She passed away two days ago. A stroke, in her sleep. Maybe I should have been more prepared, but I never expected this. Somehow, I thought she’d be there in that big old kitchen forever, humming along to the radio with flour in her hair.
I wish I could have said goodbye.
I wipe my tears away and drive on, into the morning light.
2.
I arrive at the shore late afternoon, the sun still burning hot in a cloudless sky. I slow the car, cruising as I turn down Main Street and take in the quaint small town that’s hardly changed since I was a girl. It’s summer season, so the streets are busy: tourists buying souvenirs from the gift shop, kids lined up at the ice cream store, and families crossing the street, barefoot, toting coolers and lawn chairs down to the beach. The smell of suntan lotion and salt water is in the air: the irresistible scent of summer.
Despite everything, I can’t help but smile. I always loved this place, how every day here always felt like the first day of vacation. My parents would moan about missing city restaurants and gym memberships, New Yorkers through and through, but I’d take early-morning strolls on the beach over a sweaty treadmill any day.
I head out past the harbor, a cluster of boats bobbing gently on the sapphire tide, and follow the coastal road a few blocks out of town until I reach Rose Cottage B&B. It’s a rambling old house, right on the sand dunes, and as I pull into the driveway, I can see the overgrown front yard is bursting with colorful wildflowers; honeysuckle and roses growing wild up around the front porch.
I get out of the car and slowly walk up the front steps. I realize, too late, that there might be nobody here. The place looks empty, but when I try the front door, it swings open.
“Hello?” I call, stepping inside.
The house is still, but full of warmth. Sunlight falls through the windows, pooling gold on the honeyed wooden floors and antique rugs. The main room opens up into a cozy sitting area, with overstuffed couches arranged around an old fireplace. I stroll closer, memories rushing back to me. Nana loved collecting things, and the mantle is full of framed photographs and tchotchkes: polished sea glass, driftwood sculptures, tiny figurines. In pride of place is a family picture, taken ten years ago at least: all of us crowded around on the back porch together, after a summer barbecue or picnic. I’ve got jam stains on my shirt, hugging Nana tightly, and my parents are even smiling for a change.
The grief hits me again, bittersweet.
“Can I help you?”
I jump, whirling around. “Oh my God, you scared me!”
“I’m sorry!” A teenage girl is coming downstairs. She’s wearing cut-offs and a bikini top; her red hair pulled up in a knot, a laundry hamper under one arm. “I’m afraid we’re closed.”
“I know. I mean, I’m Noelle—” I start to introduce myself, but the girl brightens.
“Nancy’s granddaughter! Of course, the big-city lawyer. She told me all about you.” The girl dumps the hamper on the ground and comes to greet me. “I’m Kayla, I work here most summers. Cleaning and laundry, that kind of thing. I try to help in the kitchen too, but, you know your grandmother…” she giggles, then stops. Her smile fades. “I mean, knew. I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK. I’m sorry too.”
We share a pause, a moment of reflection. Then I look around. “I was hoping to stay here, before the funeral tomorrow. Do you think that would be OK?”
“Sure.” Kayla smiles again. “We cancelled all the bookings for this week, so there’s plenty of room. Let me deal with this, and then I’ll get you settled in.” She hoists the laundry again, and leads me through the living area, down the hallway to the back of the house.
She heads out to the utility room in back, but I pause in the kitchen, breathing in the familiar scent of vanilla and cinnamon. It’s the way I’ve always remembered it: a bright, sunny room with big picture windows, french doors leading out onto the back garden and sand dunes beyond.
I trail my fingertips over the blue tiled countertops and big steel range. The shelves are packed with old bakeware, and there’s a farmhouse table big enough to seat six—or a dozen sheet pans when Nana was baking cookies. Her old cookbooks are even still lined up on the window ledge, their covers dog-eared and stained with syrup rings and jam.
It feels like she’s still here somehow, like she’ll just stroll in the room, take down the canister of sugar, and start sifting together a cake mix.
“She loved it in here.” Kayla’s voice comes again. She leans in the doorway, a sad smile on her face. “All my memories of her are in that apron of hers, with something delicious coming out of the oven.”
“Mine too.” I take a deep breath, and try not to let the sadness overwhelm me. “Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”
Kayla nods. “Everyone’s coming. There’s a reception after, too, at the diner. We didn’t know if the family wanted to do anything… I mean, I think someone tried to call your parents…” she trails off, looking awkward.
“No, that’s fine,” I reassure her quickly. “That sounds great. They’ll all be here tomorrow.”
A cellphone sounds. “Sorry.” Kayla checks the message. She giggles, then taps out a reply.
“I’m fine here, if you need to get going,” I offer.
She looks up. “Are you sure? My friends are just heading out to a party…”
I can see the longing on her face, so I smile. “I promise. I know my way around this place. Linens and towels still up in the main closet?”