“Literally just got into town, but you already knew that?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“I totally did—just making conversation. I’ll be right back with your coffee,” she said, heading back inside. “Name’s Jessica, by the way,” she called over her shoulder as she disappeared through the swinging door.
I looked back at Mr. Montgomery, who merely smiled and readied the papers for me to sign.
Frickin’ Mayberry.
I liked Mayberry.
“Any idea what you’re going to do with the property, now that you’re the sole owner?” he asked a few moments later, after I’d signed my name with a flourish.
“Not sure yet. Right now the only thing I can think about is a shower and a nap. In exactly that order.” I groaned, feeling the grit of the day literally beginning to settle into my skin. But I would be taking a little tour of my new homestead, grit be damned.
I imagined the way this bit of coastline must have looked back in the 1850s when the town was first settled. Men and women, drawn west by the promise of gold, had arrived with only what could be carried in the back of a covered wagon. Moved by a sense of purpose and adventure that I now shared, did the women stare at the ocean with excitement? With wonder? Covered in actual trail grit, would they be too tired when their husbands, weary but journey strong, cast their eyes toward them with longing? And when the last waning sunbeam from across the ancient Pacific cast its luscious golden light upon her cascading bosom, did he push her back against the wagon wheel with a lusty groan, spilling kisses across her salty skin? And when he had tethered his oxen team to feast upon the fragrant sea grass, did he return to the wagon to unleash his own pair of—
“Ms. Franklin?”
I shook my head to clear it, punchy from my travels and more than a little worked up now. Sick, sick, sick in the head. I smiled innocently at Mr. Montgomery.
“Sorry, daydreaming.”
“You’ve had quite a busy day. I think you’ve waited long enough. Shall we head over there now?” he asked.
“No need, just point me in the right direction and I can take it from there.” I was used to handling things by myself, and while I appreciated the offer, I didn’t really want anyone else there when I saw the house for the first time in years. In my head, it was all very dramatic.
“Very well, Ms. Franklin, is there anything else I can do for you today?” he asked, sliding an old-fashioned key across the table. As I picked it up, I felt a thrill roll through me. My key. It was my key now. Antsy, I stood.
“Nope I think I’m good! So which way is it?”
“Just down the main road a bit here and then curve down Maple Street. You can’t miss it,” he replied, standing and gathering all the paperwork for me. “You let me know if you need anything, promise?”
“I promise. Thanks for everything,” I answered, shaking his hand and then practically prancing down the walkway.
Turning down the street, potentially my new street, brought a ton of memories flooding back. An entire summer I’d spent here, the sun on my face and the sand underneath my feet. This town had been my universe, tiny and enormous existing within the same space. I’d often wondered if I’d had the chance to come back again, would it be the same? Would it be as magical, as picturesque, as quaint? As comfortable? They say you can never go home again, but this was never my home. It was my fairy tale.
And as I turned into the long and winding driveway that led up to Seaside Cottage, I was struck by how much more it was. It was even better than I had remembered it. Set apart from the town by maybe not even a quarter of a mile, the house stood sentry over the ocean as it had for more than a hundred years.
I pulled the car into the driveway, the gravel crunching underneath the tires. I gazed up at the two-story Victorian, the tall pitched roof concealing the enormous attic. It was cozy and homey, grand and stately all at the same time. From the car, the sightline was all house and ocean. Once I started for the front porch, the cliff behind was revealed, with the winding wooden staircase I remembered just peeping over the edge, leading down to the beach below.
Looking around to make sure I was alone, and I was, I let out a nervous giggle as I practically danced up the front steps. Whitewashed and bleached out from the sun and salt, the wooden bannister felt warm beneath my hands, solid and perfect. And as I ascended the last charming creaky stair, I stepped onto the wide expansive porch, dotted with ferns and flower boxes filled with a riot of color. Purples, pinks, sunny yellows, and—whoa!
My left foot went through the floorboard, pitching me to my knees and tossing the contents of my bag across the planks.