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“Drinks tonight, after the little ones are in bed.”
“You got it.” Drinks and talking would be a good place to start. She led the children outside. The air was fresh and damp, smelling of the ocean and new growth. “You can play anywhere you want in the backyard,” she told them. “Stay in bounds unless there’s an adult with you.” She walked with them through the orchard, showing them the berry frames and gardens, which were just getting started for the season. There was a chicken coop surrounded by wire fencing.
“Do chickens bite?” Addie asked, eyeing the birds.
“No, stupid, they don’t have teeth,” sneered Flick.
“Hey,” Caroline said, hoping to fend off a squabble. “We talked about this. Even when you’re tired and cranky, you can find a way to speak nicely to people. Or if not, you can zip your lips.”
“Sorry,” he muttered.
Caroline ruffled his hair. “Chickens don’t bite,” she said. “Sometimes they try to peck.”
“Does it hurt?”
“You can’t let them get away with it,” Caroline said. “When I was little and it was my turn to gather eggs, I used to take a dish towel with me.” She pantomimed with her hand. “I’d flap it like this, and they’d all go running away. I’ll show you later how it’s done.”
Flick stopped to look at an acacia tree with a carved stone at the base. “That sign says Wendell.”
Caroline felt a bittersweet wave of emotion. “That’s right, Wendell,” she said. “He was our dog. We were all really sad when he died, so Grandpa Lyle’s friend Wayne made a special stone with his name on it.”
“Will Mama have a stone?”
She should have expected that. Though the children didn’t know it, Angelique’s remains had made the cross-country journey with them. The plain sealed container was stowed with the car’s spare tire, and she had no idea what to do with it.
“Would you like one?” she asked.
Another shrug. His code for being at a loss. She rested her palm between his shoulder blades. He was so little and delicate. She’d been dwelling on the disaster her life had become, yet her troubles were nothing compared to the trauma these kids were going through. “You can let me know. There’s no hurry.”
A flicker of movement caught her eye. “Hey, check it out. There’s a little creature living in the dunes. Be really still and watch. It’s called a vole. See where it lives? It’s like a little bird’s nest.”
They watched the tiny creature foraging in the grass.
“Can we pet it?”
“It’s a wild animal. We can watch, but not touch, okay?”
“Looks like a mouse,” Flick said.
The children had never known anything but the city. Their experience with wildlife was limited to messy pigeons and rats sneaking around the Dumpsters of the back alleys.
“This is going to be a whole new world for you,” she said, watching their fascination as they squatted amid the buff-colored grasses and new green shoots to watch the vole, industriously padding its nest with bits of dried leaves and fluff. “So many birds and little creatures everywhere.”
After a while, she led the way to the beach. It was the playground of her youth. There was never a time when she hadn’t awakened to the muffled roar of the ocean and the deep, fecund aroma of salt air.
One of Caroline’s earliest memories was of being lost amid the fore-dunes and hummocks when the grass was taller than she was. There had been a moment of disorientation, her heart jolting in panic. Then she recalled her father’s advice. Don’t walk in circles. Walk in a straight line. At least you’ll end up somewhere.
Escaping from the tangled grasses, she’d found her family in the yard, probably gathered around the stone-built fire pit, or playing Frisbee with the dog. No one had remarked upon her absence. No one had come looking. From that early memory emerged a notion that had stuck with her ever since: as the middle child of five, she’d been invisible since birth.
Ultimately, her position in the birth order had actually worked out well for her. She was not as organized as Georgia and not as beautiful as Virginia. While everyone else was busy with the restaurant, Caroline was able to go her own way. She discovered that she actually liked disappearing. She often ended up at Lindy’s fabric shop or the fiber arts and design center at the high school, pursuing the mad passion no one else in her family seemed to understand.
Now the children ran along the path, which ended abruptly at the edge of the vast sand flats.
“Watch your step going down,” Caroline called. “It’s a steep—Jesus.”
Flick disappeared as though falling into a hole. Caroline broke into a run, reaching the edge of the escarpment and feeling the soft sandy bank collapsing underfoot. Flick lay at the bottom of the bank, half buried in sand, looking up at her.
“Hey,” she said. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.”
“You could have hurt yourself.” She took Addie’s hand and eased her down the bank amid a fall of loose sand.
“It was fun,” Flick said, jumping up and brushing himself off. He looked around with wide-eyed wonder. The scenery here was ever-changing, yet changeless—the sand sculpted by wind and tide, the wrack line woven with kelp and shells, feathers and bones, small pieces of driftwood, and an unfortunate variety of litter.
Flocks of ghost-colored sanderlings rushed in a panic at the edge of the waves. Sandpipers probed the estuaries, and gulls chattered and swooped.
“It’s so big,” Addie whispered, regarding the scene with wide eyes.
“Isn’t it?” Caroline plunked down onto the ground. “Take your shoes off. The sand feels wonderful. Have you ever been to a beach before?”
“Mama said she’d take us to Coney Island,” said Flick. “She never did, though.”
Caroline tried not to think about all the things they’d never get to do with their mother. “Well, you’re here now.” She jumped up. “I can’t be at the beach and not do a cartwheel,” she declared. “It’s completely impossible. No matter what sort of mood I’m in, I have to do a cartwheel. There’s something about these wide open spaces I can’t resist.”
With that, she spread her arms and executed a less-than-perfect cartwheel. “How’s that?”
“I want to try!” Addie leaped into a crouch.
“That wasn’t a cartwheel,” Flick said.
“It takes practice. Pay attention now.” Caroline drew a line in the sand with a stick. “You have to start in a lunge. It’s like a warrior pose in yoga.” She knew they practiced yoga at their school. “Put both hands down on the line and kick your feet over your head.” She showed them another cartwheel. “And then you land in a lunge on the same line. Voilà!”
The kids made several attempts, and she helped them along. “Not bad for a couple of newbies. You’ll have lots of time to practice. You know what else is fun? Running!” She took off, watching them over her shoulder. They eagerly followed and were soon running along the broad emptiness. They rushed toward a flock of birds and watched them burst into the sky in one huge motion. She led the way into the surf, letting the waves chase them, and they squealed as the cold water surged around their bare feet. For a few moments, they were just a couple of kids, and the sight of them running along the beach gave her a momentary sense of joy—and maybe hope.
Yet the feeling was tinged with sadness and uncertainty. She still had no answer to the question that had dogged her across the continent—now what?
After a while, she found a driftwood log, battered smooth by time and tide, with a twist that formed a natural bench. “Come here, you two, and have a seat.” She tunneled her bare feet into the cool sand, finding a sand dollar and a broken nautilus shell. She made a simple mound. “In the summer, there are sand-sculpting contests. One year my family made a dragon as long as a truck.”
Flick shaded his eyes and tilted his face toward the sky. “Is this where we live now?”
Oh, boy. Don’t lie. “This is where we live for now. You have a nice room, and on Monday we’ll get you enrolled in school. So yes. We live here now. I hope you’re going to like it. It’s where I lived my whole life when I was a kid.”
“Did you like it?”
She looped her arms around her drawn-up knees. Don’t lie. “I did,” she said. “Once upon a time.”
“Then why did you leave?”
“Oh, so many reasons. I wanted to explore the world,” she said. “I went to New York to be a designer, but I always remembered this place, and even now, when I create something, there’s a little bit of this beach in the design.” She traced her finger around the whorls of the nautilus shell. “This is my favorite shape, in fact.” She winced as she said it, because the motif had been tainted by the fiasco in New York that had ended her career.
A few fat raindrops spattered down on them. “Welcome to the Pacific Northwest,” she said. “It rains a lot around here.” She tucked the shell into her pocket. “Guess that’s our signal to go inside,” she said, tipping her face to the sky. “You’re going to need raingear and some gum boots.”
Somehow she muddled through the rest of the day. At bedtime, the kids were clingy, which was understandable. They were two little strangers in a world that probably felt to them like another planet.
Angelique had never been consistent about bedtime. Sometimes there would be a bath and a story. Other times the kids would doze off on the sofa and their mother would carry them to bed. The counselor had advised Caroline that they would do better with a regular bedtime routine. Even while on the road, she’d tried to stick to that. No matter where they were, she would start the process at seven.
A couple of nights during their trip, Caroline had felt like she was about to melt from exhaustion, but she’d forced herself to go through the routine in whatever motel or roadside inn they’d stopped at for the night.
On their first evening in Oysterville, she followed protocol. “Okay,” she said, pointing to the kitchen clock. “What’s that say?”
Flick eyed the clock, one of those silly cats with the pendulum tail. “Seven o’clock.”
“Wow, telling time already,” said Caroline’s mother. “Impressive.”
“He’s super smart. So is Addie. What happens at seven o’clock?”
“Bath, bed, story, song,” Addie said.
“We’ve been practicing every night,” said Caroline. “We’re getting pretty good at it, aren’t we, guys?”
“I want to stay up,” Flick said.
“I’ll bet you do. But kids go to bed at seven. No exceptions.” She was learning that they would always try to push. “Tonight there’s one more seven o’clock job. You have to tell everyone good night.”
They made the rounds, hesitant and dubious. Strangers in a strange land. They said good night to her parents, and to Virginia, who had moved to the apartment over the garage after her divorce.
Then they followed her up the stairs for a bath to scrub off the sand from the beach. “Can Dottie help you with your bath?”
Addie nodded. Flick thought for a moment. Then he said, “We have trust issues.”
Caroline ruffled his hair. “Smarty-pants.” She looked at her mother. “We’ve been meeting on Skype with a child psychologist. Flick and Addie are learning ways to talk about their feelings.”
“I see.” Mom went down to Flick’s level again and looked him in the eye. “I realize you just met me, and you must have lots of feelings about the changes happening so fast in your life. It’s amazing that you came all the way across the country to be here. I hope pretty soon I’ll earn your trust.”
Caroline’s mom filled the tub and stepped away, watching from the doorway. There were questions during the bath.
“Why did we come here?”
Caroline soaped them up and gently washed their sweet, small bodies. “Because we couldn’t stay at our place in New York anymore.” Not after what went down there.
“We could get another place near my school,” Flick pointed out.
“I couldn’t afford it,” Caroline admitted, tasting defeat, a bitter flavor on her tongue.
“On account of you got fired from your job.”
“Pretty much.” She saw her mother studying her and looked away, busying herself with the children. Fired. It happened all the time in her industry. Egos ran rampant, tempers boiled over, people stabbed one another in the back, designers were blackballed. Caroline had never believed it would happen to her, though. The job had been everything to her. It had defined her, and when it all unraveled, the sense of loss and despair had left her reeling. She wasn’t just grossly unfit to raise two orphans. She was grossly unfit to do anything but flee to safety. What would define her now? Failure? Despair?
“You were getting money by fixing up clothes for people,” Flick continued.
“You’re very smart to remember that,” she said, cupping his forehead as she rinsed off the shampoo. His hair was short, covering his head with tight whorls. Addie’s was longer, a mass of corkscrew curls. Through a painful process of trial and error, Caroline had figured out how to take care of it—lots of conditioner and a gentle combing with her fingers.
To her mother’s questioning look, she said, “I took in piecework from vintage shops, repairing and repurposing old leather jackets. Not exactly sustainable.”
“Mama was a model,” Addie said.
Mom nodded. “Caroline told me your mama was super talented and a good, hard worker. And a fun mom.”
Caroline had told her none of those things.
“Do we have to go to school?” asked Flick.
“Sure,” she said, forcing brightness. “Every kid does, no matter where you live.”
“We have wonderful schools here,” Caroline’s mom said. “I think you’ll love it.”
“Because what kid doesn’t love school?” Caroline asked.
“Don’t listen to her,” Mom scolded. “She was a fantastic student. So creative.”
“Let’s not think about school tonight,” Caroline said. “We’ll get everything sorted on Monday. You’ll meet your teachers and make lots of new friends.”
“I would rather watch something,” Flick said as she settled them into their beds for story time.
The daily battle. The kids were drawn to anything with a screen, like moths to a flame. Though Caroline didn’t have a motherly bone in her body, she knew instinctively that too much watching numbed the mind. The child psychologist had also been clear on the rule—no more than an hour of screen time per day. This had come as unwelcome news to Flick and Addie. Apparently, Angelique had set no limits.
“I have something better than a screen,” she told them. “It’s better than anything, in fact.”
Addie leaned in, her sweet face bright and eager. Flick rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming.
With an air of importance, she took out a book—one of her old favorites.
“That’s just a book,” said Flick.
“Exactly,” said Caroline. “And a book is magic.”
“A book is boring,” he said, thrusting his chin up and pinning her with a challenging glare.
“A book is the opposite of boring.” She ignored his dubious expression and settled between them on one of the beds. Then she dove right in. “‘The night Max wore his wolf suit and made mischief of one kind and another …’”
“Why’s he wearing a wolf suit?” asked Addie.
“Shush,” Flick said, leaning in to study the whimsical pictures. “Just listen.”
“They’re in bed,” Caroline said, coming downstairs to the kitchen. Her mom and Virginia were tidying up after dinner. “Finally. Somebody pour me a glass of wine, stat.”
“Already done.” Virginia indicated a tray of glasses.
