Finally, she turned off the interstate and followed the green Washington Beaches signs to West End.
The tiny town welcomed her. Light glinted off streets and leaves that were still wet with rain. The storefronts, long ago painted in bright blues and greens and pale pinks to reflect the Victorian fishing village theme, had, in time, weathered to a silvery softness. As she drove down Front Street, she remembered the Fourth of July parades. Every year the family had dressed up and carried a DeSaria’s Restaurant banner. They’d tossed candies to the crowd. Angie had hated every moment, but now … now it made her smile sadly and remember her father’s booming laugh. You are part of this family, Angela. You march.
She rolled down her window and immediately smelled the salty tang of sea air mixed with pine. Somewhere a bakery had opened its doors. There was the merest hint of cinnamon on the breeze.
The street was busy but not crowded on this late September afternoon. No matter where she looked, people were talking animatedly to one another. She saw Mr. Peterson, the local pharmacist, standing on the street outside his store. He waved at her, and she waved back. She knew that within minutes he would walk next door to the hardware store and tell Mr. Tannen that Angie DeSaria was back. He’d lower his voice when he’d say, Poor thing. Divorce, you know.
She came to a stoplight—one of four in town—and slowed. She was about to turn left, toward her parents’ house, but the ocean sang its siren call and she found herself answering. Besides, she wasn’t ready for the family thing yet.
She turned right and followed the long, winding road out of town. To her left, the Pacific Ocean was a windblown gray sail that stretched to forever. Dunes and sea grass waved and fluttered in the wind.
Only a mile or so from town it became a different world. There were very few houses out here. Every now and then there were signs for a so-called resort or a collection of rental cabins perched above the sea, but even then there was nothing to be seen from the road. This stretch of shoreline, hidden amid the towering trees in an out-of-the-way town between Seattle and Portland, hadn’t been “discovered” yet by the yuppies, and most of the locals couldn’t afford beach property. And so it was wild here. Primitive. The ocean roared its presence and reminded passersby that once, not so very long ago, people believed dragons lived in the uncharted waters. It could be quiet sometimes, deceptively so, and in those times tourists were lulled into a false sense of safety. They took their rented kayaks out into the rolling water and paddled back and forth. Every year some of those tourists were simply lost; only the bright borrowed kayaks returned.
Finally she came to an old, rusted mailbox that read: DeSaria.
She turned onto the rutted dirt driveway. Giant trees hemmed her in on either side, blocked out most of the sky and all of the sun. The property was covered in fallen pine needles and oversized ferns. Mist coated the ground and rose upward, gave the world an impossibly softened look. She’d forgotten the mist, how it came every morning in the autumn, breathing up from the earth like a sigh made visible. Sometimes, on early morning walks, you could look down and not see your own feet. As children, they’d gone in search of that mist in the mornings, made a game out of kicking through it.
She pulled up to the cottage and parked.
The homecoming was so sweet and sharp she swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. The house her father had built by hand sat in a tiny clearing, surrounded by trees that had been old when Lewis and Clark passed through this territory.
The shingles, once a cedar red, had aged to the color of driftwood, silvery soft. The white trim was barely a contrast at all.
When she got out of the car, she heard the symphony of her childhood summers—the sound of surf below, the whistling of the wind through the trees. Someone somewhere was flying a kite. The fluttery thwop-thwop sent her back in time.
Come on over here, princess. Help Papa trim these bushes back.…
Hey, Livvy, wait up! I can’t run that fast.…
Mama, tell Mira to give me my marshmallows back.…
It was here, all those funny, angry, bittersweet moments that made up their family’s history. She stood there in the watery sunlight, surrounded by trees, and soaked them all in, the memories she’d forgotten.
Over there by the giant nurse log that sprouted a dozen smaller plants was where Tommy had first kissed Angie … and tried to feel her up. There by the well house was the best ever hiding place for hide-and-go-seek.
And there, hidden in the dark shade of two gigantic cedar trees, was the fern grotto. Two summers ago, she and Conlan had brought all the nieces and nephews out here for a campout. They’d built a fort amid the huge ferns and pretended to be pirates. They’d told elaborate ghost stories that night, all of them gathered around a bonfire, roasting marshmallows and making s’mores.