nineteen | emberly
NINETEENEmberly
“I’m really going to miss this place.” Samantha knots a towel around her waist. She was part of the group waiting with her paddleboard when Iris and I walked down to the lake. “We’ve been coming to Pinehart since I was Iris’s age.”
Two days ago, my first response would have been, “Why?” But after spending an evening doling out pudgy pies to the guests, hearing their stories, I’m starting to get it.
For some of them, the resort isn’t just a vacation.
It’s a way to reconnect with their childhood.
Make new memories with their own families.
My parents both traveled a lot, albeit separately, and they were business trips, not vacations, so I was rarely invited along. I didn’t mind. Mom and Dad had stopped talking to each other by the time I was ten, so family together time at the Lockwood house could be a little awkward.
“When will your house be finished?” Over her shoulder, I see Iris talking to Riley and Rider. They’d shown up while we were on the paddleboards and decided the way to get Iris’s attention was by scooping up balls of wet sand and throwing them at each other.
“Things are running behind schedule, but our contractor promised we could spend Christmas here.” Samantha shakes her head. “My biggest challenge is Marcus. If he gets his way, everything in the house will be buffalo plaid and … and chandeliers made out of antlers.”
She sounds so frustrated I don’t dare smile.
“It can be fun if you mix it with some other elements. Leather. Rattan.” I’ve arbitrated so many disputes like this over the past few years, I could include marital counselor on my resume.
“Plaids can be cozy. Make you feel like you want to snuggle in and stay awhile.” I’m picturing Will’s flannel shirt.
Which I still haven’t returned, by the way.
“Then incorporate some of your mid-century modern into the color scheme and furnishings.”
Samantha looks confused. “How did you know that’s what I like?”
Now I smile. “Just a guess.”
“Wait …” Her eyes widen. “Are you an interior designer?”
“Creative home design consultant.” Nona said it was too long to put on a business card, but I don’t have a formal degree.
There’ve been times I’ve rolled up my sleeves, chiseled away layers of wallpaper as old as the Dead Sea scrolls and painted walls, but most of the time, I look, listen, create a plan. Then I shop.
Samantha looks up at the sky. “Thank you.” Then she turns back to me, plants her hands on her hips. “When can we talk?”
“Iris and I have plans for this morning, but how about later today?”
Samantha’s expression softens. “That girl … such a sweetheart. I couldn’t believe it when my parents told me about Melissa and Stephen.” Her eyes glisten. “They were the best. Everyone loved them. Now Will …”
“Will?” I prompt when she hesitates. Not because I enjoy gossip. Because I want to know more—everything—about the man who doesn’t want to talk about himself. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to talk to me.
“He’s doing a great job, but …” Another hesitation.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my coverup so I’m not tempted to reach out and shake the rest of the words out of her.
“I’m not sure his heart is in it,” she finally says.
“Why …” I stop because Iris is jogging toward us.
“I’ll be the one sitting underneath a Hello Kitty umbrella all day.” Samantha points to the narrow strip of sand that Will referred to as the “beach”. “Come over and chat when you’re free.”
“I will.” I smile at Iris. “Ready?”
“Ready!”
Will had delivered all the boxes to the top of the landing and Iris helps me lug them inside.
Maybe I did go a little overboard this year, but I discovered an adorable shop that supports local makers and put in my order the day I arrived.
Pancake syrup in clear glass bottles shaped like maple leaves.
Gourmet clusters of dark chocolate, caramel, and pecans called “bear paws.” A stack of notecards from an award-winning photographer depicting the four seasons.
Miniature birchbark baskets. I bought five of everything.
Iris stops in the center of the room and looks around. “Where should we put them?”
“Good question.” To be efficient, we should set up an assembly line, but my coffee bar happens to be taking up the only flat surface available.
Iris shifts the box from one hip to the other and I make a decision. Nod at the Hobbit door.
“How about in there?”