1. Vivienne #2
The fireplace takes up most of one wall, river stone stacked to the ceiling.
Its mantel holds a collection of random things: sea glass in a mason jar that’s catching the last of the evening light, pieces of driftwood arranged precariously like a sculpture, and a stack of old postcards held together with twine.
There’s a candle burned down to the nub and a small wooden boat that looks like it was hand carved.
My fingers trace the edge of one of the mason jars, and the sea glass shifts inside with a soft clink.
I pick up the little wooden boat, turning it over in my hands.
It’s detailed enough that I can see tiny planks of wood and a miniature mast. Someone made this with care.
I drop my duffel bag by the door with zero intention of unpacking and let myself just stand there for a moment, breathing in the quiet and the warmth of the room.
When was the last time I just stood still?
The kitchen calls to me as it always does, and I follow the pull of it like I’m on a string.
It’s small, tucked into the back of the cottage, but it’s perfect. White subway tiles line the walls with open shelves holding mismatched dishes in pastel blues and whites. There’s a vintage stove in mint green that probably doesn’t work but makes my heart stumble over itself anyway.
I can’t help myself. I reach out and run my hand along the smooth enamel, then turn one of the knobs. It gives a satisfying click, and I immediately smell gas.
I turn it off quickly, but something in me has already decided the stove is a good omen. A kitchen with a working vintage stove. Definitely a sign. Or maybe just a nice detail. I’ll take it either way.
And there, on the butcher-block counter, sits a wicker basket.
I move toward it slowly, like it might disappear if I’m not careful.
Inside is a bottle of wine with a local label. A box of fancy crackers. Jam with a handwritten tag that says Blackberry — Summer 2015. A bar of lavender soap wrapped in brown paper and twine. And a small white box with a note card propped against it.
The handwriting is looping and friendly.
Dear Vivienne,
Welcome to Westerly Point! I’m Margo, your host. I don’t usually do this, but when I heard you were a chef consultant, I couldn’t resist. These are my famous brown butter chocolate chip cookies.
Family recipe. No, I won’t share the secret ingredient.
Consider them a welcome gift from one foodie to another.
There’s fresh coffee in the cupboard, and the best sunrise view is from the back porch. Make yourself at home!
—M
Westerly Point.
The words land in my chest like a penny dropping into a well. I can almost hear the echo of it, rippling out into some part of my brain that’s too tired to catch it.
I know that name.
I know it.
But the harder I reach for it, the further it slips away, and I’m too exhausted to chase it down.
I set the card down and open the box of cookies, because some things are more important than unsolved mysteries.
Like cookies.
The smell hits me first. Brown butter and vanilla with a hint of sea salt. And I know before I even taste one that they are going to be delicious.
I pick one up, and it’s still slightly warm, somehow.
The edges are crisp and caramelized, the center soft and giving.
I take a bite, and it’s perfect. The chocolate is dark and a little bitter.
The brown butter gives it a nutty, almost toffee-like depth, and sea salt is sprinkled on top, just enough to make everything else taste sweeter.
I eat it slowly, leaning against the counter, and let myself just relax for a second.
When was the last time someone baked for me?
I take the whole box of cookies to the kitchen window and eat them while staring out at the ocean. The sun is almost gone, just a sliver of orange on the horizon, turning the water deep purple and the sky the color of bruised plums. The waves roll in with a rhythm that’s almost hypnotic.
There’s just something about this place.
A memory is pulling at the edges of my mind like a word I can’t quite remember. Or a song I heard a long time ago.
Westerly Point.
I should Google it and figure out where I am. But my phone is at four percent, and my charger is still in the car, and the idea of going back outside feels impossible right now.
Tomorrow.
I’ll figure it out tomorrow.
I leave the kitchen and the basket and the cookies and make my way down the narrow hallway. The wood floors creak under my feet. There are two doors. The first opens to a small bathroom. Inside is a claw-foot tub, the porcelain worn soft with age. The second opens to a bedroom.
It’s simple. A queen bed with a white duvet, pillows in soft grays and blues, and a quilt folded at the foot that looks handmade.
There’s a nightstand with a small lamp and a stack of books, mysteries, mostly, their spines cracked and loved and a phone charger already plugged in, looped neatly beside the lamp.
A dresser with a mirror. And a window with sheer curtains that are moving slightly in the breeze of the open window.
I don’t even take off my jeans before I just sink onto the bed. The mattress welcomes me with a warm hug, as if it’s been waiting all night for me.
The pillows smell like lavender and clean cotton. The duvet is soft and heavy. Through the open window, I can hear the ocean.
My eyes start to flutter shut.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Once. Twice.
I ignore it.
It buzzes again.
I groan, roll over, and fish it out of my back pocket.
Three texts from my mom. A missed call from my dad. An email from the investors with the subject line Checking In - Arrival Confirmation?
I should respond. I should let my parents know I’m here and that I’m safe. That I haven’t driven off a cliff somewhere in my haze of exhaustion because a deer ran out in front of me.
But my body has other plans.
I plug my phone into the charger left on the nightstand without fully opening my eyes. The sound of the waves is pulling me under, and I’m too tired to fight it.
Just five minutes, I tell myself.
I’ll close my eyes for five minutes, and then I’ll deal with everything.