When we drove across the bridge over the Trask River, she’d asked where we were going. I told her that there was a place in Oceanside I wanted her to try.
“Why?” she asked.
“You seem like you need it.”
She didn’t say anything after that. As we followed the twisting, narrow road to Oceanside, she kept her legs pressed together and had her arms crossed tightly over her chest. I couldn’t tell if she was defensive, scared, or both.
The Mustang was fifteen years old and had definitely seen better days. The roof had been left down several times when it rained, so the interior of the car smelled musty. The seats had been flattened by previous owners who were overweight, and the shock absorbers were probably due for replacement. As a result, the impact of every pothole and bump in the road transferred directly to the seat of my pants. Still, the engine, transmission, and brakes were sound, and the car was a pleasure to drive on a country road.
Emily finally relaxed a little when we reached Oceanside and parked in front of the saltwater-bleached shingle exterior of Josephine’s Cafe. I came around to her side of the car and opened the door for her.
“Is Her Majesty ready for her culinary adventure?” I asked.
“Her Majesty is most definitely ready.”
We went inside the cozy restaurant and took a table against the big windows. If you’re lucky enough to sit there, you have a head-on view of the Pacific Ocean and the Three Arch Rocks wildlife refuge. Our table had glass on the tabletop over a white tablecloth. There were hydrangea blossoms in a cut glass vase, and the pleasant hum of activity from the waitresses and the other customers felt comforting and safe.
Emily ordered quiche with a glass of cabernet. I had steak, a salad, and a bottle of hefeweizen beer.
“We came all this way and aren’t ordering seafood. Seems a waste,” she said.
“I don’t think so,” I said. “You needed to be away from your house and Tillamook. I wanted to take you somewhere safe where you could enjoy the view, have a nice meal, and maybe walk on the beach. Just forget about things for a while.”
“Avoidance coping,” she said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Making choices based on trying to avoid things that make you feel stressed. I chose to avoid my house instead of facing my fears. I have a rule about not running away from things. I should have stayed.”
I tasted the beer. The flavor was crisp and clean, with a bit of citrus flavor and something of a bite to it.
“So does that mean that people who take vacations are avoidance coping?” I asked.
“This is different,” she said. “I wanted to be away from there because I was afraid.”
“Well, maybe,” I said. “To me it seemed like you needed a change of scenery for a little while and to take a break from being so vigilant. Either way, aren’t you glad you’re not at a fast food restaurant on Highway 101, or sitting on your living room floor and eating a sandwich?”
She took a sip from her cabernet and put the glass down.
“Right. I just don’t want to get into the habit of running away when I’m scared.”
“Look at it this way,” I said. “You could have moved and you wouldn’t do it. Instead you got a Doberman. And now you have me if you need help and Eric isn’t around. It doesn’t sound like avoidance coping is holding you back. You just wanted to be somewhere else for a few minutes. People who go out to dinner aren’t all avoidance coping from anxiety about their kitchens.”
“Okay, Doctor Phil.”
“I thought you said I looked like Casey Affleck on steroids.”
“I did,” she said. “But don’t let it go to your head.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I’m the best person at being humble that I know.”
“I’ll say this for you,” she said. “You are a unique individual.”
“Let’s toast to that.” I held up my beer bottle and she tapped it with her wine glass.
Our dinners arrived.
Emily liked her quiche. My steak was excellent. We ate in companionable silence, looking up from our meals from time to time to check the view of Three Arch Rocks.
“Lots of birds out there,” Emily said.
“It’s a bird sanctuary for puffins, guillemots, storm-petrels, and cormorants.”
“I’ve heard of puffins and cormorants.”
“The guillemots are the ones that look like black seagulls with white wing-patches. Storm-petrels are small seabirds, usually dark with white undersides. They actually hover over the surface of the water and catch small fish that come to the surface.”
“Are you a bird-watcher?”
“My house is up the hill from here. I look at that rock quite a bit, and I was curious about why there’s usually a cloud of birds flying around it. I did a little reading.”
She nodded. “It would be nice if they had binoculars here,” she said.
“I agree. People would probably stay too long at the tables, though.”
In between bites we watched the surf, the beach strollers, and the bird activity out on Three Arch Rocks.
When the bill came Emily picked it up before I could look at it.
“I’ll cover it,” I said.
“It’s on me,” she said. “You’re doing something nice for me. I’m doing something nice for you.”
“Hard to argue with that logic,” I said. She went to the cashier to pay. I left the tip on the tabletop.
We went out to the car. The weather made it a very pleasant evening to be at the beach, and I asked Emily if she wanted to walk on the sand for a while.
“No. I think I’m ready to go back.”
“Nice evening for a stroll.”
“That would be avoidance coping,” she said. “I need to go back and stand my ground.” Then she smiled.
“If you say so.”
“I appreciate the offer. Another time, okay? I don’t want to leave the dog locked up for too long.”