Page 16 of Seven Summers Ago
This hurts. And it’s not true. When I told him it was too hard for me to heal in Golden Harbor, I begged him to come with me. “You know why. I came for Dottie’s memorial.”
“And that’s it?”
“That’s it.” The lie slips out easily.
“I don’t believe you.”
“Fine. Don’t believe me.” I turn my head and focus my attention out the passenger window at The Sandbar’s neon sign flickering.
“If I find out I remodeled Dottie’s cottage for you to live in…”
“Ha!” I scoff, whipping my head back in his direction. “Don’t you worry. I have no plans of staying in Golden Harbor.”
“Good.”
As he finally shifts into drive, I hesitate at first, but finally manage, “But, Beck…”
“That’s all I needed to know,” he interrupts.
It’s less than a five-minute drive to Dottie’s cottage but we spend it in uncomfortable silence. Beck doesn’t even have the truck in park when he says, “I’ll see you tomorrow. At the memorial. Good night.”
I push open the door, climbing out slowly, my body already grumbling. It’s going to retaliate for drinking. I fear it will not be a good night, but rather a night hugging the porcelain goddess. Just one of my many endometriosis symptoms. Sometimes all it takes is one beer and I’m sick. Or I can be sick with no alcohol at all.
“See you tomorrow.” I shut the door and shuffle toward Dottie’s cottage. The headlights from Beck’s Chevrolet shine on the back door. I don’t turn back around to glance at him. Not even when I get inside and the lights fade as he drives away.
6
ROSIE
Grandma Dottie always believed a cup of coffee could make or break your day. If it tasted off, your day would be off. If it was perfect, your day would be perfect. It’s the reason why Dottie’s espresso machine is the most expensive appliance in her entire house.
This morning, I say a quiet prayer over the brim of my mug before I take a sip. I need this Americano to taste better than it ever has before. I close my eyes and take a drink. The robust flavor of the beans mixes smoothly with the creamy oat milk. The combination of honey and cinnamon dances on my tongue.
It’s good. It’s darn near perfect. And I’ll take it.
I gaze out the window at the waves curling and crashing onto the beach. It’s high tide. My stomach swims with anticipation, almost like the ocean is calling me like it used to. A day spent surfing and lying out on the warm sand feels like yesterday and somehow, like a million years ago.
“Mama, I need help with my dress.” Charlie shuffles into the kitchen, holding both ends of a ribbon at her waistband.
“You look so pretty, baby girl.” I set my coffee down on the kitchen island and crouch down behind her.
“I’m not a baby,” she groans, throwing her head back dramatically.
This is her new thing. Her new era. She thinks she’s grown up since she turned six a few months ago. She hates when I call her by the nickname. But I’ve always called her baby. At least she doesn’t seem to mind Charlie.
“I know you’re not.” I wrinkle my nose and smile, tying the ribbon at her back while forcing away the emotions of the day that stretches before us. And it’s not just the memorial.
Her dress is a soft, light pink. Dottie hated black. Having Charlie wear it to her memorial service wasn’t even an option. Dottie loved blues, pastels, and coastal colors. Just like me. Or at least, what I used to love.
Now I usually dress in black. It’s easiest and the most professional-looking to wear to the salon. The rest of the stylists all wear black and I want to fit in. Plus, West prefers me in black. He says it’s flattering and makes me look sophisticated.
While Charlie had plenty of dresses to choose from, I had to buy a new one. I found a flowy periwinkle dress with skinny straps and a V-neck at a boutique in Bellevue. I packed it without showing West. My nerves are already high; I didn’t want to stress more if he hated it. Besides that, it isn’t my normal style or color. But I like it. It feels like something the old Rosie would wear. And it makes my chest look spectacular.
“C’mon, Charlie, we gotta go.”
I usher her out the back door, locking it behind us and carrying her booster seat under my arm. We go around to the detached garage, and I push the button for the garage door opener. A smile spreads on my lips as soon as I see Dottie’s Mini Cooper convertible. It’s red, it’s shiny, and it’s so Dottie.
“Oooo it’s so pretty,” Charlie coos.
