Erin’s mom never quite got around to creating scrapbooks. Faith O’Riley loved people, and she loved God. Those two distinctions permeated her life, and one could see by the way she ran her home and her life that she put people before projects. Therefore, Erin’s mom left many little projects unfinished when she went to heaven. Erin had appropriated a number of her mom’s treasures, such as her diary. But Erin safely could assume that many photos and mementos of her childhood were still in boxes. Most likely they were packed away in one of the orderly storage bins she saw stacked up when she’d been given the tour of the garage last night.
Erin hopped back into the twin bed and rubbed her cold feet together, trying to warm them. The wind seemed determined to play its shrillest notes, forcing them in through the tiniest spaces around the window frame.
A memory came to Erin, turning her lips up in a soft grin. When she was in the fourth grade, she took up playing the flute. Every afternoon her mother made Erin practice. She discovered that if she waited until her father came home, around four thirty, and if she inserted just the right amount of extra-shrill notes in the middle of each piece, her father would open her bedroom door and excuse her from practicing anymore.
Erin continued to play the flute all through high school and improved to the point her mom could make requests, and Erin could pick out the tune and play it accurately after a few tries. She did duets with her mom at the piano. Their favorite duet was “Für Elise,” and Erin had decided when she was eighteen that if she ever had a daughter she would name her Elise Faith.
She felt wistful, curled under the blankets listening to the winter wind and missing a daughter she’d never borne. In truth, it was her mother she missed and knew she would miss every day for the rest of her life.
While Erin had been curled up under the comforter, the daylight had slowly brightened her room the way a dimmer on a lamp gradually increases the amount of light and reveals previously unrecognizable details. The pale winter light that now filled the room prompted a return visit to the window. This time she could feel the tiny stream of chilled air as it whistled in through an opening in the left corner of the window frame.
I’ll have to tell Dad. He’ll want to know about that so he can fix it.
The view outside caught Erin by surprise. It was dismal and gray, as she suspected, yet the scope opened up before her was unexpectedly majestic. The cliff on which the cottage was built extended another fifty yards beyond the front of the house and then appeared to drop off dramatically over a cliff formed from black rock. Beyond the cliff was the ocean. Nothing but pale gray water churned to a froth of whitecapped breakers that bashed against the rocks with such force they sent their spray into the air like a bursting geyser.
To the right Erin could make out what looked like a large area of tide pools where the coastline took a dip inland, giving an even greater impression that the land on which the cottage stood was alone on an isolated cleft of impenetrable rock.
Pulling on her warmest apparel, Erin tiptoed down the stairs, trying not to make too much noise. The old wood floor groaned, giving away her escape route. She could hear low voices murmuring as she passed the closed door of her dad and Delores’s downstairs bedroom. Since the only bathroom in the cottage was next to their room and accessible through a second door off the kitchen, Erin tried again to accomplish her morning routine as quietly as possible but without much success. Every sound seemed to echo through the house.
When she stepped back into the kitchen, Delores was there to greet her, still dressed in her robe and slippers as she had been when she had greeted Erin at the car last night. She wore a knit cap, just as she had the night before, with all her hair tucked under the edges. This cap had a crocheted flower affixed to the side. Erin noticed how clear and unflawed Delores’s pale complexion was. There was something Old World and elemental about her fair skin and dark-eyed appearance that gave off the aura that she thrived in the cold.
Erin had to wonder if the same appeal her father had for this place that reminded him of Ireland applied to his wife as well. Did Delores remind him of the Irish women he had admired for their brawn and capabilities when he was young? She remembered the one trip she had made to Ireland with her parents when she was only six. Her brother wasn’t born yet, and Erin was sick part of the trip so she didn’t have many memories, and the ones she did have weren’t magical at all.
She did remember saying to her elderly grandmother that she was very cold. Her grandmother had said, “Best cure for a chill is a broom.” Then, handing Erin a broom, she indicated that doing a brisk job of sweeping the floor would warm her right up. As a matter of fact, the kitchen of that Irish cottage couldn’t have been much larger than this one. Only, when she was six it seemed enormous.
Delores opened a cupboard door and said to Erin, “If you would like coffee or tea, you can find whatever you need in the cupboard there behind you. We have a little milk, and there’s some half-and-half in the refrigerator.”
“Okay. Thank you. I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“It’s too small of a house not to be woken.” The statement bore just enough indignation to make Erin squirm.
“Sorry. I’ll try to be quieter.”
Delores turned the faucet on the kitchen sink to stop a slow drip and returned to the bedroom.
I get the feeling that it isn’t just me that Delores doesn’t like. I don’t think she likes anything. So why does she like my dad?
A short time later, with a cup of tea warming her hands, Erin sat on the couch in the living room with her stocking feet tucked under her to keep them warm. The expanded picture window was providing her with an unlimited view of the ocean with all its muted shades of blue and gray. The storm had stopped. The wind seemed to be subsiding. The raucous waves, however, still were vehemently crashing against the rocks. It was like watching the 1812 Overture being played on instruments improvised by nature.
She was glad to find the Irish breakfast tea in the cupboard and sipped it slowly. It had been a staple in her home while growing up. Early on she found that a cup of Irish breakfast with a splash of milk and a dash of sugar could calm the most tumultuous inner storms. Erin needed this steaming cup of support this morning.
The bedroom door opened, and Erin’s dad came out dressed in a pair of baggy jeans and a sweatshirt. His white hair was combed back, and aside from looking a little winter pale, he looked like the bright blue-eyed father she had always known.
“Top of the morning, Glory.”
Erin grinned. It was the standard greeting she had heard from him ever since she was a child. According to her dad, the greeting originated with his great-great-great-grandfather from a wee village near Dublin and was the duty of the O’Riley family to bestow on to the rest of the world. He always would wink after he made the declaration.
“Are you interested in having the best breakfast you’ve ever had in your life?”
“That’s quite an offer,” Erin said. She knew her father didn’t cook. At all. So either Delores was a notable chef or her dad had a favorite place in town where he liked to go. In Irvine it had been a tiny place called Johnny’s Donuts. The café’s coffee was awful, but the donuts were amazing.
“I thought you and I could go on over to Jenny Bee’s Fish House.”
“A fish house, huh?”
“Best breakfast you’ve ever had. I guarantee it. Homemade bran muffins and perfect omelets. You ready?”
“Sure. Is Delores coming?”
“She doesn’t eat breakfast.”
“Oh. Okay. Let me get my jacket. I’ll drive, okay?”
“I thought we’d walk. It’s less than a mile.”
“In this weather?”
Her dad put on a baseball cap and reached for his jacket waiting on a hook by the door. “What’s the problem? You still opposed to exercise?”
Erin’s greatest concern was for her dad and whether he should be hiking a mile in such blustery conditions. After being a physical educ
ation teacher for more than thirty-five years before taking to the classroom to teach U.S. history, her dad did push-ups, jumped rope, and jogged until he was sixty. If he hadn’t had the scare with the blood clot traveling to his brain, a morning hike with him would have seemed normal.
She took the responsibility for his need to take it easy and said, “I don’t want to walk. Let me drive us, okay?”
“Suit yourself.”
By all outward appearances, he looked good. His sentences were clear and cohesive. Erin found it hard to believe that yesterday at this time he couldn’t carry on a conversation over the phone. Erin wondered how she would know when she was supposed to leave. She had purchased a one-way ticket and would do the same for the return when it was time to leave. But what sort of indicators would make that clear? Hopefully, a call to his doctor would give Erin the information she needed.
Out of curiosity, Erin watched the odometer in the rental car as her dad directed her into the tiny town of Moss Cove. The distance to Jenny Bee’s Fish House was two miles. Not “less than a mile,” as her father had said. If they had walked, it would have been two miles into town and two miles back. Was her dad really planning to walk four miles in this fierce wind and chilling temperatures? Or was he trying to put on a show to convince her he still was his former self so she wouldn’t have to worry?
On the drive into town, in spite of the misty white fog that covered them, Erin could see what she had missed driving in the dark. On the right side of the road rose an expansive forest of soaring evergreens. Every so often a house appeared, tucked in here and there under the branches that dripped with moisture from the sea as well as from the sky. From several of the homes a vapor of smoke rose from the chimney.
On the left side of the road a variety of beach houses lined up near one another, each sporting a unique color and personality. Erin noticed a quaint oceanfront lodge called the Shamrock Lodgettes. Each of the lodgettes looked like a small log cabin, but the name did somehow add to their charm.
“I’m guessing this place reminds you of Ireland.”
“It does indeed. We have plans to go to Ireland this summer. All depends on Delores, though, at this point.”
Erin wasn’t sure why the decision would depend on Delores. He certainly hadn’t made choices that way while married to her mom. She wondered if his thinking was similar to his statement that they should walk to the café this morning. He would, of course, want to give the impression that he was strong and capable of anything. Was he hoping Delores would be the one to call off the trip due to this new turn of events? Erin thought she remembered hearing before that people who took blood-thinning medication or had a history of blood clots were advised not to take long plane flights or long car rides.
“Park over there,” her dad said, pointing to the only open space in front of an undistinguished-looking storefront next to a Laundromat. A handmade sign out front announced that they had fresh halibut today and buckwheat pancakes. Erin hoped that didn’t mean the two items came together.
Her dad entered the small shop first, and everyone greeted him—the waitress with two short pigtails and with a tattoo running up her bare right arm, the mustached cook behind the window, and the five morning diners. All of them knew him by name, and all of them seemed happy to see him. That didn’t surprise Erin. Her father could be charming when he wanted to, and he always was the initiator when it came to collecting cronies.
Jack repeated his “Top of the morning, Glory” to one and all. Then, as if he were the traveling thespian here to announce the next community theater production, Erin’s father scooped his cap from his snowy head and tipped it in Erin’s direction. “So, what do all of you think of my one and only daughter? You can see where she gets her good looks, right?”
“Welcome to Moss Cove!” the waitress said. “You want some coffee?”
Caught off guard, Erin managed to say “Sure” before following her dad to a corner table. The other guests all took their time giving Erin a good looking over. A few nodded politely. One of them, a crusty, old, frowning sailor-type, just stared. This wasn’t what she had expected when she rushed to Oregon to be with her father. She didn’t know how a person was supposed to act the day after a stroke, but this wasn’t what she had pictured.
The waitress, whom her dad introduced as Jo, placed two mismatched mugs of steaming coffee in front of them. “The usual, Jack?”
“Not today. I’m having my Sunday morning special. And bring the same for my girl.”
As soon as Jo walked away, Erin asked, “What are we having?” The advertisement of halibut and buckwheat cakes lingered in her mind.
“A mushroom and Swiss cheese omelet with fresh crabmeat, red potatoes with basil, and honey wheat toast with homemade raspberry jam. Wait till you taste the jam. It’s the best in Oregon, I’ll tell you that. The raspberry harvest last year was a good one.”
Erin decided to stop trying to figure out what was going on in this alternate universe where her father was very much at home. He apparently was okay. The meds were working. He wasn’t in need of convalescence. Her trip was apparently for the purpose of seeing him and making some inroads with Delores. If that was the reason, then it had been a fairly expensive success, and she could book a flight home later today.
“So what do you think of the place?”
“This place?” Erin asked.
“No, our place. Hidden Cottage. What do you think?”
“It’s nice.”
Her dad’s expression drooped, and Erin quickly bolstered her comment. “You and Delores have worked hard on the place. It’s really nice.”
“Not a place you would want to come to unless you had to, though, right?”
Erin wasn’t sure what he meant by that comment. “Do you mean would I like to come up here for vacation?”
He gave a slight nod of affirmation. It seemed as if his feelings were hurt. That wasn’t an expression she remembered seeing on him very often.
“It’s pretty far away from Southern California.”
“Of course it is. That’s the point. Can’t you see the boys down there, poking around in the tide pools? Mike can fish all he wants. You can sit on the deck and read a book all day long. At night we can have a cookout. Crab is the way to go around here. Couple of my pals have all the equipment. The boys can set the traps down at the pier and catch the crabs, then we’ll boil ’em in the big pots. Not a bad way to spend a summer evening, don’t you think?”
Her dad’s idealized comments scrambled her brain. He had projected a scenario of an entire vacation based on the family gathering together at his Hidden Cottage. Had he forgotten how old the boys were? They weren’t Tom Sawyer age, eager to go hunting in tide pools for their summer vacation. And Mike had never fished a day in his life, as far as she knew.
“The boys are pretty much on their own now when it comes to how they spend their vacations.”
Her dad’s countenance dipped again.
“But Mike probably would like to come up here sometime. Maybe he and I can come back this summer for a few days.”
“Sure.” He turned and glanced over his shoulder as the door opened and another local man entered. The turn-and-look-the-other-way gesture was familiar. Erin knew that was her father’s way of indicating the end of that conversation. She knew her responses had disappointed him, but that wasn’t a new experience. Erin never felt as if she had managed to garner his approval.
The man who entered came over to the table and introduced himself to Erin. He had a joke for her dad and a nod for the waitress before sitting down with a newspaper as his breakfast companion. Erin enjoyed seeing her dad like this, cheery and surrounded by “chums.” It was especially good to see how enthusiastic he was again about eating. Ever since her mom died, he had been apathetic about many things, including food. And her father was definitely a foodie. That he had never turned his hand to cooking always mystified her. Her mom had been a pretty adept home chef and was always trying new things. r />
“Does Delores like to cook?” Erin asked.
“Not at all. She knows how to steam vegetables, and once she cooked a whole chicken. She’s yet to make me a cup of coffee.” Jack put his lips to the rim of his mug as if he had nothing further to say on the subject.
“I’m glad you have this place, then, Dad. You always did like having nice big meals with people you enjoy.”
“Must come from all those years in the teachers’ lounge.”
Erin grinned. “I bet you’re right. Do you miss that world?”
“Sometimes. I don’t miss California, though.”
Erin felt the same twinge of pain she had felt yesterday while talking with Sharlene. Knowing that she was a big part of the California he did not miss stung.
“Well, I miss you.” She offered a smile that made her feel as if she were seven years old.
He conveniently lifted his coffee mug to his lips and murmured something she couldn’t understand.
Erin took a sip of her Jenny Bee’s coffee and coughed involuntarily, barely swallowing the coffee in her mouth in time.
“What’s wrong?”
Once her throat had cleared she said in a low voice, “I’m afraid I’ve become a coffee snob. This is pretty strong.”
“Can’t handle the high-octane stuff, is that it?”
“I guess so. What about you? Are you supposed to be drinking coffee?”
“Yes, I am,” he growled. Erin knew that was the end of that discussion.
In an effort to launch a less volatile topic, Erin said, “Jordan has a girlfriend. Did I tell you that?”
“How serious are they?”
“Pretty serious. He met her in Hawaii last month.”
Erin’s dad put down his coffee mug. “Did Jordan see Tony while he was there?”
“No. Jordan was on Oahu taking photos on the North Shore.” Erin’s only brother had been a difficult topic for many years. She hadn’t seen him since their mom’s funeral, and they had barely spoken to each other then. Years ago, Tony had dropped out of everything mainstream and moved to Maui. Erin knew Tony and her dad hadn’t shared much of a relationship for more than twenty years. The strain had weighed on her mother and was a daily theme in her prayers.