Chapter 2
It was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. —Sense and Sensibility
Elinor
“Sooo . . . ?” My sister asks with a sing-songy voice as she pops her curly head into my office door.
“What’s the story about the new owner?” I glance up from my laptop where I’m scanning job listings.
I fear the arrival of the new owner will mark the end of our idyllic life in Bumble Cottage.
To live in Big Sur, you must be resilient.
We put up with mudslides, wildfires, power outages, and bridge closures, but it’s the soaring cost of housing that’s been pushing the hardiest locals to pack up and leave the only home they know.
Watching friends move away, I’ve known our days are numbered.
But I maintain a brave face for my mom and sister.
“Not much, except Barbara Norland has no clue how booked we are in the summer. Her secretary demanded we find a room for her with one day’s notice. Can you imagine?”
“So you moved her to the top of the waitlist?” Annie asks as she glides into my office. As usual, flowers adorn my sister’s mane of curls. Today the flower of choice is sweet pea.
“No, I’m not about to kick out a paying customer because the new owner finally decided to visit.” Especially, I think to myself, since it’s probably the last summer of Norland Park as we know it. “So she’ll be staying in the guest room.”
“At Bumble Cottage?” My sister’s alarmed face perfectly mirrors my own feelings.
“Yes. I mean, why not? It belongs to her.”
“I always forget that.”
If only I had the luxury to forget that.
My mom and sister are blissfully unaware of money matters.
I took over the family finances when I was nineteen and my mom was too emotionally devastated to manage.
For the most part, I’ve been happy to do my part, but lately the burden has felt too big to carry alone.
“Do you think it will be up to snuff for her?” Annie asks.
“It will have to be,” I shrug. “Besides, Mom’s having so much fun prepping for a house guest.”
“That’s why she was on a cleaning frenzy.” Annie sits down in one of the wooden chairs facing my desk.
“Yep, and I believe she’s making fried chicken.”
“Fried chicken?” Annie perks up. “Maybe this visit isn’t so bad after all.” She mindlessly twists one of her reddish curls around her finger. “It’s been ages since we’ve had a family dinner.”
“Hey, I make dinner every Sunday!”
“That’s not the same as a ‘mom dinner’ and you know it.
” She’s right about that. My mom’s an exceptional cook.
One of my best moves as Norland Park manager was convincing her to run the cafe.
We serve breakfast and lunch every day but Monday.
Since my mom took over, our Yelp reviews have gone up a full star.
She also makes the best sandwiches, which are a huge hit with hikers.
Even those from other resorts stop by our cafe to get one of my mom’s packed lunches, and her homemade cookies are legendary.
But after taking over the kitchen four years ago, she really hasn’t had it in her to cook after hours. During the off-season I make dinner, but in the middle of summer rush I don’t have the time or energy. Most nights we eat toast and eggs or cold cereal for dinner.
“I’d be willing to house a whole slew of snooty owners for Mom’s fried chicken.” Annie leans back, propping her sandaled feet on my desk. Her long-tiered skirt swoops gracefully down to the floor. “Is there a collective noun for billionaires?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe a cache of billionaires?” I answer off-handedly.
“Not bad, but you could do better.” Annie loves word games.
Normally I’m happy to play along. But not today.
I expect nothing but bad news. Still, I keep my fears to myself.
My mother and Annie excel at making the most of everyday tragedies, but my job is to keep the family afloat and pretend that everything is fine while working my tail off to make that myth a reality.
“Why do you think she’s coming?” Annie asks, picking up a starfish paperweight from my desk
“To inspect her property,” I mutter, bookmarking a job at an inn in Carmel. I probably need to widen my search, but the thought of leaving the area . . . I’m not ready for that.
“I can’t remember the last time ol’ Reginald checked up on us,” says Annie.
“It’s been more than three years,” I answer, remembering the owner’s last visit when I gave him a tour of the park followed by dinner at Bumble Cottage, after which the old man trounced us all in a game of Scrabble.
When I first started managing the park, Mr. Norland visited every few months—probably because I was barely nineteen when I took over the job full-time.
Over the years, he must have decided that I knew what I was doing, because his visits became less frequent and then stopped altogether.
The pay is decent but not amazing. I probably could find a better-paying job.
The real compensation is getting to stay rent-free in Bumble Cottage, which is an unbelievable perk.
That’s why I took over for my dad when he got sick.
We all lost so much with his death—we couldn’t lose our home too.
I’ve done everything I can to ensure that my mom and sister stay their delightful free-spirited selves.
Annie writes poetry. My mom paints. And I worry.
“What sort of music do you think she likes?” Annie asks.
“Who?” I answer, returning from my depressing ruminations.
“Barbara Norland.”
“It hardly matters,” I mutter to myself.
“What?”
“I mean,” I answer testily. “I don’t think any piano piece will change her mind.”
“Change her mind?” Annie looks up in alarm, almost dropping the paperweight. So much for keeping my concerns to myself. “What do you mean, ‘change her mind’?” Her big green eyes are full of fear. I don’t want to voice my worries out loud, but my silence is answer enough.
“Do you think she’ll kick us out?”
I nod. “Best case scenario, we’ll be asked to pay rent.”
“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 and then 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 I do wish 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.