Chapter 9
Holly
A silver Lexus sits in the Anchor's parking lot with Oregon plates and not a speck of road grit on the fenders.
I spot it through the kitchen window while I'm rinsing my coffee mug.
Nobody in Nightfall Cove drives a car that clean.
The dock workers drive trucks with salt rust eating the wheel wells.
Betty drives a station wagon older than half her menu.
A woman steps out in a camel wool coat and pearl earrings, and the mug slips in my hand. I catch it before it hits the sink.
My mother stands in the parking lot of a monster bar and studies the facade the way she'd study a wine list at a charity auction.
Her eyes moving from the repaired front window to the Scales & Ales sign to Griz's stone silhouette in the doorway, noting every detail with the same sharp eye I inherited.
She smooths a crease in her coat and walks toward the entrance the way she'd walk into a fundraiser she didn't organize—prepared to judge every choice that led to this.
I set the mug in the sink, press both hands flat on the counter, and breathe.
She told me she'd come. She said she'd come, and I believed her because my mother keeps her word the way other people keep grudges.
The rational part of my brain didn't think she'd do it.
My apron hangs on the hook by the door. I grab it and head downstairs.
The door chimes and Mom walks into the Rusty Anchor like she's visiting a foreign country and refusing to let it intimidate her.
Griz shifts at the entrance, his stone jaw angling down, and she meets his gaze and holds it.
She doesn't flinch at Griz. Doesn't even pause.
She gives him the same once-over I've watched her give contractors who show up late and caterers who use the wrong napkins, and then she steps past him and lets the door close behind her.
I'm behind the bar with a towel over my shoulder and my hands already moving, because if I stop moving I'll have to figure out what to do with them when she sits down.
"Chardonnay, please." She settles onto a barstool and sets her handbag on the bar top. Sal glances up from the register, pours without comment, and sets the glass on a napkin.
Mom picks it up. Takes a small sip. Sets it down. Looks at me across three feet of bar top.
"You look different, Hol."
"I look like myself."
She doesn't argue. Her eyes track the tattoo sleeve on my left arm, the one I started in Boise and finished in Nightfall Cove, the ink she's never seen because I got it after I stopped coming home.
Her mouth tightens at the edges but she doesn't comment, and I don't explain, and we sit in that silence.
"Thanks for coming," I say, and I mean it, which surprises us both.
"You called me." She traces the rim of her glass. "You haven't called me in four years, Holly. So, I got on a plane."
The words land in the space between us, quiet and precise. The Summers family doesn't scream. We withdraw phone calls and holiday invitations and birthday cards until the absence becomes its own argument, airtight and impossible to counter because you can't fight something that isn't there.
"Friend of yours?" Sal asks, her eyes on Mom's wool coat.
"My mother."
Sal takes the towel off my shoulder and tosses it behind the register. "Go. Take the night."
"I can come back after—"
"You can come back tomorrow, girl." She reaches for a fresh pint glass. "Go be with your mother, Holly."
I untie my apron and fold it on the bar.
My apartment smells like darkroom chemicals and coffee.
I hold the door open and Mom steps inside and stops in the center of the kitchen, turning in a slow circle.
The photographs pinned to the clothesline, the camera equipment on every flat surface, the contact sheets on the table beside a coffee mug with a ring stain I should have cleaned this morning.
Mom studies the photographs the way I've watched her study art at gallery openings: composition first, emotion second.
Her head tilts at the harbor-at-dawn series, the one I shot from the end of the pier with the fishing boats silhouetted against the early light.
She steps closer to a print of Griz in the Anchor's doorway, red neon splitting across his stone face, and her fingers hover an inch from the paper.
"These are really good."
"Don't sound surprised."
"I'm not surprised you're talented." She turns from the photograph and looks at me. "I'm surprised you're still here. You never stay anywhere longer than a year."
The accuracy of that observation hits me in the chest. I've shot sunrises in Boulder and street festivals in Austin and rain on the Willamette in Portland, and I never stayed long enough to learn my neighbors' names.
I told myself I loved the freedom when the truth is I loved knowing I could leave before anyone asked me to.
"This is the longest you've lived anywhere since you left home." She says it like she's been counting.
"I know."
"Why here?"
Part of me wants to say Rex. Part of me wants to say the bar, the town, the women who wouldn't let me work through it alone.
But those answers stop short of the real one—that I hung photographs on a clothesline instead of keeping them on a hard drive, learned the names of dock workers, brought pie to Betty on her birthday, and when someone put a rock through my window I didn't pack a bag. I stayed and taped the glass.
"Because leaving got lonely." I meet her eyes. "And I think you know what that feels like."
Her composure cracks. Not much. Just the edges softening the way a photograph loses its borders in a long exposure. Her chin drops half an inch. Her fingers curl around the strap of her handbag.
"Your father and I got it wrong. We know that." Her voice drops into a register I've heard maybe twice in my life. "We just didn't know how to get it right."
"You could have called."
"You could have come home."
"This is home, Mom."
The word hangs between us. Home. Applied to a two-room apartment above a monster bar in a coastal Oregon town. She absorbs it. Her gaze travels the clothesline of photographs, the camera equipment, the life I built in a place she'd never have chosen for me. She doesn't argue or approve.
She picks up a print from the table, the orc family at Morretti's, the father lifting his daughter onto his shoulders while his wife laughed and the awning light turned them gold.
"You have your grandmother's eye," she says.
I don't know what to say to that so I put the kettle on.
The noise starts while I'm pouring Mom's tea.
A low murmur first, the kind that could be traffic or a crowd at the harbor, except it builds. I cross to the window and look down at the street.
Dale Rickman stands outside Betty's Diner with a megaphone and thirty people at his back.
He's mid-fifties, silver hair combed back from a tan forehead, sport coat over a collared shirt.
The kind of man who sits in the front pew and shakes the pastor's hand and then goes home and writes checks to organizations that want my friends out of their own town. He holds the megaphone at hip level.
The signs fill the sidewalk in front of Betty's.
Block letters, the fist logo, printed on coroplast with metal stakes.
Not handwritten cardboard, not thrown together overnight.
These cost money. HUMAN VALUES FOR HUMAN FAMILIES.
PROTECT OUR CHILDREN. NIGHTFALL COVE FOR NIGHTFALL FAMILIES.
The same language from the pamphlet I found on a table at the Anchor, scrubbed clean of anything a lawyer could call hate speech and packed tight with everything a person could feel it as.
The chanting starts low. "Our town. Our choice. Our town. Our choice."
Betty stands in her diner doorway with her arms crossed and her face set in an expression I've never seen on a woman who smiles at every customer and remembers every order. Gerald stands beside her. His jaw moves like he's grinding his teeth.
I grab my camera from the counter.
Mom watches me lift the viewfinder to my eye and start shooting through the window.
Every face in the crowd. The woman in the red jacket who teaches third grade at the elementary school.
The man in the fishing vest I've served beer to at the Anchor.
The teenager holding a sign she didn't make.
Every plate on every car parked along the curb.
Rickman's face in profile and then straight-on, his mouth at the megaphone.
"What are you going to do with those?" Mom stands behind me, close enough that I catch her perfume, Chanel No. 5.
"Give them to Knox. Post them online. Send them to the paper if it comes to that." I keep shooting. "Every face out there made a choice today. They can own it."
The rally goes for twenty minutes. Rickman's voice carries up through the window glass, smooth and measured. "We're not against anyone. We're for our community. For the families who built this town. For the children who deserve to grow up safe." The crowd nods and claps at the right moments.
Eventually, the crowd thins. People drift toward their cars, rolling their signs under their arms, and Rickman lowers the megaphone and shakes hands with the ones who linger.
Across the street, the gift shop has paper hearts and pink streamers in the window.
Valentine's Day, two weeks out. The hearts frame the PROTECT OUR CHILDREN sign propped against the lamppost outside, and I shoot that too—the collision of it, love and hate sharing the same block of sidewalk.
I keep shooting.
Colt rounds the corner from the library with Lily beside him, a stack of books under his arm and his reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.
He stops when he sees the remnants of the rally, the signs being loaded into a truck bed, the fist logo visible even from across the street. His hand finds Lily's shoulder.