After the unexpected call, I manage to get ready just in time to dash to the studio and teach my three classes for the day. Getting back to the house that evening, I find an envelope that’s been slid under my door. The letter is from George Hendrix, Esq., and the header on the paper lists an address in Dogwood Cove.
The heavy feeling of dread in my stomach tells me this letter is going to change everything. I slide my fingers under the edge, ripping it open and pulling out a piece of heavy paper. I skim the words, and the envelope flutters out of my hand as I drop down onto my bed. My eyes blur over the page, and I have to reread it several times before the important part of the message sinks in fully.
I regret to inform you that your father, Carl Harris, has passed away.…Your presence is required to settle a matter regarding his estate.
For a moment I consider just ignoring the letter. But something in my heart tells me that isn’t the right answer. But what is? I can’t bring myself to cry over the man who didn’t try even once to reach out to me over the last twenty years. I don’t feel sad, I feel numb.
And curious. Why would he name me in his will after all this time? Ultimately, it’s curiosity that pushes me to accept that I can’t just ignore this letter. I have to go back to Dogwood Cove.
A day and a half later, all of my belongings are loaded up and I’m sitting in my old truck, wondering who I need to tell that I’m leaving. Last night my roommates ordered takeout and helped me pack; they’re all now at work. I’ve given notice to my landlord and the owner of the yoga studio and sent my mom a text that has yet to be answered, saying I was going away for a bit. And that’s it. I honestly cannot think of anyone else to tell.
The reality is, I’ve got no one who will really care if I leave. In a way, that feels very freeing. I’m untethered, able to choose my path at will. It also feels incredibly lonely.
All the morereason to go.
My hand reaches back to touch the lotus tattoo on my shoulder. Out of something dark and dirty this beautiful flower rises. It’s a permanent reminder that I can always change my life and find purpose and happiness. Of course, I have no idea exactlyhowI might want to change my life, I just know that I could, and one day I will.
Now, it’s as if another piece of the puzzle is sliding into place. A piece that has a picture of a beach, a town square, and friends who used to be more like family.
Two days later, I wake up disoriented, and it takes a few minutes to remember where I am. Nothing is familiar, not the pale grey walls with nondescript artwork, the lamps that look like they’re from the nineties, or the smell — a mix of mothballs and stale cigarette smoke.DogwoodCove…the moteloff the highway. Everything comes rushing back to me, from receiving the letter telling me Dad was dead, to the long drive to get here. Mental and physical exhaustion had me collapsing on the bed fully clothed last night, not even caring about the sharp springs poking into my back. With a groan I flop over onto my stomach, not ready to face the day. But eventually, my grumbling belly forces me out of bed. Bleary-eyed and desperate for coffee and food, I stumble into the tiny shower. After too many minutes letting the hot water stream down on my face, I quickly cleanup and get dressed. I have a meeting with George, the lawyer who sent the letter, at ten o’clock and I don’t want to be late. But first, breakfast.
Leaving my motel room, I decide to walk the couple of kilometers or so that lead to the small downtown of Dogwood Cove. The late spring air is warmer than it was in Calgary, but it’s still chilly enough that I need to zip up my jacket.
When I hit the main part of town, nostalgia fills me. This town is adorable, with tree-lined sidewalks, cute houses with tidy yards, and friendly people smiling and giving me a wave. No one seems to recognize me, but that’s not surprising since it’s been so long.
Wandering down Main Street, I spot a sign on the sidewalk advertising fresh muffins, and walk up to an adorable café with a blue and white awning. There’s a sign painted on the window in swirly script that readsThe Nutty Muffin. The name makes me smile, and the aroma coming through the open door is mouthwatering, a perfect combination of good coffee and fresh baked bread. My stomach rumbles again, louder this time, as I walk inside and join the short line waiting to order. I take a minute and look around, appreciating the comfy and cozy feel. Large, overstuffed chairs are centered around small tables, artwork lines the walls, and the chatter of happy customers gives the place a fabulous vibe. I can see myself spending a lot of time here.
I step up to the counter, still perusing the glass display case that holds several different flavors of muffins as well as donuts, strudels, and savory pastries, when I hear my name said in disbelief.
“Summer Harris? Is that you?”
I look up and into the eyes of Mila Monroe, my childhood best friend. She’s wearing a T-shirt that saysThe Nutty Muffinon it, and her long brown hair is pulled back in a braid. She feels so familiar, I feel a small chip of my lonely heart repair simply from seeing her. She was more than just a friend, she was family.
“Oh my God, it is you!” she cries out, before rushing around from behind the counter and pulling me into a hug. My arms come up to wrap around her, as I absorb yet another shock, this time a pleasant one.
“Mila, I can’t believe you’re here,” I say in disbelief.
“Of course I am, I never left.”
Her words sting, even when delivered gently.
“I wish I had come back sooner.” My voice breaks on the words. “My mom kept moving us and then I didn’t hear from anyone, so…” I trail off. After all, how do you admit that as a kid, and then a teenager, you felt abandoned by not only your parent but your best friends, too?
Mila’s face is wreathed in sorrow. “Ethan and I begged our parents to figure out where you were. I missed you so much. But your dad wouldn’t talk about anything having to do with you and your mom for years. We had no idea where you were, if you still had his last name, any way to find you, really.” Someone from behind the counter calls her name and Mila looks over, giving them a nod. “Listen, I need to get back to work. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll come over when I can?”
I gesture over to the door. “I can’t stay, actually; I have a meeting with a lawyer in town.”
“Oh, right. You must be back because of your dad.” Mila fidgets with her apron strings. “I’m really sorry about that, the whole town misses him.”
All I can do is nod robotically. It’s weird to hear that the man my mother always said was cold and uncaring was missed by people. It’s uncomfortable, actually, as it makes me wonder if all this time she’s been lying to me. Or at best, telling me her truth instead of the actual truth. But I can’t go down that road yet. That would mean I missed out on years with my father. Years I can never get back.
Mila gives me a sympathetic look, and her hand touches my shoulder briefly before she bustles back around the counter and pulls two huge muffins out of the case, placing them in a bag for me. She then takes a piece of paper and scribbles something down on it.
“Let me at least give you some coffee and a muffin, and one for George. That must be who you’re meeting about your father’s will.” She pours a coffee and hands both it and the muffins to me with a wink. “My nutty apple streusel muffins are famous around here; you’re lucky you got one before I sold out. And here’s my number. Text me yours, and then we can make plans to catch up soon.”
“Thanks,” I say, thumbing out a message to her with my number. I reach for my wallet to pay and she brushes me off with a wave of her hand.
“No way, girl. It’s on the house.”
