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But then again, Pebble Point was home. The people here used to know me - the real me - not the polished reporter I pretended to be. I could walk barefoot on the beach, wear yoga pants to the market, and laugh out loud at my silly jokes. I wouldn’t have to work so hard at maintaining an image.
And, of course, there was the possibility of seeing Alexander again...but I pushed that thought aside. One step at a time. For now, I just wanted to bask in the comfortable familiarity of this place, where generations of Harwoods had sunk their roots. The apprehension was still there, but a sense of homecoming and belonging grew with each mile marker I passed.
***
The sprawling green of Pebble Point Park came into view as I crested the hill overlooking the town. Memories came floodingback as my eyes scanned the familiar trees, paths, and open fields that had been such a big part of my childhood. I smiled as I recalled the annual Pebble Point Kite Festival. All of us local kids eagerly signed up, determined to win the coveted prize of a $20 gift certificate to Marlin’s Ice Cream Parlor. I begged my parents for weeks beforehand to get me a fancy butterfly kite from the hobby store in the next town over. It had shimmery purple and turquoise panels that caught the sunlight perfectly. It would help me beat the other kids’ dull diamond and box kites.
Of course, despite its flashy appearance, my kite was no more aerodynamic than any other. When the contest started and we all frantically ran across the grassy field to get our kites in the air, I realized a problem. No matter how fast I sprinted, my beautiful butterfly kite limply flapped behind me, never gaining enough lift to soar upwards.
The other kids’ kites shot into the sky effortlessly, carried by the strong coastal winds. But my kite barely sputtered off the ground. I kept running until my lungs burned, disappointed tears welling up in my eyes as I watched my hopes of free ice cream melt away.
Just as I was about to give up, a freak gust of wind suddenly kicked up. My kite wobbled upwards, not from any skill on my part, but because of a lucky twist of fate. The errant breeze carried my limp butterfly far above the others before dying down again. I stood there stunned, my hair tangled, as the judges declared me the winner. I had somehow won, despite my total lack of kite-flying prowess.
Like that day, this return to Pebble Point was less about skill and more about being open to where the winds of change may blow me. As my butterfly kite taught me, sometimes you must let go and see where you end up.
A wave of memories swept over me as I turned onto Main Street. The familiar row of shops and restaurants lining thebustling square sparked a nostalgic montage in my mind. I smiled as I passed Pebble’s Brew, picturing my teenage self giggling over lattes with friends after school. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans still lingered in the air, drawing me back to those carefree afternoons. Across the street stood the Pebble Point Gallery, its expansive windows showcasing colorful canvases. I remembered gazing longingly at the vibrant paintings, wishing to capture such beauty.
Next, an elegant new facade caught my eye - Casa D’Oliva, an Italian restaurant new to me. The scent of garlic and fresh basil wafted from its doorway, beckoning me to come to discover its flavors. I made a mental note to try it soon, imagining myself savoring a bowl of pasta and a glass of Chianti alfresco in their courtyard.
But the building that sparked the most profound memories was the town library. I recalled countless hours spent within those hallowed walls, pouring over books in cozy nooks. It was my sanctuary, a refuge where my imagination could run free. My mind drifted to George Wilson, the kindly librarian and neighbor who was always there with a wise word or literary recommendation when I needed it most. He was my rock when my father passed away a senior year, helping me stay focused on my studies amidst the chaos. His compassion and guidance enabled me to thrive when life felt overwhelming. Seeing the library again rekindled my affection for this place and its people. While much was new and unfamiliar, the town’s enduring spirit still shone through.
I pulled into the driveway, my heart skipping a beat as the cozy, light blue Victorian came into view. It was like stepping into a memory. The creaky porch swing, the flower boxes overflowing with red geraniums, the whitewashed siding - it was all just how I remembered. Yet, as I got out of the car, something caught my eye. The front garden, which had becomea tangled mess of weeds and brambles after my father passed, was now a vision of floral beauty. The flower beds were bursting with colorful blooms - snapdragons, petunias, and even my dad’s favorite lilacs. The lawn was a vibrant green carpet, neatly trimmed and cared for. Tears sprang to my eyes as memories washed over me. As a little girl, I saw myself giggling as I chased butterflies among the blossoms while my father patiently tended his garden. How he loved his roses, playfully chiding me if I dared step on his flower beds. His strong, soil-stained hands would gently prune and shape the plants with an artist’s care.
That garden was his pride and joy. After he was gone, I couldn’t bear working on it and let it fall to ruin. But now, it had been restored to its former glory by a caring soul. George. Not only was he our neighbor, but he became my father’s closest friend, often lending a hand around the house when Dad became too weak from his illness. I pictured George on his knees, patiently coaxing life back into the earth, honoring his dear friend’s memory through this act of devotion. Seeing my childhood home looking so loved again after years of neglect overwhelmed me. It was like a long-absent piece of my heart had clicked back into place. I stood amidst the blossoms, breathing in their sweet scent, tears rolling down my cheeks. I whispered a muted “thank you” to George, my father, and this place, which had given me such joy. I was home.
Chapter 3
As I lifted the hatchback of my Prius, a precarious mountain of luggage revealed itself, tightly packed and seemingly defying the limited space. Letting out a sigh, I grappled with a sizable suitcase stubbornly wedged in the back, its contents threatening to spill out. To my dismay, I realized I had left the house key in the front pocket.
After a series of determined tugs, the stubborn bag finally gave way, triggering a cascade of luggage that tumbled down around me. Reacting quickly, I jumped backward just in time to avoid being engulfed in an avalanche of clothes, books, and miscellaneous items. A rueful thought crossed my mind—there goes any hope of a graceful homecoming—as I now had to navigate through the chaos to retrieve the elusive key. It seemed some things never really changed.
As I scrambled to gather up rogue shirts and floral underwear, a warm, familiar voice called out, “Well, well, look who’s finally home!”
I glanced up to see George walking over from next door, his eyes crinkling with amusement. He looked exactly as I remembered—tweed jacket, silver hair, and those round glasses perpetually perched on his nose. Some things never changed.
“Mr. Wilson!” I jumped up and threw my arms around him. “It’s so good to see you!”
He chuckled and patted my back. “You know you can call me George, kiddo.”
I pulled back and smiled sheepishly. “Right, force of habit. It really has been too long.”
George’s expression grew more serious. “Your father would’ve been so proud to see the woman you’ve become, Etta. I know he’s looking down, smiling right now.”
My throat tightened with emotion. Dad had passed away just before I started college. His loss had cut deep, making visits home painful. But George was right—Dad would be happy I was back.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come home sooner,” I said softly. “After the funeral...it was just too hard.”
George squeezed my shoulder. “Don’t you worry about that. I know your daddy understood. What matters is you’re here now.” His comforting smile returned. “He’d be happy to see you kept the old place going after all this time.”
I smiled, comforted by his humor. It was true—I’d hired George to help maintain the property over the years. “It looks wonderful. Thank you for taking such care of it while I was away.”
“Of course!” George replied. “Couldn’t have the Harwood place falling into disrepair, now could we?”
The over packed suitcase split open further as if on cue, spilling more clothes onto the pavement.
George chuckled. “I see some things never change. Still spreading your stuff from here to the kingdom, come.”
I rolled my eyes but smiled. “Laugh it up. I’d like to see you wrestle this monster luggage.”
