8
I t was dark when they finally reached Miramar’s outskirts. Traffic was heavy in the other direction, a long stream of headlights heading out while the roads remained open. For Olivia, the return journey held a calmness that defied all the concerns binding them to this place and season.
Much of the town remained blacked out, even the streetlights were off. She saw several power company trucks and workers high up in their cherry-pickers. She had nowhere else to live except the jail. No place where she might stay and recover. These were very real concerns. Just the same, it felt so good to sit with her back against the side door, shoes off, legs up on the seat, chin resting on her knees. Like she had so very many times before. In the era she thought lost and gone forever.
She asked, “You never married?”
“Year before last I got engaged. Great lady. It didn’t take.” He took it slow around a rubble-strewn curve. “She wanted what I couldn’t give her.”
“What was that?”
“A husband.” He flashed her an almost-smile. “I was working crazy hours, traveling all over the place, sizing up new investments, everything it took to help my tiny little egg of a company hatch and grow wings.”
She had a crazy thought, one definitely best left unsaid. How he had suffered through his own version of a miscarriage. She needed to say something, and came up with, “You would have been a great boss.”
He pulled up to a small crossroads, the darkened streetlight dangling overhead. He looked at her, started to speak, then something beyond her window caught Dillon’s eye. “Get a load of that.”
She lowered her feet, turned, and said, “Oh, Dillon.”
The single-story ranch was surrounded by Christmas. Only the lights were out, and the front yard’s trees danced in the wind. The sleigh and reindeer bounding across the roof were mere shadows. Ditto for the tall candy canes and figurines filling the yard.
Instead, every window held candles.
Dozens of them glowed and flickered in silent defiance of the night.
Olivia reached for his hand.
They sat like that for a long moment, until the car behind them beeped softly. A quick, almost apologetic tap. The sound of another traveler touched by what they saw.
Dillon released her hand and drove on. “Now I remember what it feels like.”
“What?”
“Something I thought I’d left behind,” he replied. He continued in silence until they pulled into the station lot. Dillon cut the engine, then finished, “Hope.”
* * *
Dillon entered the station long enough to thank Porter for the loan, then together they walked to the Ocean Avenue Grill. A heavy cloud cover glinted copper from the streetlights still working. To the west, the Pacific rumbled like a coming storm. They entered by the kitchen door, sat on stools behind the larder, and devoured the day’s simple fare.
As they finished eating, Dillon told her about Porter wanting a family portrait. And Maud and Ryan asking as well. Olivia found it necessary to swallow hard before replying, “I would like that more than anything.”
“Maud and Ryan can definitely wait,” Dillon continued. “But Porter’s daughter is leaving tomorrow for school.”
“Tomorrow is fine.” Another hard swallow. “I run away as hard and fast as I can get. I come back, thinking I’m totally defeated. And I’m greeted by a ruined house, a jail cell for a bed, and the first faint glimmer of a dream come true.”
Dillon studied her in silence.
“What?”
He shook his head. “I’m happy for you.”
Olivia did not press. As they departed, Olivia hugged Claire and pretended to ignore her friend smirking over seeing the two of them together.
On the way back to the station, Olivia said, “Maybe it’s time you give me a fuller picture of the cottage.”
Dillon’s response was calmly apologetic. Not so much offhand as preoccupied. He described the loose foundations, the damaged retaining wall, the stripped kitchen, the broken glass. His casual manner helped her accept the news.
When he finished, she repeated what she had said on the road. “I don’t have the funds to put things right.”
“Of course money’s a factor,” he replied. “But at some point you’ll need to decide whether you should just start over.”
“Different question, same answer.” A light rain started, scarcely more than a drifting fog. Even so, the faces she saw along the crowded sidewalk looked worried. And exhausted. She was very glad for Dillon’s company. “I don’t have anywhere to live.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’m not talking about the jail. I am very nearly broke. I feel like I’ve spent the past few months standing by this great swollen river. Watching events I can’t control and mostly don’t understand sweep away everything I’ve built.”
“You’ve come back home with a talent, a gift. Something you can build on.”
“Home,” she repeated softly. “You just said I don’t have one.”
Dillon stopped, waited for her to face him, and said, “You’re moving into my grandparents’ home. With me.”
“Dillon, thank you. So much. But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Listen to what I’m saying.” Firm, solid, definite.
“What’s past is past. But we’re still friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course we are.”
“The old place has three bedrooms. Two baths. We’ll share. You take your time. Try to work out what you want for a next step.” He waved toward the unseen hills. “When you start working up your next temper tantrum, we’ll flip to see who’s sleeping in the barn.”
“I don’t have tantrums.”
“Oh really. Maybe it’s just my memory playing tricks.”
“Obviously.” She used both hands and cleared her face. “You were always there for me.”
“Not always.” Dillon took a very hard breath.
“I’m so sorry, Olivia. I knew I was hurting you, leaving like I did.”
“You were angry.”
“I was. And desperate to get away. And so many other things. It all got mixed up inside. My grandad gave me his old truck. I piled everything I owned in the back, covered it in a tarp, and set off. Drove sixteen hours that first day. Doing my level best not to look in the rearview mirror. Deliriously happy to finally break free of my old man. And brokenhearted, no matter how often I told myself it was the only way.”
She remained silent for a time, then said softly, “Maybe it was. You had to go. I knew that. I wanted it to be LA. And yet . . .”
He whispered, “Tell me.”
But it was to herself that she spoke. Confessing the impossible. “I wanted you to come. Desperately. But I fought against it too.”
“We both did.” His response was barely a whisper.
“All the time.”
“I wanted to be free. I love you. Loved. So much. But I couldn’t see how to have you near and still . . .”
“Become who you are.” He nodded. “I see that.”
“Did you feel the same?”
“Olivia, maybe. At some level. But you were always the smarter one. The one who saw things first. I was too busy fighting to get away.”
She felt as if a great weight had suddenly been lifted. One she had not even known she’d been carrying. “I’m glad we talked. Now let’s get out of the rain.”