Page 2 of Neap & Spring

It’s perfect and aggressively charming. It looks like the type of place that makes you want to drink tea and read novels and pretend you have your life together.

I kill the engine, and the silence rushes in immediately. Broken only by the sound of waves crashing and the distant clang of wind chimes from somewhere down the street.

For a moment, I just sit there, hands still on the wheel. The file is still sitting beside me, unopened and full of whatever disaster I’ve just driven ten hours to fix.

My whole body feels stiff and cramped. I’ve been folded into this car for so long I’ve forgotten how to be a person who stands upright.

I open the door and step out onto the gravel driveway, and my legs nearly buckle. I catch myself on the car door, gripping the frame until the feeling comes back to my knees. When I finally stand fully, my spine cracks in three places. It’s the best thing I’ve felt all day.

I stretch my arms overhead, rolling my shoulders, feeling each vertebra protest and then release. The ocean air hits me full in the face. It’s cold enough to make my eyes water, and I breathe it in deep, trying to clear my head.

Twenty restaurants in five years. I never spend more than three months in one place. I go in, fix it, and leave before anyone can get too comfortable with me being there. Six months is the longest I’ve ever been given. I’m not sure if that means they have more faith in this one, or less.

Either way, it’s one more chance to prove I know what I’m doing.

I can do this. I’m good at this. This is literally the only thing I am good at anymore.

I reach into the backseat for my duffel bag, and it catches on the seatbelt. I have to work it free, the strap twisting in my grip as I rip it from the car. My eyes land on the manila envelope still sitting in the passenger seat, but I leave it where it is.

I’ll deal with it tomorrow.

Tonight, I’m going to take the world’s longest shower, order takeout — if this tiny coastal town even has takeout this late — and not think about restaurants or consultations or how good the shower at my last rental was and how much I’m already mourning it.

The front door is unlocked, which should probably concern me, but I’m too tired to care. When I push it open, I’m hit with the smell of lavender and something warm and sweet that my exhausted brain insists is cookies.

I step inside, and the door closes behind me with a soft click, shutting out the sound of the ocean.

The main room is small but layered with charm you can’t buy at a generic furniture store. Exposed beams stretch across the ceiling. The walls are whitewashed shiplap, covered in vintage botanical prints in mismatched frames and old nautical maps.

A blue velvet couch sits beneath the front window, its fabric faded in places, piled with what I can only describe as an excessive number of throw pillows, all in shades of cream, seafoam, and faded indigo.

The fireplace takes up most of one wall, river stone stacked to the ceiling. Its mantel holds a collection of random things: sea glass in a mason jar that’s catching the last of the evening light, pieces of driftwood arranged precariously like a sculpture, and a stack of old postcards held together with twine. There’s a candle burned down to the nub and a small wooden boat that looks like it was hand carved. My fingers trace the edge of one of the mason jars, and the sea glass shifts inside with a soft clink. I pick up the little wooden boat, turning it over in my hands. It’s detailed enough that I can see tiny planks of wood and a miniature mast. Someone made this with care.

I drop my duffel bag by the door with zero intention of unpacking and let myself just stand there for a moment, breathing in the quiet and the warmth of the room.

When was the last time I just stood still?

The kitchen calls to me as it always does, and I follow the pull of it like I’m on a string.

It’s small, tucked into the back of the cottage, but it’s perfect. White subway tiles line the walls with open shelves holding mismatched dishes in pastel blues and whites. There’s a vintage stove in mint green that probably doesn’t work but makes my heart stumble over itself anyway.

I can’t help myself. I reach out and run my hand along the smooth enamel, then turn one of the knobs. It gives a satisfying click, and I immediately smell gas.

I turn it off quickly, but something in me has already decided the stove is a good omen. A kitchen with a working vintage stove. Definitely a sign. Or maybe just a nice detail. I’ll take it either way.

And there, on the butcher-block counter, sits a wicker basket.

I move toward it slowly, like it might disappear if I’m not careful.

Inside is a bottle of wine with a local label. A box of fancy crackers. Jam with a handwritten tag that says Blackberry — Summer 2015. A bar of lavender soap wrapped in brown paper and twine. And a small white box with a note card propped against it.

The handwriting is looping and friendly.

Dear Vivienne,

Welcome to Westerly Point! I’m Margo, your host. I don’t usually do this, but when I heard you were a chef consultant, I couldn’t resist. These are my famous brown butter chocolate chip cookies. Family recipe. No, I won’t share the secret ingredient. Consider them a welcome gift from one foodie to another. There’s fresh coffee in the cupboard, and the best sunrise view is from the back porch. Make yourself at home!

—M