Chapter 11
His behaviour gave every indication of an open affectionate heart. —Sense and Sensibility
Elinor
I tell myself that I’m taking Edward on this tour to save Norland Park, but deep down I know I’m giving this tour because I want more time with him. It’s so stupid—nothing good can come of more time together, but here we are.
My initial plan this morning was to cancel the promised tour at the last minute.
But from the moment I saw his irritatingly handsome face in the cafe, he’s been systematically chipping away at my resistance.
He rebuffed my frostiness with his laid-back, disarming smile—then he complimented me on my hand-drawn menus (which I’ve always secretly been proud of).
The cherry on top is how friendly and cute he was with his teammate and daughter.
Few guys think to give their friends baby gifts. How sweet is that?
So I caved and agreed to this farce of a tour. I’m doing my best to harden my heart to Edward’s charms, but it’s not going well.
“Is breakfast that good every day?” he asks as we head toward the community kitchen.
“No, it’s much better on the weekends. Some drive all the way from Santa Cruz just for brunch.”
“Then I’ve got to visit on a weekend. What are the chances I could find a room next weekend?”
“Low, but you could stay with us.” Ugh, why did I say that?
I cannot handle him staying under the same roof again.
My entire nervous system will go haywire.
I’m already dreading the possibility of bumping into him in the bathroom.
If he does visit, I might resort to using the public restroom.
It’s only a twenty minute walk from our house—totally worth it.
“Good, because I told Brandon I’d be coming back.”
“Well, if you told Brandon . . .” I repeat a little sarcastically.
“Never mind, I can find a room at another resort,” he says, sounding a bit hurt.
“Edward Norland Frechette,” I say sternly. “You’re not staying at a competing resort. My mom would never forgive me.”
“So you learned my middle name?” he says with a laugh.
“I told you that I Googled you last night. I was thorough.”
We walk toward a large gazebo-like building.
“This is our first stop: the communal kitchen. It has three fully stocked kitchens so cottage guests and campers can use it to cook their meals.” The cupboards are stocked with mismatched dishes.
There are lockers where guests can keep their pantry items, as well as a common pantry full of extra items left by campers.
“That’s a lot of organic, non-GMO food,” Edward says, eyeing the shelves of partially used food items.
“Right? I think we have a better selection than Whole Foods.”
The smell of sauteing onions and spices wafts through the air. From where we stand in the covered dining patio, we can see a group of college students making breakfast burritos.
“Who does the dishes?” asks Edward
“The guests do a remarkable job cleaning up after themselves. But once a month we do a deep cleaning.”
One of the college students crosses over to the second stove where a man with a graying beard and a Neil Young t-shirt is sautéing vegetables.
The college student hands over a bottle of olive oil, and the two strike up a conversation.
We’re too far away to hear the details, but I can imagine them swapping tips on the best hiking trails and swimming holes.
This is one of my favorite things about Norland Park—the way strangers often strike up the most unexpected friendships.
I’m glad Edward can see the magic of college kids making nice with aging hippies.
I’ve never stayed at a luxury resort, but I have a hunch they don’t have the same bonhomie as Norland Park.
We cross the dining area with its eclectic collection of tables and chairs and old couches. Edward notices the big chalkboard currently advertising Starry Nights at Norland Park every Saturday night.
“What’s that?”
“On weekends we have a campfire. Annie brings her guitar—it’s a good time.”
“Good thing I’m coming back next week”
“Yeah, perfect,” I say with a heavy dose of sarcasm. Edward glances at me sideways but doesn’t respond.
A bird perched in one of the rafters above swoops down right in front of us and flies out the window.
“Whoa!” Edward starts back in amazement. “There’s no screen or glass?” he asks as he waves a hand through the open-air window. “What do you guys do about rain?”
“We close these at night with wooden shutters, and there’s a sizable overhang that keeps out most of the rain. But yeah, if the wind is really blowing . . .” I point to a particularly ratty couch. “The furniture takes some damage.”
“What about critters?”
“As you just saw, we do have a few birds who live here. Personally, I think they add to the ambience. At night we lock up the kitchen. Between that and the food lockers, we don’t get too many large woodland friends. Although each summer a raccoon or a possum seems to get through our security.”
“Are you telling me Virgil broke into the quinoa?” Edward says with mock alarm. I’m tickled that he remembers the name Annie gave the possum living in our sycamore tree—but also, why does he have to be so much fun? It’s challenging to stay angry with Edward.
“No! Virgil would never travel so far. He’s a lazy possum.”
We leave the common area, following the trail to the campground. As we cross an old stone bridge over a gurgling stream, we come upon a very stressed Brandon.
“Have you guys seen Pepper?” he asks almost frantic.
“No.” We both say in unison.
“She ran ahead of me with the map. We were going to a poetry class.”
“Oh! My sister teaches that. It’s in the amphitheater. Follow that trail.”
I point to the path that leads to the amphitheater. “It’s not far . . .” But Brandon doesn’t wait to hear more. He jogs ahead of us. “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I tell Edward, “but should we follow to make sure?”
“Yes, let’s.”
I lead him down the railroad-tie steps that descend to the amphitheater.
“He seems like a great dad. Where’s mom?” I ask.
“She died when Pepper was a baby.”
“That’s terrible!”
“Yeah—I don’t think Brandon has ever gotten over it.”
When we reach the amphitheater, an anxious Brandon is talking to Annie. Nearby, other guests take their seats on tree stumps arranged in a semicircle around a flat clearing that serves as a natural stage. The hill behind descends steeply, leaving an open view of ocean and sky.
“I’m sorry,” Annie says. “I didn’t see a little girl wearing rain—wait, hold on a sec .
. .” My sister stops mid-sentence and walks across the clearing to the sycamore tree at the far edge of the stage area.
A pair of pink rainboots sits at the base of the trunk.
Annie peers up into the tree. Following her gaze, I spot Pepper sprawled on the wide limb like a big cat.
Her bare feet wave happily in the air as she scribbles intently in her notebook.
From where I’m standing two rows above, I can see more of Annie’s face than Pepper’s.
“Hello there!” my sister says, absolutely enchanted. “You must be Pepper?”
Pepper looks up from her book and nods. “My name is Penelope, but I go by Pepper.”
“That’s a great name! My name is kind of like that too. My parents named me Marianne, but I go by Annie. Are you here for the poetry class?”
“Yes! Is it okay if I listen from this tree? It’s just so majestic,” she says this last line with flair.
“Best seat in the house,” Annie answers with an understanding smile.
“Pepper!” An irritated Brandon interrupts. “How many times have I told you not to run off like that?”
“Annie says I can stay in the tree!”
“Annie,” he says the name with irritation, “is not your father. Please come down from there.” He reaches out his arms and a smiling Pepper jumps into them. “Don’t scare me like that,” he says into her hair as he holds her tight.
Annie’s face softens watching the father and daughter reunion. She used to jump into Dad’s arms like that.
“Looks like you’ve met Elinor’s sister,” Edward says as we join the group. “Brandon, this is Annie. Annie, these are my friends, Brandon and Pepper.”
Annie gives them a dazzling smile, and I half expect Brandon to fall in love with her right there—or at least be momentarily stunned upon receiving her full attention—but he barely seems to notice her.
Pepper, on the other hand, is definitely smitten.
She climbs out of her father’s arms and walks right up to Annie.
“You look just like a fairy princess,” she says with awe.
“Thank you! That’s the ultimate compliment.”
“I like the flowers in your hair,” Pepper adds
“You do?” Annie plucks out a sprig of small white daisies from the complicated knot holding her hair half-way up. “Here!” She tucks it behind Pepper’s ear.
“Thank you!” Pepper grins ecstatically.
“You should come to my flower crown class tomorrow,” says Annie.
“Can we, Daddy? Don’t you think she looks like a fairy princess?”
“I thought we were going to the aquarium,” he says with barely a glance at Annie.
“We can do that next week,” says Pepper.
“How about you don’t run off anymore,” Brandon says to Pepper, “and I’ll consider the flower class.”
“Thank you, yes!” she jumps up and down.
“I spoil her rotten,” he says apologetically, I’m not sure why. If I had a daughter that precious, I’d give into her every whim. I already kind of do that with my own sister.
“Oh no! Not rotten.” says Pepper. “I’m spoiled just right. He gives me everything I want—except for one thing.” This little girl is so precocious and dramatic. She reminds me of young Annie.
“Not this again,” Brandon groans, putting his head in his hands.
“What’s that?” Annie asks with a mischievous grin. She’s certainly on team Pepper—who wouldn’t be?
“Look at my hair.” Her fine light brown hair is a bit messy with a small rat’s nest in back. “Would it look like this if I had a mom?”
“For the record, I can do hair,” Brandon says, sounding chagrined. “You begged me to let you do it yourself today.”
“And you did a great job.” Annie bends down to Pepper. “But as long as you’re here, I’d be happy to braid your hair.”
“Really?” Pepper looks up at Annie beaming.
“I can braid,” Brandon grumbles. But Annie’s not listening. She’s busy answering a question from another attendee.
“We’d better take our seats,” says Brandon. “It was great seeing you Freshie.”
“Yeah, it’s been awesome catching up.” Edward says.
Brandon gives him a big hug. “You can stay with us the next time you come to the park. Our cottage has a spare room.”
“I’ll do that,” says Edward.
We leave, going back up the steep steps.
“When Annie suggested she offer poetry classes I was skeptical.”
“Aren’t you always?”
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“Just an observation,” he says with a sly smile. “Your first response to most things seems to be a healthy dose of skepticism.”
He’s right. But I don’t know how I feel about this relative stranger seeing me so clearly. It’s flattering that he’s been paying such close attention, but also a little disarming.
“As long as my mom and sister go through life stubbornly wearing rose-colored glasses, someone in the family needs to be clear-eyed, so I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As it was intended. What were you saying . . . you were skeptical about the poetry class?”
“Yes, I may have doubted the merit of the project, but Annie was onto something. The class is a hit. Last year a guest recorded her short lecture and shared it on social media, and now we have quite a few visitors who come just for the poetry course.”
“Really?”
“Now who sounds skeptical?” I quip.
“Touché,” Edward laughs good naturedly.
It takes no effort to like Edward, to joke with him, to exchange knowing looks.
The real struggle is trying to be stiff, formal, and professional with him.
I’m trying to keep my barriers up, but I feel like I’m fighting gravity.
I check my watch. Just two more hours with Edward—I mean Mr. Frechette. I’ve got this.