Читать книгу The Oysterville Sewing Circle - Susan Wiggs, Susan Wiggs - Страница 15

As Caroline drove the final leg of her journey, the morning marine layer hung like weightless gauze in the salmonberry and bracken that bordered the road. The strange mist made her feel displaced in time and space, as if she were floating through some primordial world.

She was on edge from the adrenaline rush of misplacing Addie at the Bait & Switch. She felt jittery and wide awake, engulfed by a sense of unreality. Yet what had set her on this path was all too real. She had come here because she needed breathing space, a way to sort herself out, a plan for the children. She had no idea if she’d find the answers here, but she was out of options.

“It’s kinda spooky out there,” Flick said from the back seat.

“You think?” In the early light, the estuaries and forested uplands probably did look vaguely threatening.

“Are we safe?”

He asked her that a lot. No six-year-old should have to ask that question. Finally she felt confident of the answer. “Absolutely.”

“I don’t see any houses. Just woods and fog.”

“And hundreds of thousands of shorebirds,” she pointed out. “It’s the spring migration, and all kinds of birds come here to rest and feed. I’ll take you exploring, and you’ll see. We’ll get you some binoculars like a professional bird watcher.”

Addie awakened with a whimper. “Is it morning?”

“You got lost,” Flick said. “You were naughty.”

“I’m not naughty.”

“She’s not naughty.” Caroline intervened before the bickering had a chance to take hold. “Addie, even though you didn’t mean to do anything wrong, you forgot to stay put when I went after Flick back at the gas station.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. The little girl yawned and rubbed her eyes. “It’s scary to me when I don’t know where you are every moment. So when you climbed back into the car without telling me, I got really worried.”

Addie stared out the window, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

“Mama left without telling us,” Flick pointed out.

Caroline tried not to flinch at the memory. “That’s completely different. She didn’t leave you by choice. She wouldn’t have done that for the world.”

Since the incident—she didn’t know what else to call it—she had been speed-reading books on helping young children through crisis. During the weeklong drive, she’d had daily videoconferences with a child psychologist she couldn’t afford. The counselor and the books offered suggestions—how to speak in terms the children would understand, how to respond honestly and reassuringly. Yet ultimately, there was no script for this, no road map to point her in the right direction. Despite her efforts so far, she knew that in the end, words would never be enough.

Don’t lie. But don’t overexplain.

“You said we were almost there.” Flick switched topics, craning his neck as they passed a billboard welcoming them to your tidewater vacationland.

“Are we almost there?” Addie asked.

“Well, that depends on what you mean by almost. I can tell you, we’ll be there in time for breakfast. I sent my sister Virginia a text message, and she said she’s making blueberry pancakes with real syrup. Her blueberry pancakes are the best in all the land.”

A glance at the rearview mirror told her she had their attention. Good, she thought. Engage them in the “right here, right now” moment. Another thing she’d figured out in her crash course in parenting was to offer the children concrete information on a level they could understand. Tell them things in advance. Not too far in advance, but let them know what to expect and anticipate. They had only ever known the busy, eclectic neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen, where they’d lived with their mother, just a block from their primary school on West Forty-Fourth Street. Now they were about to enter a strange new world, and Caroline could tell from their quiet, wide-eyed expressions that they were worried.

“Let’s play the remembering game,” she said, hoping to stave off the restlessness that often preceded meltdowns. “What’s the name of the town where my family lives?”

“Oysterville,” they piped up together.

“Hey, that’s great. You got that down. Here’s a tricky question. How many brothers and sisters do I have?”

“Five!” Flick said.

“Five kids in my family, so I have four siblings.”

“How many is four?” asked Addie.

“Like your fingers,” Flick said, holding up his hand. “One, two, three, four.”

“You’re right about the fingers,” Caroline said. “I have two older sisters and two younger brothers. Remember, I told you our family was a sibling sandwich with me in the middle.”

Crushed in the middle, she thought.

“Let’s play the name game one more time,” she said. She wanted to familiarize them with their new circumstances so things wouldn’t feel so completely foreign to them. “Can you remember my sisters’ names?”

“Virginia,” said Flick. “You just said.”

“Good. How about my other sister? Remember how I said we’re all named after states. Caroline for Carolina, Virginia, and …?”

“Georgia!” Flick said.

“Georgia,” Addie repeated.

“That’s right. And my two brothers are both younger than me, because I’m in the middle. Our parents named the boys after cities.” In the too-much-information department, her parents liked to tell people they named each child after the place where he or she had been conceived. “See if you can remember,” she said. “I showed you their pictures on my phone.”

“Jackson.”

“That’s right. Jackson lives on a boat in the harbor at Ilwaco. It was dark when we passed it, but I bet he’d like to show you around. He’s the seafood buyer for the restaurant, and he’s a fisherman, too.”

“How can he live on a boat?” asked Addie.

“Believe me, you’re not the first girl to ask that.” Jackson was the free spirit of the family, never overly concerned with domestic matters.

“Is it a house, only it’s on a boat?”

“Not exactly. It’s more like a boat with really small rooms. You’ll see one day soon. Now, what about my other brother—the youngest one in the family?”

Hesitation.

“Starts with Au,” she hinted. “When you’re older, you’ll study states and capitals in school, and you’ll learn that this is the capital of Texas.”

Flick shrugged. “I forgot.”

“That’s all right. It’s hard to remember names before you get to know who they belong to. My brothers are Jackson and Austin. My parents’ names are Dottie and Lyle. How about this one—can you remember the name of my family’s restaurant?”

“Star of the Sea!”

During the drive, they’d stopped at dozens of restaurants, diners, and truck stops. She had told them about the Shelby family restaurant, founded by her parents. A now-famous destination on the peninsula, it was located on the beach at the edge of the dunes, where the sea and sand met in irregular stitches.

“That’s right,” she said. “Star of the Sea. I think you’re going to like it.”

“Can we go there now?” asked Flick. “I’m hungry.”

“My sister is fixing breakfast at the house,” Caroline reminded him. “You’ll have plenty of chances to eat there. The whole Shelby clan works at the restaurant in some way or other.” Her brother Austin was the finance guy, a CPA who kept the family books, and Georgia was the restaurant’s general manager. “It’s a true family business.”

“Except you,” said Flick.

“Except me,” she admitted.

When she was little, Caroline hadn’t realized how hard her parents had worked—the long hours, the tangled problems of launching and sustaining a restaurant. As she got older, she had tried to do her share, but she had never possessed the passion and focus it took to throw herself into the enterprise. In the Shelby family, she was the dreamer, always yearning for something that drew her far away.

“I did design the chefs’ coats and servers’ outfits a long time ago.

They didn’t like them, though.

Too avant-garde.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Too awesome,” she said.

“Are you going to work at the restaurant now?” Addie asked.

I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do, Caroline thought.

“We’ll see.” She paused. “When I was a kid, I was always skeptical every time I heard a grown-up say, ‘We’ll see.’ What does that even mean? See what? When? How will we see what I’m talking about if I don’t even know what I’m talking about?”

No response. She didn’t blame them for being as confused and out of their depth as she was. She sighed again. “Now I just said, ‘We’ll see.’ Does that make me a grown-up?”

“You’ve always been a grown-up,” Flick pointed out.

“Thanks a lot. You don’t think I was ever a kid like you?”

“We’ll see,” he said.

“You’re cheeky,” she told him. “Now, pay attention. I want you to watch out the window for the mailbox. It says Shelby and it’s decorated with seashells.”

She slowed down as they passed undulating dunes on the west side and coastal forest on the east, with the fog snaking through like a serpent made of mist. Hand-lettered signs for fresh eggs and organic produce, U-pick cranberries and blueberries beckoned travelers. Battered mailboxes bore names both familiar and new to her—Gonzalez, Moore, Espy, Haruki, Ryerson.

“I see it,” Flick exclaimed. “Is that where we’re going?”

The seashell mailbox was a monstrosity, so ugly it had become a local landmark. She and her brothers and sisters had made it one year as a surprise for their parents. The five of them had mortared the base and mailbox with a mosaic of shells, sea glass, driftwood, and bones from a sea lion carcass on the beach. She, of course, had wanted to direct the design process, but the others had thrown themselves into it with no regard for aesthetics. When their mother saw it, she’d burst into tears, and to this day, Caroline wasn’t fully convinced they were sentimental tears. Now, decades later, the mailbox was a silent sentinel to the past, evoking memories she was suddenly quite grateful for.

She turned into the lane that led to the Shelby family home. The driveway was paved with crushed oyster shells and edged by wind-sculpted shrubbery and a row of beach roses. Since she had left home right out of high school, she had dutifully visited a few times at Christmas, flying into Seattle or Portland, renting a car, and making the three-hour trek to the coast. That seemed to satisfy the family and also preserved her status as the official black sheep.

Every family needed a pet, her brother Jackson used to joke.

Today’s arrival was different. This wasn’t a visit. And now the black sheep had two lambs.

Nothing here, in the watery kingdom where she’d grown up, had changed. That was her first impression. The trees and structures were wind-sculpted and weather-beaten, anchored to the landscape by their spreading roots that clawed into the dunes. The home where she’d grown up was a big, unassuming saltbox, its clapboard siding painted iron gray, its trim white, its roof perpetually furred by moss and lichen.

The ordinary dwelling was made spectacular by the setting. Beyond the garden lay the dunes. The prelude to a kingdom. The shifting sands and blowing grasses stretched toward the sea, wild as a restless dream. There was no boardwalk here as there was in the main town of the peninsula, no network of pathways, just a tangle of waist-high beach grass entwined with sturdy small flowering plants—coastal strawberry and sea rocket, native lupine and beach pea. The occasional wind-harried cypress or cedar tree reared up, bowing eastward as if in perpetual flight away from the ocean.

“We made it,” she said to the kids. “This used to be my whole world, once upon a time.” She scanned the yard, with its gnarled apple trees and the big liquidambar with a wooden plank swing hanging from a high branch. There was a chicken coop and a garden surrounded by a deer fence. It really was a beautiful place—one she couldn’t wait to leave.

“We’re here?” Flick asked.

“We’re here!” Addie said. She clutched Wonder Woman to her chest.

“Finally,” Caroline assured them.

By the time she parked and unbuckled the kids, her parents had come out to the front porch to greet them.

“Welcome home,” said her mother, rushing down the steps and crossing the yard, her arms open wide. Her long hair flew out behind her, and for a moment she looked ridiculously young in fitted jeans and a plaid cotton shirt, and the customary Blundstones she favored for gardening.

As she drew closer, Caroline could see the wispy lines fanning her mother’s eyes, the slight thickening of her figure. But the smile and the outstretched arms were the same as always.

With the kids clinging like remoras to her legs, Caroline felt herself enclosed in Dottie Shelby’s firm hug. Her mother smelled of hand soap and Jergens lotion, and her embrace was a sanctuary. “I’m so glad you got here a whole day early,” she said, stepping back.

“I couldn’t sleep, so we loaded up and started driving,” Caroline said. “Hey, Dad.”

He enveloped her in his assured, powerful embrace. It was the first time Caroline had felt truly safe since Angelique’s death. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to savor a moment of bliss, receding briefly into the role of cherished daughter.

Her parents were sturdy and good-looking, often cited in the local chamber of commerce brochures as the epitome of a couple who had built their dream out of hard work and dedication. They had met at culinary school in the Bay Area—Dottie, a peninsula girl, and Lyle, a California native. By the time the program ended, they had woven their dreams—and their lives—together.

“Well,” Caroline said, “it’s good to be back. Flick and Addie have come a long way to meet you.”

Her mother went down on one knee and regarded the children at their level. “I’m glad you’re here. My name’s Dottie, and that’s Lyle. You can call me Dottie, or Grammy Dot. That’s what my other grandchildren call me.”

By other grandchildren, was she implying something?

“You don’t have to decide right now,” she added.

Addie clutched Wonder Woman and stared at the ground. Flick regarded Dottie with sober contemplation. “My real name’s Francis,” he said.

“Oh! Do you prefer that to Flick?”

He shook his head. “When I was a baby, I couldn’t say Francis, so I called myself Flick and it stuck. So I’m keeping it.”

“Good plan. I bet you’re hungry,” she said. Dottie Shelby was the sort of person who saw others the way they wanted to be seen. She had a particular talent for finding the best in people, children and adults alike.

“We heard a rumor of pancakes,” Caroline said.

“You heard exactly right. Come on in and let’s eat. Dad will bring in your things. There’s so much to do and see, but you don’t have to do it all today,” Mom nattered on. “You both look like you love to run and jump. Are you into running and jumping?”

Flick and Addie exchanged a glance, and Flick offered a slight nod. Mom didn’t press but strode ahead with confidence.

The kids stuck close to Caroline as they all went inside. The old house welcomed her, as familiar as her mother’s embrace. The foyer was bright with a mirror reflecting the light from the outside and a hall tree made of driftwood.

Every house had a smell. This one was a particular mix of baking, salt air, and the dry, tumbly aroma from a constantly running clothes dryer. At least it used to run constantly when Caroline and her siblings were young. Now there was probably far less laundry cycling through, but the fluffy smell lingered still.

The living room was filled with an eclectic mix of furniture, family pictures, a few antiques, and Mom’s old upright piano.

“We all took lessons,” she said, noting Flick’s interest. “My brother Austin got really good at it.” She steered them to the hall bathroom and somehow managed to change Addie out of her pee-smelling clothes and into clean ones. Then she supervised the washing of hands, still somewhat befuddled by the idea of having to supervise anything of the sort. Just a short time ago, she was on her own, living in the heart of New York City’s fashion district.

There were artifacts everywhere—the pottery soap dish Jackson had brought home from preschool with his little handprint in the middle. Another family picture hung above the commode, this one of the older girls holding up a surfboard with Caroline and the boys seated on it. She still remembered the roars of laughter that had erupted as they’d struggled to stage the shot, getting dumped into the sand multiple times. She was eight or nine in the photo, wearing Virginia’s hand-me-down swimsuit, which she’d rescued from looking like a hand-me-down by sewing a rumba ruffle to the back.

“I’m off to work,” Dad called from the front hallway. “See you tonight, okay, C-Shell?”

“Sounds good,” she said.

Next stop was the kitchen. Contrary to what people expected of a longtime restaurant family, the kitchen was small and plain, with a four-burner range, a roomy fridge, and the all-important dishwasher. Mom always said a fancy kitchen was no substitute for good cooking.

“I’m Virginia,” said her sister, blowing them a floury kiss from her spot at the counter. “And you’re about to have the best pancakes of your life.”

Caroline gave them a nudge. “She’s bossy sometimes.”

“Not bossy,” Virginia said with a sniff. “I just have better ideas than most people.” She was the second eldest and most outgoing of the Shelbys. “I have a secret pancake recipe. But I tell it to everybody, so it’s not really a secret.” She pulled a couple of barstools over to the counter. “Have a seat, you two, and pay attention. You have to sift the dry ingredients together. See how the sifter works?” She demonstrated and gave them each a turn. “That makes everything nice and fluffy. And we use real buttermilk, not regular milk. It tastes kind of sour.” She offered them a sample on a small spoon, but the kids shrank together and shook their heads in silence.

Watching her sister’s ease with the children, Caroline felt a renewal of the doubts that had chased her across the country. Unlike Virginia and her mom, she didn’t “get” kids. She never had. She’d always been vocal about being childless by choice. Possibly that made her boy-friendless as well, but that was the price she paid for clinging to her freedom. Yet here she was with two kids in tow, and she had no idea what to do with them.

She thought for a moment about the expression on Will Jensen’s face when she’d told him, “They’re mine.”

And they were. Yet they weren’t.

“The eggs are from our own hens. See how yellow the yolks are?” Virginia broke two of them into a glass bowl and whisked them together with the buttermilk and a bit of melted butter. Then she combined everything to make the batter. “The biggest secret of all is this awesome cast-iron griddle. It’s a Griswold—they don’t even make them anymore. This one is as smooth as glass. I have it on the perfect temperature. Help me out here.”

She poured the batter and supervised as the kids dotted the pancakes with blueberries. A few minutes later, Caroline got the two of them situated on benches in the adjacent breakfast nook. Their eyes widened as she placed the first batch of pancakes on the table, bursting with berries and slathered in butter and warm maple syrup. The ultimate comfort food.

“Dig in, you two,” she said. “Let’s fill your bellies, and then I’ll show you where you’re going to be staying.” Over their heads, she checked with her mother, who offered a nod of encouragement.

The children devoured their breakfast with gratifying speed. Caroline helped herself to coffee and a pancake fresh off the griddle. It was so good it nearly brought tears to her eyes. “Thanks, Virginia. That was delicious. It’s been a long haul.”

“You’ve all had quite an adventure,” Mom said. “I want you to know, I’m so very sorry about your mother. You must miss her so much.”

“She died,” Addie said. “She’s not coming back.”

“It’s a terrible thing. I wish we could help. All we can do is love you and keep you safe and help you remember your mom. If you feel sad and want to tell us about it, we can listen.”

Caroline felt a surge of gratitude as she regarded her mother and sister. This was hardly the path she’d expected to find herself on, but here she was, in charge of two orphans, far from the life she’d been living in New York. Everything had changed in a split second—unforeseen, sending her scrambling. If she hadn’t had this family to fall back on, she couldn’t imagine what she would have done.

When they finished breakfast, her mother said, “Let’s clear the table together, and then I’ll take you to see your room.”

Flick surveyed the table, his brow slightly quirked. Angelique had been an unconventional mother in many ways, and traditional chores had not been a thing with her.

“Let’s take our dishes to the sink,” Caroline said. “Then we’ll wipe the table.” Falling back into a family routine was easy for her, but she could tell the kids would need time to adjust.

They made short work of clearing up and then trooped upstairs, passing more family pictures on the landing. The room her mother had prepared for Flick and Addie was the one Caroline had once shared with Virginia. Georgia, the eldest, had the privilege of a room of her own, and she used to lord it over the others like an anointed queen. The boys shared another. All five of them had fought like littermates over the bathroom.

Her mother stood with the door held wide open. “I dug out a few choice toys from the old days,” she said. “I hope you like Legos and stuffed animals. And books with actual pages that turn.”

The children regarded the room with wide eyes. Compared to the walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen, and later the apartment they’d shared with Caroline and their mother, the bedroom probably seemed as big as an airplane hangar.

A couple of old National Geographic maps still hung on the wall of her old room. The colors had faded and the dry paper was curled at the edges. She saw Addie studying them. “This is the United States,” Caroline said. “Our whole big country. Here’s New York, where we left last week. And we drove all the way here.” She traced the route with her finger, pointing to the spot where Oysterville would be, were it significant enough to appear on the map.

“That was a super-long drive,” Mom said. “I hope you two will be comfortable here.”

Addie made a tentative study of the toys and books Caroline’s mom had thoughtfully displayed. And Dottie’s thoughtfulness didn’t end with toys and books. She’d saved some of Caroline’s early and most painstaking work. “Caroline made the coverlets and curtains all by herself when she was only twelve years old. She was always so good at making things. Do you like making things?” she asked the kids.

Flick offered a lost little shrug of his shoulders, then studied the floor.

The coverlets were known as crazy quilts. According to Lindy at the quilt shop, Caroline had taken crazy to a whole new level. The pieces were not even standard in shape, but free-form bursts of color stitched together and embroidered with whimsical designs. Now she ran her hand over the cloth, thinking about that girl who’d been so obsessed with art and design. There was never a time when she wasn’t designing something. She’d felt so caged in here, knowing there was so much to experience and learn in the big wide world. Even after years in New York, she doubted that her family understood her hunger and need to be in the middle of everything in the hub of the design world.

Coming home felt like an embrace of safety.

Coming home felt like defeat.

Coming home was the last resort.

The sentiment was a sunken, hollowed-out spot inside her. Caroline realized it was wrong to let herself wallow this way. A better person would turn it into determination. But at the moment, as she drowned in exhaustion, it was the only possible way to feel.

Addie dragged Wonder Woman to the dormer window between the two beds and gazed outside. A thick wisteria vine twisted down the side of the house, its purple blossoms nodding in the breeze. The yard below had fruit trees, gnarled with age, and a fire pit they used to sit around on clear evenings, toasting marshmallows and telling stories. Farther in the distance, past the dunes, was the flat sandy beach.

Caroline hunkered down beside the little girl. “Virginia and I used to stand here together on summer nights, watching people on the beach. You’ll see—in the summer, it stays light ridiculously late, way past nine o’clock. So when we’d see kids still out playing on the beach, I thought it was totally unfair. It didn’t seem right that Virginia and I had to go to bed while the rest of the world was out playing.”

“And yet you survived,” said her mother.

“True,” Caroline agreed, straightening up. When she was older, the wisteria vine had been her secret escape route. She thought it best not to mention that.

“You’re looking at the Pacific Ocean,” she told the kids. “It’s the biggest ocean in the world. Let’s have a rest, and later we’ll go check it out.”

“I don’t feel like resting,” said Flick.

She felt like sleeping for a week. Not an option with two kids needing her. “Tell you what. Let’s go to the beach and explore. And there’s even more good news.”

That always got their attention.

“No car ride today.”

“Yay!”

“After all that driving, we need a little hike to stretch our legs.” They trundled downstairs, and as they headed for the door, she turned to Virginia. “Thanks again for breakfast.”

“You betcha.” Virginia wiped down the counter. “I have questions.”

“You betcha,” Caroline echoed.

“Drinks tonight, after the little ones are in bed.”

“You got it.” Drinks and talking would be a good place to start. She led the children outside. The air was fresh and damp, smelling of the ocean and new growth. “You can play anywhere you want in the backyard,” she told them. “Stay in bounds unless there’s an adult with you.” She walked with them through the orchard, showing them the berry frames and gardens, which were just getting started for the season. There was a chicken coop surrounded by wire fencing.

“Do chickens bite?” Addie asked, eyeing the birds.

“No, stupid, they don’t have teeth,” sneered Flick.

“Hey,” Caroline said, hoping to fend off a squabble. “We talked about this. Even when you’re tired and cranky, you can find a way to speak nicely to people. Or if not, you can zip your lips.”

“Sorry,” he muttered.

Caroline ruffled his hair. “Chickens don’t bite,” she said. “Sometimes they try to peck.”

“Does it hurt?”

“You can’t let them get away with it,” Caroline said. “When I was little and it was my turn to gather eggs, I used to take a dish towel with me.” She pantomimed with her hand. “I’d flap it like this, and they’d all go running away. I’ll show you later how it’s done.”

Flick stopped to look at an acacia tree with a carved stone at the base. “That sign says Wendell.”

Caroline felt a bittersweet wave of emotion. “That’s right, Wendell,” she said. “He was our dog. We were all really sad when he died, so Grandpa Lyle’s friend Wayne made a special stone with his name on it.”

“Will Mama have a stone?”

She should have expected that. Though the children didn’t know it, Angelique’s remains had made the cross-country journey with them. The plain sealed container was stowed with the car’s spare tire, and she had no idea what to do with it.

“Would you like one?” she asked.

Another shrug. His code for being at a loss. She rested her palm between his shoulder blades. He was so little and delicate. She’d been dwelling on the disaster her life had become, yet her troubles were nothing compared to the trauma these kids were going through. “You can let me know. There’s no hurry.”

A flicker of movement caught her eye. “Hey, check it out. There’s a little creature living in the dunes. Be really still and watch. It’s called a vole. See where it lives? It’s like a little bird’s nest.”

They watched the tiny creature foraging in the grass.

“Can we pet it?”

“It’s a wild animal. We can watch, but not touch, okay?”

“Looks like a mouse,” Flick said.

The children had never known anything but the city. Their experience with wildlife was limited to messy pigeons and rats sneaking around the Dumpsters of the back alleys.

“This is going to be a whole new world for you,” she said, watching their fascination as they squatted amid the buff-colored grasses and new green shoots to watch the vole, industriously padding its nest with bits of dried leaves and fluff. “So many birds and little creatures everywhere.”

After a while, she led the way to the beach. It was the playground of her youth. There was never a time when she hadn’t awakened to the muffled roar of the ocean and the deep, fecund aroma of salt air.

One of Caroline’s earliest memories was of being lost amid the fore-dunes and hummocks when the grass was taller than she was. There had been a moment of disorientation, her heart jolting in panic. Then she recalled her father’s advice. Don’t walk in circles. Walk in a straight line. At least you’ll end up somewhere.

Escaping from the tangled grasses, she’d found her family in the yard, probably gathered around the stone-built fire pit, or playing Frisbee with the dog. No one had remarked upon her absence. No one had come looking. From that early memory emerged a notion that had stuck with her ever since: as the middle child of five, she’d been invisible since birth.

Ultimately, her position in the birth order had actually worked out well for her. She was not as organized as Georgia and not as beautiful as Virginia. While everyone else was busy with the restaurant, Caroline was able to go her own way. She discovered that she actually liked disappearing. She often ended up at Lindy’s fabric shop or the fiber arts and design center at the high school, pursuing the mad passion no one else in her family seemed to understand.

Now the children ran along the path, which ended abruptly at the edge of the vast sand flats.

“Watch your step going down,” Caroline called. “It’s a steep—Jesus.”

Flick disappeared as though falling into a hole. Caroline broke into a run, reaching the edge of the escarpment and feeling the soft sandy bank collapsing underfoot. Flick lay at the bottom of the bank, half buried in sand, looking up at her.

“Hey,” she said. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.”

“You could have hurt yourself.” She took Addie’s hand and eased her down the bank amid a fall of loose sand.

“It was fun,” Flick said, jumping up and brushing himself off. He looked around with wide-eyed wonder. The scenery here was ever-changing, yet changeless—the sand sculpted by wind and tide, the wrack line woven with kelp and shells, feathers and bones, small pieces of driftwood, and an unfortunate variety of litter.

Flocks of ghost-colored sanderlings rushed in a panic at the edge of the waves. Sandpipers probed the estuaries, and gulls chattered and swooped.

“It’s so big,” Addie whispered, regarding the scene with wide eyes.

“Isn’t it?” Caroline plunked down onto the ground. “Take your shoes off. The sand feels wonderful. Have you ever been to a beach before?”

“Mama said she’d take us to Coney Island,” said Flick. “She never did, though.”

Caroline tried not to think about all the things they’d never get to do with their mother. “Well, you’re here now.” She jumped up. “I can’t be at the beach and not do a cartwheel,” she declared. “It’s completely impossible. No matter what sort of mood I’m in, I have to do a cartwheel. There’s something about these wide open spaces I can’t resist.”

With that, she spread her arms and executed a less-than-perfect cartwheel. “How’s that?”

“I want to try!” Addie leaped into a crouch.

“That wasn’t a cartwheel,” Flick said.

“It takes practice. Pay attention now.” Caroline drew a line in the sand with a stick. “You have to start in a lunge. It’s like a warrior pose in yoga.” She knew they practiced yoga at their school. “Put both hands down on the line and kick your feet over your head.” She showed them another cartwheel. “And then you land in a lunge on the same line. Voilà!”

The kids made several attempts, and she helped them along. “Not bad for a couple of newbies. You’ll have lots of time to practice. You know what else is fun? Running!” She took off, watching them over her shoulder. They eagerly followed and were soon running along the broad emptiness. They rushed toward a flock of birds and watched them burst into the sky in one huge motion. She led the way into the surf, letting the waves chase them, and they squealed as the cold water surged around their bare feet. For a few moments, they were just a couple of kids, and the sight of them running along the beach gave her a momentary sense of joy—and maybe hope.

Yet the feeling was tinged with sadness and uncertainty. She still had no answer to the question that had dogged her across the continent—now what?

After a while, she found a driftwood log, battered smooth by time and tide, with a twist that formed a natural bench. “Come here, you two, and have a seat.” She tunneled her bare feet into the cool sand, finding a sand dollar and a broken nautilus shell. She made a simple mound. “In the summer, there are sand-sculpting contests. One year my family made a dragon as long as a truck.”

Flick shaded his eyes and tilted his face toward the sky. “Is this where we live now?”

Oh, boy. Don’t lie. “This is where we live for now. You have a nice room, and on Monday we’ll get you enrolled in school. So yes. We live here now. I hope you’re going to like it. It’s where I lived my whole life when I was a kid.”

“Did you like it?”

She looped her arms around her drawn-up knees. Don’t lie. “I did,” she said. “Once upon a time.”

“Then why did you leave?”

“Oh, so many reasons. I wanted to explore the world,” she said. “I went to New York to be a designer, but I always remembered this place, and even now, when I create something, there’s a little bit of this beach in the design.” She traced her finger around the whorls of the nautilus shell. “This is my favorite shape, in fact.” She winced as she said it, because the motif had been tainted by the fiasco in New York that had ended her career.

A few fat raindrops spattered down on them. “Welcome to the Pacific Northwest,” she said. “It rains a lot around here.” She tucked the shell into her pocket. “Guess that’s our signal to go inside,” she said, tipping her face to the sky. “You’re going to need raingear and some gum boots.”

Somehow she muddled through the rest of the day. At bedtime, the kids were clingy, which was understandable. They were two little strangers in a world that probably felt to them like another planet.

Angelique had never been consistent about bedtime. Sometimes there would be a bath and a story. Other times the kids would doze off on the sofa and their mother would carry them to bed. The counselor had advised Caroline that they would do better with a regular bedtime routine. Even while on the road, she’d tried to stick to that. No matter where they were, she would start the process at seven.

A couple of nights during their trip, Caroline had felt like she was about to melt from exhaustion, but she’d forced herself to go through the routine in whatever motel or roadside inn they’d stopped at for the night.

On their first evening in Oysterville, she followed protocol. “Okay,” she said, pointing to the kitchen clock. “What’s that say?”

Flick eyed the clock, one of those silly cats with the pendulum tail. “Seven o’clock.”

“Wow, telling time already,” said Caroline’s mother. “Impressive.”

“He’s super smart. So is Addie. What happens at seven o’clock?”

“Bath, bed, story, song,” Addie said.

“We’ve been practicing every night,” said Caroline. “We’re getting pretty good at it, aren’t we, guys?”

“I want to stay up,” Flick said.

“I’ll bet you do. But kids go to bed at seven. No exceptions.” She was learning that they would always try to push. “Tonight there’s one more seven o’clock job. You have to tell everyone good night.”

They made the rounds, hesitant and dubious. Strangers in a strange land. They said good night to her parents, and to Virginia, who had moved to the apartment over the garage after her divorce.

Then they followed her up the stairs for a bath to scrub off the sand from the beach. “Can Dottie help you with your bath?”

Addie nodded. Flick thought for a moment. Then he said, “We have trust issues.”

Caroline ruffled his hair. “Smarty-pants.” She looked at her mother. “We’ve been meeting on Skype with a child psychologist. Flick and Addie are learning ways to talk about their feelings.”

“I see.” Mom went down to Flick’s level again and looked him in the eye. “I realize you just met me, and you must have lots of feelings about the changes happening so fast in your life. It’s amazing that you came all the way across the country to be here. I hope pretty soon I’ll earn your trust.”

Caroline’s mom filled the tub and stepped away, watching from the doorway. There were questions during the bath.

“Why did we come here?”

Caroline soaped them up and gently washed their sweet, small bodies. “Because we couldn’t stay at our place in New York anymore.” Not after what went down there.

“We could get another place near my school,” Flick pointed out.

“I couldn’t afford it,” Caroline admitted, tasting defeat, a bitter flavor on her tongue.

“On account of you got fired from your job.”

“Pretty much.” She saw her mother studying her and looked away, busying herself with the children. Fired. It happened all the time in her industry. Egos ran rampant, tempers boiled over, people stabbed one another in the back, designers were blackballed. Caroline had never believed it would happen to her, though. The job had been everything to her. It had defined her, and when it all unraveled, the sense of loss and despair had left her reeling. She wasn’t just grossly unfit to raise two orphans. She was grossly unfit to do anything but flee to safety. What would define her now? Failure? Despair?

“You were getting money by fixing up clothes for people,” Flick continued.

“You’re very smart to remember that,” she said, cupping his forehead as she rinsed off the shampoo. His hair was short, covering his head with tight whorls. Addie’s was longer, a mass of corkscrew curls. Through a painful process of trial and error, Caroline had figured out how to take care of it—lots of conditioner and a gentle combing with her fingers.

To her mother’s questioning look, she said, “I took in piecework from vintage shops, repairing and repurposing old leather jackets. Not exactly sustainable.”

“Mama was a model,” Addie said.

Mom nodded. “Caroline told me your mama was super talented and a good, hard worker. And a fun mom.”

Caroline had told her none of those things.

“Do we have to go to school?” asked Flick.

“Sure,” she said, forcing brightness. “Every kid does, no matter where you live.”

“We have wonderful schools here,” Caroline’s mom said. “I think you’ll love it.”

“Because what kid doesn’t love school?” Caroline asked.

“Don’t listen to her,” Mom scolded. “She was a fantastic student. So creative.”

“Let’s not think about school tonight,” Caroline said. “We’ll get everything sorted on Monday. You’ll meet your teachers and make lots of new friends.”

“I would rather watch something,” Flick said as she settled them into their beds for story time.

The daily battle. The kids were drawn to anything with a screen, like moths to a flame. Though Caroline didn’t have a motherly bone in her body, she knew instinctively that too much watching numbed the mind. The child psychologist had also been clear on the rule—no more than an hour of screen time per day. This had come as unwelcome news to Flick and Addie. Apparently, Angelique had set no limits.

“I have something better than a screen,” she told them. “It’s better than anything, in fact.”

Addie leaned in, her sweet face bright and eager. Flick rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming.

With an air of importance, she took out a book—one of her old favorites.

“That’s just a book,” said Flick.

“Exactly,” said Caroline. “And a book is magic.”

“A book is boring,” he said, thrusting his chin up and pinning her with a challenging glare.

“A book is the opposite of boring.” She ignored his dubious expression and settled between them on one of the beds. Then she dove right in. “‘The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another …’”

“Why’s he wearing a wolf suit?” asked Addie.

“Shush,” Flick said, leaning in to study the whimsical pictures. “Just listen.”

“They’re in bed,” Caroline said, coming downstairs to the kitchen. Her mom and Virginia were tidying up after dinner. “Finally. Somebody pour me a glass of wine, stat.”

“Already done.” Virginia indicated a tray of glasses.

“Bless you.” Caroline grabbed one and took a bracing gulp of very good red wine. “How the hell did you do it?” she asked her mother. “Bath and bed, night in and night out. With five of us. We were a nightmare.”

“A big family is not so different from a busy restaurant. It’s all about dishes and laundry.”

“The circle of life,” Virginia said.

“Where’s Fern?” asked Caroline. “With her dad this weekend?”

A curt nod. “She can’t wait to see you and meet the kids. I tried to swap weekends with Dave, but he refused. He is on a mission to say no to my every request.”

“Sounds like he’s doing his job as an ex-husband,” Caroline said.