The SeaSong Café (Port Haven)
Prologue Viola Donogue
K illian pulls into a rest stop along the desolate, dry stretch of Highway Five in the central valley of California. Long gone are his swanky luxury cars. We travel like most of the Blind Rebels do these days—in SUVs of varying sizes, ours a white midsize model. He pulls into one of the spots under a big tree and flings open the driver’s door.
My husband hops out and stretches his long legs, clad in black jeans, and moves at a quick pace to the men’s room, calling our son Fender to follow him. I head toward the women's room on the opposite side of the building, stomach clenching painfully because my heart has resided in it since early this morning.
We just left our daughter, our first born, on her own alone in a city that’s over nine hours away by car. She stayed close through her tenure at UCLA, so she’s an adult in every sense of the word, but my heart is having trouble letting her go, even if she is the owner of the only independent coffee shop in Port Haven. Her move so far away seems rash, even if it’s a town she’s loved since she was twelve when we took a winter ski trip there.
Killian, Harmony, her brother Fender, and myself have been in Port Haven for just over a month, prepping the storefront that is now Harmony’s very own coffee shop. The SeaSong Café sits a block from the beach in the small touristy town we visited on a winter ski trip so long ago. I hadn’t even realized it had such an impact on our daughter until she brought up the coffee shop idea to her father and me with the hopes we would help her fund its purchase.
Harmony and I painted and painted and painted some more this last month. Then, we painted a few walls in her tiny apartment too. Technically, it’s a standalone in-law unit in the backyard of a lovely property in a nice neighborhood. The café is close enough that she can walk to it. Killian offered to buy her a car, but she didn’t want one. We helped finance her café, and she thought that was enough.
While Harmony and I worked on the interior aesthetics, Killian and Fender worked on updating the appliances and overseeing anything else that needed attention to make The SeaSong ready for our sweet, not-so-little, small business owner. She wrote the business plan as part of her master’s in business administration, saving money by working at several Southern California coffee shops and learning the ins and outs of the business. When she found the property, Killian and I decided to become silent financial backers. But it’s hers to run as she wants.
My heart is warring with my head. Harmony’s no longer the bright-faced little girl who believed in mermaids. She stole our hearts when we met her all those years ago. Our sweet little girl—who took solace in hiding in the pantry or the closet in my art studio when the world overwhelmed her—much like her father did at that age—is now very much an adult and ready to spread her wings.
I emerge from the women’s restroom, squinting at my husband and teenage son thanks to the harsh sun angle at the rest stop. My husband and teenage son peruse the vending machine offerings as I head back to our vehicle nursing a broken heart I never expected. Not from Harmony leaving the nest. It’s not long before they join me and we’re pulling back onto the southbound highway, Killian taking my hand and gently squeezing my fingers. He rubs his thumb over my wedding band before pulling my hand to his lips and kissing the back.
“She’ll be okay.” His words are a low murmur, and I’m not sure if he’s trying to convince me or himself. “And if she’s not, she knows she can come home.”
I only nod, because if I try to talk, the sobs clogging the back of my throat will add to the pressure that’s been building behind my eyelids since we left her.
It’s not merely missing her that’s been bothering me. There’s a heaviness in my stomach that something is wrong since this morning. That we shouldn’t have left her. That leaving her is wrong.
It doesn’t help that it felt like she wanted to tell me something but for whatever reason didn’t. A mother knows these things— feels these things. Even if it took me seven years to meet her. She may not have my blood pumping through her veins, but she’s mine in every other aspect.
“Have you heard from Sammy yet?” I ask Kill and Mel as they sit in the yard. Seven and Fend take turns doing cannonballs into the Denton’s pool while three more of the Denton children run amok. I usually love the cacophony of hanging with the large, wild Denton clan, but I’m just not feeling it today. My heart and part of my brain is still up on the Northern California coast. Yes, I miss my daughter terribly, but I still feel something is askew —wrong in her world—and it’s been going on for the six weeks since we returned home.
“He’s in the air. Should land in about twenty minutes.” Mel lifts her gaze from her magazine, watching me. “What’s up with you stalking Sampson’s whereabouts? It’s been less than two months since you left Harmony there. I’m sure she’s fine, or he would have mentioned something while he was up there.”
“Something is off with her.” I sigh, realizing I sound like one of those crazy, overprotective helicopter parents when I’m the furthest from it. Even though we text daily and video chat several times a week, in my heart, I know I shouldn’t have left her in Port Haven. “It probably sounds stupid, but I have this gut feeling.”
“I’ve felt it, too,” Killian says quietly, reaching over and touching my leg. “It’s not just you. She’ll come to us when she needs us.”
“You keep saying that. It’s not helping. At all.”
Kill retracts his hand from my thigh and regret fills me from snapping at him. Even after being married all these years, he still equates harsh words with the abuse he suffered at the hands of his mother and her so-called boyfriends. And every time, he withdraws into himself. Today’s no different, and it makes me feel like shit for being the one responsible.
It’s not like me to speak harshly to Killian. Or anyone, really, so when Mel takes notice of our interaction, the guilt inside of me doubles in size. Making him shrink back like that is not something I’m proud of, but I wish we were home. At our home.
I stand and mumble a half-apology, half-excuse and enter the Denton’s house through the great room’s entrance, cutting through the front yard to reach our car. I pull my phone from my purse under the seat and find no messages. Nothing from Harmony for a few days now. I don’t want to seem overbearing, but I need to hear from my girl. My stomach churns, almost violently, as I argue with myself on the topic of calling her.
I cave, though, and press the button for a video call. It rings a few times before she answers.
“Hey, Mom. What’s up?”
She’s at her baby, The SeaSong. She looks fine, and I relax as my beautiful blue-eyed girl smiles at me through the camera. Her face glows with its usual lightly sun-kissed complexion thanks to surfing. The grin reminding me of the same one that graced her face every time she’d ask her father and me to take her to the beach to search for mermaids.
“Just missed your face, sweetie. How are things?” I watch her move around the small kitchen of the café.
“Great. I’m trying to convince Amanda, the girl who makes some of my treats, to be my baker full-time. Her cookies and scones are the best. And it’s not necessarily the baking that I love—you know me—it’s the coffee and the ambiance they help give off.” She props up her phone in the corner and starts wiping the counter. “I’m also Zooming with Uncle Harden tonight. He’s going to help me file for my liquor license.”
“Wait, a liquor license? Harm, The SeaSong is a café.” I don’t want my baby around drunks. She’s too trusting and always has been. I Immediately envision some drunk jerk putting his hands on her, his repulsive, disgusting gaze clinging to the parts of her he has no right looking at.
“Mom, you read my business plan. I want to host after-hours events for local musicians at The SeaSong. I thought I’d start with wine and beer before possibly transitioning to heavier spirits if I can hire a part-time bartender. Uncle Hard thinks it’s a great idea. It’s part of the overall business plan, remember? Plus, that way I can consider doing a Sunday brunch menu during the summer if it’s popular.”
“I’m not comfortable with you being surrounded by drunks, baby.” Here comes that helicopter parent part of me I never used to be. She’s a damn adult and will never reach her highest potential if I keep doing this to her.
“Mom, I thought The SeaSong was mine.” She sighs, frowning, but looks directly into the camera. For a second, I’m taken back to the days she was a preteen and started testing the boundaries Killian and I set for her. Seems like they were just yesterday. She’s right. Kill and I promised to be silent partners in this venture of hers.
“I’m sorry. I love you and will always worry about you, no matter how old you are or how far away you live.” I worry she’s not eating right or sleeping enough, but I don’t say anything. I need to reel in my helicopter tendencies. This is not like me.
“Are you happy with your Jeep?” I ask, changing the subject, because I know if I bring up anything else about the café, she’ll deflect.
Sammy, also her uncle, had the Jeep he called “The Beast” restored and painted bright pink, Harmony’s favorite color, and drove it up to her last week, staying a few days to surf with her and check up on his niece. Those two have always had a special relationship. I don’t doubt that she tells him all the things she feels she can’t tell us. That’s why I was questioning Sammy’s whereabouts. I want to grill him when he comes back.
“It’s perfect, Mom. He even got me a personalized plate that says, “SEASONG.” Sammy’s the best.” That he is, and I know Killian would agree. The familiar chime on the café door rings out in the background of the call and she glances up. “I got to go, Mom. I’ll call you later.”
And with that, my only connection with my daughter goes dark.