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We chatted more as he helped me carry bags inside, reminiscing about the old days. I kept expecting the conversation to turn to my dad, but George seemed to avoid the subject, for which I was grateful intentionally. He knew me well.
Talk eventually turned to the early stages of my novel. George’s eyes lit up when I described the plot and characters.
“Well, now, that sounds like a book folks around here will gobble right up,” he mused, taking a thoughtful sip. “You know, the library could use some sprucing up. Been meaning to liven the place up with some special events. Maybe when you finish, you could do a fancy author talk.”
My heart swelled. George had always encouraged my writing, even as a kid spinning wild stories instead of doing homework. Now, he wanted to celebrate my dream-come-true novel. This was the homecoming I’d hoped for.
“I’d love that,” I said. “It’ll be a while still, but it’s a date.”
We smiled, and I knew I’d made the right choice coming back. Pebble Point still felt at home with friends like George by my side.
“Now, I’ll leave you in peace to get yourself unpacked. Then pop on by for a cup of tea - you must be parched after that long drive,” he said.
“I’ve got a bottle of fancy Calera Pinot Noir from a trip to Monterey County if you’d prefer that instead? That is, if it survived the journey,” I said, remembering the earlier baggage avalanche with dismay.
“Now that is a date!” George grinned, and he took his leave. “I’ll polish up my finest wine glasses and dig out some snacks.”
I thought with a smile, George really is the best neighbor a girl could have.
***
I unloaded the remaining bags and boxes from the car and lined them all along one wall of the entrance hall until I could work out where to unpack their contents. I already felt a twinge of guilt that I had disrupted the neatness George had left for me. Pushing that feeling aside, I carried one case upstairs, stepped into my old bedroom, and laid it on the bed. The pale yellow walls were still decorated with the same movie posters I’d hung as a teenager - Titanic, Love & Basketball, Dreamgirls. My inner hopeless romantic had been on full display.
I chuckled, running my fingers over the faded posters, remembering how I’d dreamed about love stories with people who looked like me back then. Next to them were faded photos of me and my friends from high school and college, our youthful faces frozen in moments of laughter and joy.
The room still held echoes of my youth, preserved almost like a museum. The dark wood furniture passed down from my grandmother remained polished to a shine. My desk was tidy, with stacks of old textbooks I’d used at university, and even my high school yearbooks neatly lined up. I smiled, picking one up and flipping through it, seeing classmates’ notes wishing me luck in my future journalism career.
Even the bedspread, a floral print passed down from my grandmother, was crisply made without a wrinkle. George had kept everything meticulously maintained in my absence. I felt a swell of gratitude for him looking after my childhood home while I built my career in the city, keeping this piece of my past so lovingly preserved.
I trailed my fingers along the well-worn spines of books adorning my shelf—familiar copies of timeless classics such as Pride and Prejudice, The Color Purple, and Jane Eyre. These were the narratives of formidable women who carved theirdestinies, each page a testament to their strength. In my youth, these stories had left an indelible mark, igniting the flames of my storytelling aspirations.
My gaze landed on a framed photo on my nightstand - me as a little girl on a little pink tricycle with my dad. Bittersweet nostalgia washed over me. How I wished I could tell him about my homecoming...that I was finally writing that novel we’d always talked about.
I sat on the edge of my bed, the familiar creak of the mattress springs transporting me back. Posters, books, mementos were like my room was a time capsule. Being here made my years away feel almost dreamlike.
I knew returning would stir up memories and emotions. But sitting here, surrounded by the remnants of my past, I felt contentment wash over me.
I started unpacking, taking my clothes out of the suitcase and hanging them in the old wooden wardrobe that still smelled faintly of cedar. As I placed items into the drawers of my dresser, my fingers brushed against something unfamiliar. I pulled out a worn, clothbound book tucked away in the back corner. It was my old diary from high school.
I smiled to myself as I flipped through the pages, reading my dramatic teenage scribblings. My younger self had passionate dreams of becoming an acclaimed author and writing an epic, sweeping romance. I had to stifle a laugh at some of my over-the-top prose as I described my crush on the basketball team captain.
“His eyes were like pools I could dive into and swim forever in their depths...” I murmured, shaking my head at my younger self’s attempt at poetic metaphor. Back then, I thought I was the next great American novelist.
As I continued reading, I found detailed descriptions of potential book ideas, with titles like “Love on the CaliforniaCoast” and “Summer Romance.” They were filled with flowery language and implausible romantic scenarios. I could picture my earnest teenage self hunched over this diary, pouring my heart onto the pages.
Setting the diary aside, I glanced around my room, taking in the remnants of that passionate girl dreaming of love and literary success. Back in my childhood bedroom, I was finally working on that novel I’d always imagined writing. Sure, real life had not turned out to be the pretty sweeping epic I’d envisioned in the diary pages, but I felt a sense of accomplishment, nonetheless.
I smiled down at the diary, feeling tenderness towards my younger self. She had been so full of hopes and conviction. It was funny to think my writing inspiration had come from imagining unrealistic love stories back then. Now, I wanted to write something honest and relatable. My experiences have given me perspective. But that wide-eyed girl from the diary had been the genesis of my writing dreams. It felt good to reconnect with that part of myself again.
***
I closed the door to my old bedroom and leaned against it, taking a deep breath. The familiar lavender scent brought back a flood of memories. After a moment of nostalgia, I realized I should freshen up before visiting George. I peeled off my travel clothes, damp with sweat from the long drive, and rifled through my suitcase for something clean.
I settled on a breezy floral sundress that I hadn’t worn in ages, different from the drab suits I had worn at The Chronicle. It was a little snug, but still fit well without being showy. I turned before the full-length mirror, smoothing it down over my hips, appreciating how the vibrant pattern complimented mycomplexion. I felt revived by a spritz of perfume and a swipe of lip gloss.
Ready to face my hometown again, I headed downstairs and grabbed the bottle of Pinot Noir from the kitchen table. I locked up and crossed the lawn to George’s front door. Before I could knock, he opened it with a smile.
“Oh my! You look so beautiful, Etta! Please, come in.”
