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Smiling, I stepped into the familiar warmth of George’s living room. It looked unchanged from my childhood, right down to the plaid armchair where he sat to read on rainy days.
We settled onto the sofa as George fetched a wooden tray laden with snacks. “I thought these might go well with the wine,” he said, placing the tray on the coffee table. There was a selection of cheeses—creamy brie, sharp cheddar, and a crumbly blue—arranged meticulously beside a cluster of red grapes. Next to them were whole grain crackers and a small bowl of mixed nuts, roasted and lightly salted.
“To new chapters,” George repeated, lifting his glass once more before reaching for a cracker.
I followed suit, selecting a slice of brie and a grape, savoring the combined flavors with the wine. “These are perfect, George,” I complimented, the richness of the cheese complementing the tartness of the Pinot Noir beautifully.
George beamed, clearly pleased with the pairing. “I remember you’ve always had a fondness for brie. It’s quite harmonious with the berry notes of the wine.”
I chuckled, popping another grape into my mouth. “You know me too well.”
As we indulged in the delectable spread, the conversation flowed effortlessly, from the trivial changes in Pebble Point to the treasured memories of my youth. I found comfort in the simple yet elegant spread, the familiar setting, and George’scompany—a welcome reprieve after years of city life and a poignant reminder of the joys of coming home.
“So, catch me up on the town gossip,” I said. “Any juicy tidbits I should know?”
George chuckled. “Well, let’s see. After two decades, Mrs. Patterson finally replaced that hideous pink flamingo lawn ornament. Oh, and Carolyn Dalrymple got a speeding ticket last month.”
“No way! Saint Carolyn?” I gasped dramatically, and George laughed.
“I’m afraid so. Although she maintains she was ‘merely keeping pace with traffic.’”
He shook his head in amusement. “Oh, and you remember Marla Sutton? She’s taken over ‘Whisper of Pages.’ It’s become quite the popular spot.”
I smiled, picturing the quaint bookstore that was my childhood haven.
“Well, it seems some things have changed after all. Five years is a long time.” I swirled my wine pensively.
George patted my hand. “Perhaps. But the heart of this place remains the same.”
I hoped he was right. We continued chatting, reminiscing about my dad’s terrible fishing skills and the scandalous town rumor that the mayor wore a toupee.
The conversation eventually turned serious again. “I know my return must be fodder for the gossip mill,” I said. “Especially where Carolyn ’s concerned.”
George nodded sagely. “People are certainly curious, but it comes from a place of care, Etta. You were - are - one of our own.”
I smiled wistfully. “I appreciate that. Although I admit, it’s daunting to be back after so long. I almost feel like a stranger.”
“Nonsense,” George admonished kindly. “Roots planted here run deep. Give it time, and you’ll find your rhythm again.”
I hoped he was right. I sort of hoped he would mention Alexander as George talked about the town, though I wasn’t sure why. His name was conspicuously absent from George’s updates. I realized part of me was curious if Alexander still lived in that great big house on the outskirts of town, and if there was a special someone living with him. The thoughts surprised me - until the car journey this morning; I hadn’t really let myself dwell on him in years.
***
I stifled a yawn as I glanced at my watch, surprised to see it was already almost ten o’clock. The wine and catching up with George had relaxed me, but now I could feel the events of the day catching up with me.
“I should probably get going,” I said, standing up from George’s plush couch. “It’s been a long day of driving and unpacking, and I want to get an early start tomorrow.”
George nodded understandingly as he collected our empty wine glasses. “Of course, of course. You must be exhausted from the trip and no doubt eager to settle back in.”
I smiled, touched by his warmth and understanding. George had always been like a second father to me growing up. I felt a pang of guilt for not keeping in better touch after I moved away.
After bidding each other goodnight, I inhaled the crisp evening air, allowing the cool breeze from the salty ocean to intermingle with the subtle scents of pine and earth. In the distance, crickets provided a gentle soundtrack to the night. In stark contrast to the perpetual cacophony of the city, the hushed tranquility of Pebble Point felt simultaneously foreign and familiar.
I slowly walked back to my house, memories washing over me. Riding bikes to the beach with my friends, climbing the old lighthouse on weekends, and stargazing on clear nights like this one. A smile tugged at my lips.
I paused on the front porch, sinking down onto the weathered steps. The worn wood creaked familiarly under me. Looking up, the inky night sky was speckled with stars, so much more clear here than in the city’s glare.
Today had been a whirlwind, saying hurried goodbyes at The Chronicle, driving the six hours to Pebble Point, unpacking boxes, and catching up with George over too much wine. But now, sitting alone under the vast sky, everything slowed.
