15. Chapter 15
Caitlin
I pull into Peter and Charlene’s driveway, cutting the engine of Rachel’s borrowed Jeep.
Their house has changed little since I was a child.
White clapboard with blue shutters, porch swing gently swaying in the breeze.
The gardens are dead and brown now, but I know come summer they will burst with color.
Something in my chest has been loosening with every day that I’ve been back in Oregon, a knot I hadn’t realized was there until it unraveled. This is what coming home feels like.
Before I’m even up the porch steps, the front door flies open and Charlene barrels out, enveloping me in a hug that smells like rosemary and lemon.
“Caitlin!” she squeals. “Goodness, I’m never going to tire of seeing you walk up to our door.
You settled in alright with Rachel? Come in, come in. Lunch is on the table.”
Peter appears in the doorway behind her, his beard grayer than before I left but his eyes still the same calm blue. He doesn’t rush forward like Charlene, just waits until she releases me and then pulls me into a gentler embrace.
“Good to see you again, kiddo,” he says, his voice rumbling against my ear.
“It’s only been a few days since you saw me at Thanksgiving,” I laugh as they lead me inside.
“Well, we have a lot of time to make up for,” Aunt Charlene tells me
Inside, the house doesn’t seem to have changed at all.
A comfortable jumble of soft couches and chairs in warm earth tones with heaps of cushions fills the living room.
The pottery Aunt Charlene makes is on the shelves, and stacks of Uncle Peter’s books cover every flat surface.
It’s the type of room that invites you to sink in and wrap yourself up in a soft, fluffy blanket.
The table is already set for lunch, with three bowls waiting. Steam curls up from the pot of soup, and the room is filled with the smell of freshly baked bread.
“Hope you’re hungry,” Aunt Charlene says, ushering me to my seat. “I made chicken noodle soup.”
“With grandma’s egg noodles?” I ask, feeling my mouth water at the thought.
“As if we’d make it with anything else.” Uncle Peter winks, settling into his chair.
We fall into the peaceful rhythm of a family meal. Aunt Charlene ladles out the soup, we pass bread and butter, fill glasses, catch up on the mundane details of life that somehow feel anything but mundane when shared with people who genuinely care.
Rachel’s newly opened yoga studio and wellness store is taking off. Uncle Peter’s planning to expand his garden next spring. Aunt Charlene joined a salsa dancing class at the community center.
I pause at that one, trying to imagine my aunt salsa dancing. I can’t.
“You should see her,” Uncle Peter says, pride clear in his voice. “Puts the twenty-year-olds to shame.”
She swats at him playfully. “Stop it, you old charmer. Caitlin doesn’t want to hear about my dance moves.”
“Actually, I do,” I say, realizing how much I’ve missed their easy affection, the way they still flirt and tease each other, even after thirty years together. It’s so different from the tense meals at the Kelleys, where criticism flowed more freely than conversation.
As we finish our soup, the conversation shifts. Uncle Peter’s expression grows more serious.
“So,” he begins, exchanging a look with Aunt Charlene. “You mentioned you were interested in working at the restaurant again.”
At my nod, he continues. “You might have noticed things weren’t exactly booming when you stopped in yesterday. To be honest, we’ve been struggling for a while now.”
I had noticed. The lunch crowd had been thin, with barely a quarter of the tables filled.
“Business has been dropping steadily for about two years now,” Uncle Peter continues. “It’s all these trendy new places opening up downtown. They’re attracting all the tourists, and we’re getting left behind.”
Aunt Charlene nods, her usual exuberance dimmed. “We tried a few things. Did some updating, some ad campaigns, remember? But…”
“But it’s the food,” I finish for her. “The menu hasn’t changed since Grandma was running things.”
“People around here used to want familiar,” my uncle says, sounding tired. “Now they want ‘elevated’ and ‘reimagined’ and all those words the food magazines use.”
“What if…” I hesitate, then plunge ahead. “What if we tried updating the menu? Just a few dishes at first, specials maybe. Things that honor Grandma’s traditions but with some new twists.”
Uncle Peter doesn’t exactly look convinced, but he nods and says, “We may as well try it. Nothing else has worked.”
“You sure this is what you want to be doing?” Aunt Charlene asks, reaching across the table to take my hand. “You can take time to decide what you want to do, maybe decide if you want to work somewhere else or even go to school. You don’t have to work at Louise’s Table.”
“I want this,” I say with a shrug. “I want to work, and I need to cook. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me right now.”
“Oh, honey.” Aunt Charlene reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “We’d love that. We’ve missed you terribly. I’d love to cook beside you again.”
“I guess that’s settled then,” Uncle Peter says, his smile returning. “You may as well start tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling a flutter of excitement for the first time in months. “Sounds great.”
“Perfect!” Aunt Charlene claps her hands together.
We clear the table, Uncle Peter washing dishes and me drying. Everything is comfortable and companionable, and I bask in it.
“If we’re going to head up to Louise’s house this afternoon, Peter, we should get going,” Charlene says, shrugging into a jacket. “God knows what state Whitney left it in,” she adds with an eye roll.
I raise an eyebrow, curious. “Grandma’s house? Weren’t you guys renting it out?”
“Yeah, to Charlene’s niece Whitney. Her sister Barb’s girl,” Uncle Peter explains. “She moved out last week, and we haven’t had a chance yet to stop in and see what shape she left it in.”
“I’m not expecting much,” my aunt mutters. “Whitney is a sweet girl, but those boys of hers were wild, and they had two big dogs. Friendly animals but energetic and stupider than a plank of wood.”
“Want to ride along?” Uncle Peter asks.
My heart gives a little jump at the thought of seeing my grandmother’s house again.
The old farmhouse surrounded by Grandma’s fruit trees and gardens was where I spent most of my childhood.
Even before Mom took off for good and left me with Grandma, I spent most of my time there.
All the best memories of my childhood happened in that house.
“We thought you might want to see it,” Aunt Charlene adds. “Maybe… well, maybe you’d have some thoughts about what to do with it.”
“I’d love to see it,” I say, surprised by the emotion suddenly clogging my throat.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, we’re pulling up the long gravel drive to the farmhouse.
It sits back from the road, surrounded by oak trees, their leafless branches stark against the winter sky.
The white paint is peeling; the green shutters faded by the sun.
Even in winter, the gardens that once surrounded the house look overgrown and neglected.
“Whitney wasn’t much for gardening,” Uncle Peter says apologetically as we make our way up the creaking porch steps. Dead leaves are piled up in the porch corners, and the screen door is torn.
Inside, the house smells musty and unloved.
The hardwood floors that Grandma used to polish until they gleamed are now scuffed and dull.
The wallpaper in the entryway is peeling.
The once-white walls in the living room are yellowed and dirty, and there’s a water stain on the ceiling above the dining room table.
The kitchen, Grandma’s pride and joy, looks small and outdated, with the linoleum floors curling at the edges.
But beneath the neglect, I can still see the bones of the house I loved.
The built-in bookshelves still flank the fireplace.
There’s also the window seat where I used to curl up with a book on rainy days.
I can see the back staircase that led to my bedroom under the eaves, with its sloped ceiling and window that looked out over the gardens.
“It needs work,” Aunt Charlene says, trailing her fingers along the dusty countertop. “New paint, new carpet in the bedrooms, probably new appliances.”
“The foundation’s solid,” Uncle Peter adds, always practical. “The roof is only ten years old. Plumbing and electric probably need some updating though. Looks like there might be water damage here though. We’ll have to have someone in to check.”
I wander from room to room while they debate what repairs would give the best return on investment if they sell.
My mind is elsewhere, filled with memories that seem to rise from the floorboards themselves.
Grandma teaching me to make pie crust. Mom, in one of the rare peaceful moments she was present, braiding my hair by the kitchen window.
Rachel and I sneaking cookies from the jar on the counter, thinking we were being so clever while Grandma pretended not to notice.
In what used to be my bedroom, I stand in the center of the empty space and close my eyes. If I concentrate, I can almost hear Grandma’s voice calling me down for dinner, the smell of her chicken and dumplings wafting up the stairs.
“Caitlin?” Aunt Charlene’s voice breaks the spell. “What do you think?”
I open my eyes, surprised to find them damp. “It’s perfect.”
“Perfect?” Uncle Peter repeats, confused. “Honey, it’s a mess.”
“No, I mean…” I turn in a slow circle, seeing not what the house is now but what it once was and what it could be again. “It just needs some love. Some attention.”
“Well, that’s certainly true,” Aunt Charlene says, but there’s something knowing in her eyes. “We should head back before it gets dark.”
The drive back to their house is quiet, my mind still caught between past and present, between memories and possibilities. My aunt and uncle exchange glances in the front seat, communicating in that silent language of long-married couples, but they don’t press me to talk.
As we pull into their driveway, I’m so distracted I almost don’t notice the unfamiliar car parked on the street. But then my eyes catch on the figure sitting on the porch steps, and my whole body goes cold.
Adam.
He stands as we park, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He looks like hell, with dark circles beneath his eyes. It looks like he hasn’t shaved in days, and his clothes are badly rumpled, as if he slept in them.
“Caitlin,” he says, my name a question and a plea.
I grip the door frame so hard my knuckles turn white, anchoring myself to something solid as the world tilts beneath me. I’m not ready for this. I’m not ready for him. I might never be ready to face him.
But here he is anyway, standing on my family’s porch like he has any right to be, waiting for me to say something, to do something.
And I have no idea what comes next.