The Sea-Mist Cottage Inn

EPILOGUE A Story to Tell

“ I mean. What else could I say to that but yes?”

Emma Charters, a feature reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle , smiles as she jots some notes on her pad. She’s using actual paper and pen, which surprised me when she pulled it out. I’d expected a Gen Z-er like her to be using all the latest tech. Well, she’s also been recording the interview on her phone, so I guess that’s techy.

“So ...”—she waves a hand around—“obviously you met those goals, and we’re here today. Did you encounter any snags from that point?”

“Well, sure. I rebuilt a whole business. It cost more than we thought, took longer than we thought, and when we took down Cottage 12 we found the edge of a sinkhole forming, so we had to figure that out before it took down a couple more cottages. Getting this place back in shape was nearly a year of constant work and a lot of money. But overall, snags were only snags. Things slowed down a few times, but they never stopped moving forward.”

I stand and walk to the window, looking out at the place we’re talking about. Einstein, the Golden Retriever puppy Roman and I gave Wyatt for his sixteenth birthday, is bounding through the seating and decorations, and I send out a mom-vibe for my son to corral his dog before the whole place goes to ruin all over again.

Emma’s visit began with a tour of the Sea-Mist Cottage Inn, which will have its grand re-opening celebration in one week. Serafina Zhao, our new resident manager, handled the tour; Wyatt, Roman, and I had other things to do this morning. But Serafina saw that Emma got the full look—a peek into all eleven cottages, the main cabin, and the surrounding areas with guest access.

It's eleven cottages, not twelve, because Cottage 12 would have cost too much to rebuild. So now there’s a lovely gazebo on that spot, designed and built by Finn Nyberg, who’s become a pretty great friend. He’s still an asocial grump, but once you get past his glowering growl, he is a truly quality human being.

When Roman proposed and I accepted, I’d told him that I wanted to wait to be married until, among other things, either the Sea-Mist was running and profitable or I knew it wouldn’t be and sold it. Either way, I wanted the loan he’d cosigned for me paid off.

I’m the one who couldn’t wait that long. I want to be his wife. I want Wyatt, who’s already calling him Dad, to be his stepson in truth. And once I saw what the Sea-Mist would be when it was finished—-what it now is—I knew it would be profitable. This place is going to work.

But I’m not going to run it. It started on that day at the cemetery, but the idea really fleshed out in therapy: my reasons for wanting to inhabit the Sea-Mist, to take it over entirely, were all about my mother. I’d wanted to replace her, to erase her. Well, the flood did a great job of erasing her (Manfred was charged for that and is going to trial eventually, but for now he’s out on bail), but I no longer need to replace her. I no longer live my life in defiance of her or the demons she left behind. I live my life for me and in concert with the people I love and who love me.

Instead, I’ve hired an excellent manager with great qualifications and real experience, and together we hired an excellent staff. They will run it more smoothly than I could have.

I am going to teach English at Bendixen High School. I start in two weeks, and I think I’m giddier about that than I am about the Sea-Mist or anything else in my life besides what’s going to happen today.

I can hear Emma behind me, scratching away on her notepad. I feel like I’ve been talking to her forever—and, as I fell into my story and began to relive it, I’ve probably told her too much. But this past year has been so full, so busy, so momentous , and it all feels crucial to explain how we got to this point, and why a reporter would think anybody would care about my story. The only reason I can imagine strangers caring about this is not the Sea-Mist Cottage Inn but the journey I took to get it, and me, where we are today.

Emma Charters, Chronicle travel and lifestyle reporter, seems to agree. She certainly never stopped my rambling—in fact, she gave me a push every time I started to slow down. Jeez, I hope I haven’t told her anything I shouldn’t have.

Nope. Not going to entertain that thought, today of all days. I no longer do doomsday scenarios. There is nothing bad about where I am now.

I am extremely proud of what we’ve accomplished. The property is beautiful, with no sign of the ruin it was at the end of last summer. The Sea-Mist is no longer a cheap hole-in-the-wall to stop at for a night of a road trip or a place to drop your bags while you spend your days hiking the woods or surfing the Pacific. Guests who want that are welcome, but now the Sea-Mist is ... not a resort, exactly, but a place one might enjoy for itself. A destination.

The Bigfoot Country kitsch is gone; now the cottages and main cabin all have a sort of ‘elegant bohemian’ aesthetic. Not too quirky, but a nice balance of modern comforts and artsy touches like stained glass accents, hand-died fabrics, folk art décor, and such.

We also spent some time and money on the three ‘passive’ hiking trails in our part of the forest—trails that had been formed organically, by people simply starting their hike there. Now the paths are a bit wider, and leveler, and there are markers at the trailheads and along the way. All outdoor areas have been spruced up and relandscaped, with new touches like more comfortable seating around the fire pit, and a games area, for volleyball, bocce, and cornhole. And, of course, our new gazebo, which is large enough to host events like small concerts or large parties or ... say ... a wedding.

“Did you start therapy?” Emma asks from her seat behind me.

I turn to give her a look. “That’s a pretty personal question, even for this interview.”

She does not apologize. That’s where I decide to draw a boundary. I have no intention of sharing my mental-health journey with the world. Maybe it would help someone reading this story, but ... I don’t know.

Actually ... maybe it would help someone reading this story. Okay, not a boundary after all.

I sigh and sit back down, careful not to muss my skirt. “Yes, I started therapy. I found a great therapist in Crescent City. I also have a psychiatrist, and I’ve been diagnosed with complex PTSD, anxiety, and depression. No big surprises there, I suppose. I’m on meds now, and my go-to metaphor for describing the difference is a light-filtering window shade—the ones that you can kind of see through—going up. Everything in my life is clearer and brighter.”

Emma takes down her notes, and, because it’s occurring to me that this is an important point, I add, “The depression was the only part of my diagnosis that surprised me. I figured depression looked like lethargy, inertia, suicidal thoughts. Those words have never described me. I’m very active, and I’ve never considered suicide. But apparently depression can look a lot of different ways. For me, self-blame and guilt, and a tendency to see the worst case first and get stuck there were probably my main symptoms.”

A knock at the door stops the interview. The door swings open, and Erin peeks in. “Sorry to interrupt, but ... check the time, Len.”

I reach for my phone, but it’s not on me. My dress has pockets (!!!) but, alas, I have yet to put anything in them.

“It’s 2:23,” Emma says.

“Oh! Wow. Yeah, we have to stop!” Less than forty minutes to go, and I am not ready.

Packing up her bag, Emma stands. “Of course. I’ll meet up with Jeff and get some background shots. Then we’ll do a few shots of the ceremony, like we talked about. Do you mind if we also stay for the reception and talk to some people?”

Erin rolls her eyes, but I smile at Emma. “No, you’re welcome to stay, and talk to people, and enjoy yourself, too. Just please don’t be intrusive.”

“We won’t be. Thank you, Leo. It’s been really great talking to you.”

We shake hands, and Erin makes room so Emma can go through the door.

“Oh my GOD,” Erin says as she closes the door. We’re in Cottage 4, because it has the best view of the gazebo and because Serafina lives in the main cabin. Wyatt and I never left Roman’s house, which is now simply home.

Erin looks utterly gorgeous, wearing a sage green chiffon dress, knee-length, with a halter top. She’s been letting her hair grow, and now she’s got it up in a simple French twist. She’s also wearing makeup—subtle, but a full face. She looks like Audrey Hepburn. To be clear: Erin normally dresses like it’s 1993 and she’s following Soundgarden around on tour. I’m pretty sure this dress is the only one in her closet.

I mean, we were in second grade in 1993, but the point stands. My friend is beautiful in faded flannel or flowing chiffon, but I have never seen her look so elegant and poised as she does now.

“You are gorgeous, Erin,” I say.

“Not as gorgeous as you,” she parries and turns me so I face the fully-length cheval mirror. “I mean, look at you!”

I look. We found our dresses together, in a tiny bridal boutique in Eureka. Mine is chiffon as well—it’s August, after all—and strapless, with a gathered sweetheart bodice. Strapless is a little too exposed for me, but I fell instantly in love with the dress, so I’ve got a pearl-beaded bolero jacket to wear over it. In my hair, I’ll wear a circlet of pearls.

There is a vast difference between planning a wedding at twenty and planning a wedding at thirty-eight. At twenty, the things a bride thinks she wants are mainly dictated by what media say she should want. At thirty-eight, a bride understands her own tastes and plans her wedding accordingly.

The ring Roman gave me three days after he proposed twinkles on my finger. A vintage square emerald on a band chased with diamond leaves. Emerald is not my birthstone; it’s his. I don’t know if that’s a common choice, but I think it’s about the most romantic thing ever. He could not have chosen better, and he got no prior input from me.

“This is going to be the best wedding, and we are the best-looking wedding party in Bluster right now,” I say and turn to hug Erin. We’re the only wedding party in Bluster right now.

She holds me off. “There will be no hugging until after the ceremony. Hugging makes wrinkles.”

I laugh. “I’m not sure I can handle this bizarro world where you care about clothes.”

“Well, I look fucking hot today.”

“You do.”

“And once we get your face on, you will look like a Disney princess.” She starts to fuss with my skirt. You’ve been sitting—we need the steamer.”

“Seriously. You know about steamers? I need a G-suit or something before I pass out.”

She elbows me in the ribs with ... let’s call it ardent affection. “You are not half as hilarious as you think you are, smartass.”

The door swings open—no knock first—and Jessie vaults into the room. She’s wearing green knee-length chiffon as well, but hers is a darker, forest green because, with her bright ginger mane, sage washed her out. Her dress has a plunging neckline and short, sheer capelet sleeves. She’s left her hair loose and wild, but she did get a hot conditioning treatment on our spa day yesterday, so her bright waves gleam.

“I’ve got the makeup!” she crows as she hips the door closed.

“We need a steamer, too,” Erin says. “Do we have a steamer?”

“My mom does,” Jessie answers as she sets the makeup kit—big as a toolbox—on the vanity. “I’ll text her.”

I glance out the window and see, among the people milling around the rows of white chairs and huge clusters of purple irises (my favorite flower), that Roman is dressed and ready and heading toward Cottage 6, where the guys are getting ready, with Einstein in tow. He’s wearing a classic tux, and a single iris sits in his lapel. His hair is brushed neatly back from his face, and his beard is freshly trimmed.

“God, look at him,” I mutter. “He’s perfect. And he’s mine.”

Erin grabs me away from the window and gives me a gentle shove toward the vanity. “You’re not supposed to be looking yet! Sit, woman. We have got to get your face on.”

AT THREE MINUTES TO three o’clock, Jessie and Erin hurry from the room, headed for the gazebo. Before the door closes, my son comes in—and my breath stops in my chest.

He’s sixteen now, and about to be a junior at Bendixen High. The red Golf is his car; I drive a brand-new Hyundai Ioniq 5. Though we decided that it’s more important for him to focus on school during the school year, this summer he’s been working his first job, as a camp counselor. He assists the director of the arts program there.

He’s not dating yet, and he doesn’t appear to be in a big rush for that. Nor am I. Bailey Allman remains his best friend; those two were just about fused together until Bailey started dating Josiah, a boy in their wider friend group.

For a short while, Wyatt was demonstrably bummed to lose his bestie, but he adjusted, and he’s sincerely happy for them both. He’s grown so much in the past year, physically, emotionally, and philosophically. I’m seeing the man before me that my boy is becoming.

He’s wearing a tuxedo in the same cut as Roman’s, the same white shirt, the same black straight tie, but instead of an iris in his lapel, he has a simple spray of pine.

“Oh, bud. You are glorious .”

Bright red washes over his neck and cheeks, and he gives me sheepish grin. “Thanks, but wow, Mom, you’re the one who’s glorious. You look perfect . Dad’s gonna pass out when he sees you.”

I put on a performance of shock. “Oh, I hope not. I don’t think our marriage will be legal if he’s unconscious at the time.”

“Lame,” he laughs. “Mom jokes are as bad as dad jokes, you know.”

“You just don’t appreciate true humor.”

A violin begins to play—an instrumental version of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” Not the song I’ll walk to, but the processional. Skye Weber, a classmate of Wyatt’s and a classically trained violinist, has the gig today. This wedding is locally sourced.

Wyatt holds out his hand. “It’s time to get out there.”

Who better to walk me down the aisle than my son, who’s walked with me for sixteen years, over all the bumps and cracks, straight to this life?

I take his hand. A man’s hand, steady and strong. “I love you, lollipup. No matter what other accomplishments I have, no matter what other happiness, you will always be the best, most important part of it all.”

My voice breaks before I get the last sentence out, and Wyatt’s eyes begin to sparkle wetly. “Mom!” he moans through a soggy chuckle. “You’re gonna make us drippy.”

“Sorry!” I dab carefully at my eyes. “But I think weddings are supposed to be drippy.”

“Come on,” he says, wiping at his own eyes as he pulls me to the door. “I’m not the one you’re supposed to drip on.”

The wedding seating is arranged in the center ‘park’ area, among the first group of cottages. The porch of Cottage 4 is the beginning of the aisle, as it were, so when Wyatt and I step onto the porch, Skye transitions to the bride’s song. My song is “One Day Like This”—instrumental, for strings. Though I love the lyrics as well.

All our guests, a goodly portion of the population of Bluster, stand and turn, and for a moment I stand before a sea of smiling faces. People who knew me when I was a child, and people I met only a year ago. People who’d known my mother, whom I’d worried would hate me for leaving her, and people who have no idea who my mother was and know only this version of me.

They all care for me, and I for them. When I’d had need, they were there for me, without hesitation. And when they have need, I’m there for them at once. We are more than a tiny, two-bit town on the way to more interesting things. We are more than my mother, though she lived here all her life, ever understood. We are friends and neighbors and family. We are a community.

We are a home.

Wyatt hooks my arm through his. “Ready?”

I look up into his wonderful young face and nod.

He leads me through our friends and neighbors and family, and we are surrounded by their goodwill. As we walk, my focus narrows to the gazebo, to the best friends of my whole life, standing together with ridiculously huge grins. Then my focus narrows more and fixes entirely, solely on the beautiful, perfect, smiling, crying man standing at the center of the gazebo.

His eyes fixed on me, diving deep, he comes down from the gazebo. I turn and hug my son tightly.

“Love you, Mama,” Wyatt whispers at my ear.

“All the way around the world my love for you goes,” I whisper, harkening back to the days when he was small.

Tears trailing from his eyes, he nods to Roman, who takes my hand.

“Come, querida,” Roman whispers at my ear. “I’ve been waiting.”