Diane took a deep breath, her fingers lightly tracing the rim of her coffee cup. “You're serious, aren't you?”
“Very much so,” I replied, shifting in my chair to face her more directly. “I’m not asking you to decide today. Just think about?—”
“I’ll take it,” she said, cutting me off.
Her sudden response took me aback, but then a slow grin spread across my face. I felt like I was dreaming. “Don’t you want to talk it over with Cassie first? And what about your job at the newspaper?”
She waved her hand dismissively, “Cassie will be thrilled. She's always wanted to see the beach. And as for the newspaper… It was never supposed to be a long-term gig. Besides, if I need to make a little money while I’m cultivating my career as a novelist, I might wander down to the pier and get a waitressing job. I know several great women who got their start there.”
36
3 Weeks Later
“Areyou sure you don’t need us to go with you?” Judy asked, standing in the doorway as I lugged a bag out to the trunk of my car.
I glanced back over my shoulder, finding the three of them—Judy, Diane, and Cassie—standing in the doorway. “Thank you, but I’ll be fine. It’s just for a couple of days, and I really need to do this on my own.”
“Call us when you get there,” said Diane. “You know how this one worries,” she said, thumbing toward Cassie.
I chuckled as I shut the trunk, giving them all a reassuring smile. “I will, I promise.”
Crossing the mountains from North Carolina into Tennessee, I was met with a feeling of familiarity, the kind one gets when returning home after many years. Over the years, I’d reminded myself that I no longer belonged to these mountains. Yet, as I drove down the winding roads, I felt an old kinship rekindled. This place had changed, but so had I.
But there was a part of me that knew this was no longer my home, that the roots I had once laid down here were long since torn up and transplanted. But the familiar scent of honeysuckle and pine, the echoing calls of the herons, and the rolling blue-green peaks of the Smoky Mountains themselves seemed to plead with me otherwise.
For hours, I drove around the lake, reacquainting myself with the area. I passed by the weathered sign of the old Miller's farm, where Jack and I used to steal apples on lazy summer afternoons. The fields were now overgrown with weeds, rebellious against their former glory. The farmhouse itself stood defiant against the passage of time, its paint peeling off in places like the skin of a snake.
I visited my childhood home, where so many of my memories were born and nurtured. For a long time, I stared at it from a distance, absorbing the sight of the sagging porch and the wild tendrils of ivy that had claimed the side wall. The once-green lawn, where I had spent countless summer days running around daydreaming, was now an unkempt patchwork of wild grass and dandelions. Even the garden, where Mama once tended her roses, was now swallowed up by neglect.
After a few moments of bittersweet reflection, I continued to the dock, where I had once worked and laughed under the summer sun. I knew I shouldn’t, but I just had to see it, to connect with the memory of my first love. But as I pulled into the parking lot, I was struck by how drastically it had changed. Gone were the rickety wooden planks that creaked under our weight, replaced by sturdy concrete. Even the bait shop, where once we’d spent hours picking out the best worms and minnows, was now a lakeside café.
Amid the changes, the old boathouse stood, albeit precariously, crooked on its foundation. Its paint, once a vibrantwhite, had succumbed to the elements and was now a haunting shade of gray, peeling away in large strips.
For a moment, I stood there, watching the water dance against the old, rotted pillars of the dock. The lake was still a deep shade of blue, reflecting the cloudless sky above. And when I closed my eyes, I could almost hear our laughter, the splashes as we jumped off the edge into the cool depths below.
Then I saw him. Jack. He was leaning against the boathouse, gazing into the distance with that familiar faraway look. It was the same man I had once known, weathered by the cruel hands of time. The sight of him after all these years, a living, breathing echo of my youth, stirred in me a wellspring of emotions too complex to define. A fusion of joy, sadness, nostalgia, and a sense of longing cut through my heart like a knife. His hair was touched by silver now, a stark contrast to the sandy-brown waves I remembered running my fingers through, and his skin bore the creases of years lived hard and fully. His hands were hardened by labor, veins prominent under the sun-baked skin. Despite the years, his smiled was unchanged, still that teasing, boyish grin that had once set my heart aflame.
My instinct was to run to him, to tell him that I was sorry, to ask for his forgiveness. But the weight of years and choices held me in place. I watched him pull out an old ball cap from his back pocket and put it on, shielding his eyes from the sun.
I mouthed his name, needing to feel the sound of it on my lips, to remember what it felt like to call out to him. He stiffened, as if he had heard me, turned and looked in my direction. But he didn’t seem to see me. His eyes scanned past me, roaming over the landscape, and it was as though I were a ghost. A single tear escaped my eye, tracing a warm path down my cold cheek. Whether he didn’t recognize me or was simply lost in his own memories, I couldn’t say.
Returning to my car, I took one last glance at the figure by the boathouse. Jack was nothing more than a silhouette now, his figure merging with the growing shadows as the sun dipped low in the western sky.
Having gotten what I came for, I pulled away, leaving him, the lake, and shared memories behind me. I could have stopped there … could have gotten back on the interstate and headed east until I saw the coast, but there was one final piece of business I needed to settle.
Finally, I arrived at the place I had been dreading most. Turning up the long drive, I braced myself for the wave of emotions that were sure to come. I could already see the big, imposing structure of the old home standing stoically against the evening sky. Jack’s house on the hill.
Stepping out of the car, I took in the house that had once belonged to Clara. The façade was still as grand as ever, with its towering columns, gleaming bay windows, and the intricate lattice of ivy creeping up the aged walls. In contrast, the front yard was bursting with an array of shrubs and flowers, illuminated by the warm glow of evening light. An old stone path, carpeted with moss, led me toward the entrance of the house.
As I stepped up onto the porch, the wooden planks creaked, echoing memories of countless afternoons spent with Clara and Ellie, sipping lemonade and sweet tea, during that summer so long ago. With a deep breath, I raised my hand in a fist and knocked on the door.
After a few seconds, the door squeaked open to reveal a woman whose once lively eyes now bore the weight of time.
“Sara?” said Ellie, her voice trembling with disbelief. “Is it really you?” Her once dark brown hair was now a soft, faded auburn, with streaks of white shining in the late afternoon sun. She wore a simple floral dress, the kind she had always favored,even when we were girls. It hung loosely on her slender frame, the vibrant patterns a stark contrast to the years etched into her face.
“Yes, Ellie,” I replied. “It's me. Listen, I hate to barge in on you like this, but I was in the area and was hoping we could talk.”
Ellie blinked slowly, seemingly processing the unexpected apparition on her doorstep. The lines across her forehead deepened, and she opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again. “Of course,” she finally stammered out, stepping back to allow me entry into the foyer.