing my feelings.
Did he know she was coming back?
He told me there was nothing between him and Zoe. Of course, I believed him, but she was a direct tether to Nora, who currently was someone I did not fully trust, considering she had tight control over what the public should and shouldn't know. I know she was one of the main reasons people had poor opinions about me, the estranged daughter.
"I was doing some thinking, and we need to involve you more in planning this event. It will be healing for you to be a part of the committee and have people around you who care.
Emotions clawed at my throat, a mixture of sadness and irritation. I pushed the handle of my mug back and forth to distract myself. "Thanks, Nora. I'll think about it."
She reached across the table and cupped my hands. Her skin was incredibly soft, certainly not a pair of hands that gardened, but the contact made my heart swell. It was a mother's touch, a forgotten feeling.
Before I left, she wrote down her phone number, and somehow, I made it out without shedding a tear. Even when I got into my boat, against her request to stay until the drizzling stopped, I did not let the tears fall because I wasn't sure what I'd be crying over.
The waves were rougher than usual, but I kept a stern grip on the wheel as I sailed through the inlet. As I turned the corner, Weston's house lights glistened on the rippling water, a beacon of warmth through the dark afternoon. I smiled.
On cue, his back door opened, and he walked onto his porch, cupping his hands around his mouth. "Do you have a death wish?"
I eased off the gas. "I'm just enjoying the weather!"
"Do you wanna enjoy the weather from inside my house?"
I stared blankly, wondering if I had heard him right. "Right now?"
"Yes!"
Nerves churned through me, yet I shrugged, pretending I felt passive about entering his house.
I met him at the end of his dock, where we tied my boat, then dashed down the slippery wood, the rain pelting us from behind. Masie jumped at the back door excited, and her panting fogged the window.
When he closed the door behind us, pine, cinnamon, and heat engulfed me like a hug.
The walls drowned out the sound of the rain but only amplified my beating heart. I couldn't put my feelings into words. Bittersweet? Enamored? Peculiar?
Growing up, I had the perfect view of The Blue House from my bedroom. It was in the background of my childhood memories, but I had never been inside. Though, it was nothing like I imagined.
There were no cobwebs, no broken floorboards, or peeling ancient wallpaper. Between the crackling fireplace and table lamps, the living room—centered in the heart of the house—glowed a delicate orange.
"Wow, this place is nothing like I imagined."
"Is that a good or bad thing?"
"A good thing," I chuckled. "I have never been here, even though we live across the water. I thought it was haunted for most of my life, so I was terrified."
He guided me into the white wooden kitchen with dark brown exposed ceiling beams and offered something to drink. I accepted a cup of coffee, even though it would be my third today. What was sleep for anyways?
"Oh yeah, that's what you mentioned the other night. I hear the floorboards creaking sometimes, but I chalk it up to the house settling."
"Mmhm... or maybe it is Mr. Morris trying to reclaim his property."
"Maybe. Was he mean?"
"Not at all. He definitely had some spunk in him, though," I said, then apologized as if Mr. Morris could hear. "He would always ask where my parents were when I roamed around the backyard alone, and I think he knew they left me home alone."
"How old were you?"
"I was eleven when they started leaving me home alone."
"Wow. Eleven is young."
My shoulders bounced. "I got used to it fast."
He motioned for me to follow him into the living room. He settled into the armchair beside the fireplace and told me to sit anywhere I wanted. Naturally, I curled into the corner of the felt, emerald-green couch adjacent to him.
"Did you have a good day at work?"
"It was fine. Did you work today? Is that why you were out on your boat in terrible weather?"
"I sent my boss the finalized article for our magazine this morning, then went out on the water for fun. I didn't realize it was supposed to rain, but you'll never believe who I had tea with."
"Who?"
"Nora Lincoln."
His mouth hung open loosely. "Why? How?"
I laughed at his reaction. "She saw me in my boat and asked if I wanted to come inside while it rained. For some reason, I had a hard time saying no, so we had tea and talked about the fundraiser. She said she really wants me involved since it will be very 'healing' for me." I used air quotes, his eyes wide like saucers.
"Did you tell her she should've asked permission?"
"I don't know if she knows what permission means."
I should have mentioned Zoe was coming to Clifton, but I figured he knew since the two likely talked. Instead, I told him why I was out on the water and dug my parent's journal out of my backpack.
"I found this in my parent's den." He reached over to the coffee table for the leather-bound booklet. "Every page is dated right before their passing."
He paused before flipping through the pages.
"Apparently, they were researching Clifton, which I found odd when I first found the journal. They promised never to make Clifton their job, so I've wondered why they randomly decided to start this project. After I stopped being annoyed with them for not telling me, I contemplated finishing the book on their behalf."
"What made you come to that decision?" he asked genuinely.
I took a moment to think. "I guess it's something I can do to honor them."
He scanned my face, then closed the book. "You're not having these feelings because of the fundraiser, right?"
"What do you mean?"
"You don't have to do anything physical to honor your parents, Ivey."
I adjusted my legs under my body, suddenly feeling defensive. "I know I don't."
"Alright," he said, still not breaking eye contact.
Uncomfortable silence loomed between us. The crackling logs and rain filled the homely space. I brought my mug to my lips, staring at the non-fiction books stacked in the corner of the room. I took note of the lack of pictures on the wall and mantle.
"Ivey," Weston's voice sliced through the room.
"Ives, I'm sorry if that was harsh," he said when I didn't react, but every nerve ending in my body awoke from the nickname. "I just want you to know that appreciating or honoring your parents internally is enough. Not everything has to be for a show like they do here in Clifton, and you don't owe anyone any proof of your love for them."
"Ives?" I repeated, trying to lighten the mood I almost killed again.
The lines across his forehead softened, and his eyes were full of amusement. "Really? That's all you heard out of that pep talk?"
I nodded. "Yes, Wes."
"Wes?"
"That's my nickname for you. Also, Mr. I-don't-like-to-smile."
His smile faded faster than it appeared. "What do you mean, Mr. I-don't-like-to-smile? I like to smile."
"Barely."
"I save my smile for special occasions," he clarified.
"Ahh, I understand. We must be careful showing our happiness around here, and we wouldn't want anyone stealing it away."
"Exactly."
Our laughter died down. He admired me like the night in the bar, with the same softness in his eyes and undivided attention. His gentle smile did not falter, and neither did mine, as we enjoyed each other's quiet company and contentment.
"I should probably head home." I pushed myself off the couch. "Thank's for the coffee."
He stood, taking my mug. "Yeah, of course."
"I have to run to the grocery store tomorrow after work, and I can pick up something to make for dinner. You know, to thank you for watching Masie the other day."
He did not just invite me over for dinner.
I kept my excitement at bay as I agreed to dinner and climbed into my boat for the last time today. No tears threatened to spill now, as I boated home for the night.
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Forgive me for the slight hiatus; I hope you guys had a wonderful Holiday season and your new year is going well.
QOTD: What is your favorite book trope(s)?
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