Unforgettable
Page 9
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But now, a year in, and that excitement and ambition has all drained away. I drag myself to work in the mornings and drift into idle daydreams to make it through the day. But if I’m not supposed to be a lawyer, then what else will I do? This has been my only dream, and maybe my parents are right: this is the hard part everybody goes through just to make it out the other side.
Mom comes back in, looking frazzled. “I’m sorry, I have to head back in.”
Dad shovels the last of his noodles into his mouth. “And I should really finish up some briefs before morning. You’ll be OK getting back downtown?”
“Sure.” I blink. “That’s fine.”
“Call the realtor!” Mom says, on her way to the door. “Get a valuation on the house soon. Even if it’s not worth much, you could sell as a tear-down, for the land.”
“And remember to make up the hours you missed this week,” Dad adds. “They keep track of it, you know. Billable hours!” He kisses the top of my head, and heads for his office, leaving me alone at the table.
The leftovers are all mine.
I take the subway back to my apartment downtown. It’s a cute modern condo in a new building, but as I drop my keys on the table and look around the tiny, cramped space, I can’t help but think of Rose Cottage and its rambling gardens right there by the beach.
I take a deep breath, imagining for a moment I’m back there, breathing in the salty sea air.
What if I didn’t sell?
I snap out of the daydream, feeling foolish. My whole life is here in New York City: my job, my friends, my family. What would I even do out there in the middle of nowhere with that big old house on my hands? Mom’s right: I should call the realtor first thing tomorrow and see about putting it up for sale.
I go check through the mail, discarding old junk mail and setting aside bills. Then I find a package with a return address in Beachwood Bay, from Albus Dudley.
I tear it open, and a set of keys tumbles to the floor. I pick them up, and set them aside as I read his note.
Ms. Olsen,
There’s much for us to discuss, but in the meantime, I realized I failed to pass along this letter from your grandmother. I apologize for the delay, and hope to talk soon.
Yours faithfully,
Albus Dudley
I smile. I can almost hear his formal tone through the writing. There’s another envelope tucked inside the package, this one with just my name on it, addressed in Nana’s familiar looping script.
It’s from her.
I feel an ache, and for a moment, just press the letter to my chest. Then I pull open the window and climb out to sit on the fire escape in the muggy night air. The sound of city traffic and noise from the alleyway below echoes around me as I open the letter and read.
My dearest granddaughter,
I imagine by now that you’ve learned about my parting gift to you. I’m sure you have questions, and I’m only sorry I’m not around to put a pot of tea on, and sit and talk it through.
Rose Cottage has been a home to me for many years. I’ve seen many happy times under that roof, sharing stories with my guests, and keeping that double range working overtime with a new batch of cookies. If that time is over, then I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather share those memories with than you.
I want you to know, that I mean the inheritance to be a gift, not a burden. You should feel free to do whatever it is you wish with the place—I just ask that you take some time to think before making a decision. I love your father, but he’s a practical man: he always put business ahead of passion or emotion. Your mother is the same, it’s why they’ve been able to build a happy life together, but you, my child, you’ve always been cut from a different cloth. Ever since you were a girl, you’ve felt things deeply; risked more, dreamed bigger. I know you’re all grown up now, and making your own choices, but I still remember the girl who would spend hours trying out different flavors in the cake batter, or chasing butterflies in the back gardens.
I hope that girl still exists. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my lifetime, it’s that the world will always find a way to try and strip that childlike curiosity and joy away. To put you in a neat box, and set you on a narrow path through life. I know you want to make everyone proud, you’ve always worked so hard to keep up. But the true joys in life come from the unexpected; the meandering path, the spontaneous afternoon picnic. I just hope you can hold on to that joy you’ve always felt, even when you think the odds are stacked against you.
Listen to your heart, believe in a brighter tomorrow, and always, always leave room for dessert.
Your loving grandmother, always, Nana
I lower the letter, tears stinging in my eyes. The grief overwhelms me again. Grief, and love too. Somehow, she always knew. Knew the struggle I felt to live up to my over-achieving parents and perfect, straight-As sister. Knew how out of place I felt in the corporate world: biting my tongue, and blowing out my curly hair, and trying to be the polished, successful woman I thought I always wanted to be.
She saw the real me, and now, with one final selfless act, she’s given me something few people are lucky enough to have.
A choice.
I slowly fold the letter away, and dry my tears. My mind is still full of all the sane, rational reasons why I should sell the B&B as soon as possible, put the money in a savings fund and get back to work, but my heart…?
Right now my heart is aching for those summer afternoons in the kitchen, listening to the crashing of the waves, and old 60s records, as Nana worked her magic with butter, sugar, and flour.
Mom comes back in, looking frazzled. “I’m sorry, I have to head back in.”
Dad shovels the last of his noodles into his mouth. “And I should really finish up some briefs before morning. You’ll be OK getting back downtown?”
“Sure.” I blink. “That’s fine.”
“Call the realtor!” Mom says, on her way to the door. “Get a valuation on the house soon. Even if it’s not worth much, you could sell as a tear-down, for the land.”
“And remember to make up the hours you missed this week,” Dad adds. “They keep track of it, you know. Billable hours!” He kisses the top of my head, and heads for his office, leaving me alone at the table.
The leftovers are all mine.
I take the subway back to my apartment downtown. It’s a cute modern condo in a new building, but as I drop my keys on the table and look around the tiny, cramped space, I can’t help but think of Rose Cottage and its rambling gardens right there by the beach.
I take a deep breath, imagining for a moment I’m back there, breathing in the salty sea air.
What if I didn’t sell?
I snap out of the daydream, feeling foolish. My whole life is here in New York City: my job, my friends, my family. What would I even do out there in the middle of nowhere with that big old house on my hands? Mom’s right: I should call the realtor first thing tomorrow and see about putting it up for sale.
I go check through the mail, discarding old junk mail and setting aside bills. Then I find a package with a return address in Beachwood Bay, from Albus Dudley.
I tear it open, and a set of keys tumbles to the floor. I pick them up, and set them aside as I read his note.
Ms. Olsen,
There’s much for us to discuss, but in the meantime, I realized I failed to pass along this letter from your grandmother. I apologize for the delay, and hope to talk soon.
Yours faithfully,
Albus Dudley
I smile. I can almost hear his formal tone through the writing. There’s another envelope tucked inside the package, this one with just my name on it, addressed in Nana’s familiar looping script.
It’s from her.
I feel an ache, and for a moment, just press the letter to my chest. Then I pull open the window and climb out to sit on the fire escape in the muggy night air. The sound of city traffic and noise from the alleyway below echoes around me as I open the letter and read.
My dearest granddaughter,
I imagine by now that you’ve learned about my parting gift to you. I’m sure you have questions, and I’m only sorry I’m not around to put a pot of tea on, and sit and talk it through.
Rose Cottage has been a home to me for many years. I’ve seen many happy times under that roof, sharing stories with my guests, and keeping that double range working overtime with a new batch of cookies. If that time is over, then I couldn’t think of anyone I’d rather share those memories with than you.
I want you to know, that I mean the inheritance to be a gift, not a burden. You should feel free to do whatever it is you wish with the place—I just ask that you take some time to think before making a decision. I love your father, but he’s a practical man: he always put business ahead of passion or emotion. Your mother is the same, it’s why they’ve been able to build a happy life together, but you, my child, you’ve always been cut from a different cloth. Ever since you were a girl, you’ve felt things deeply; risked more, dreamed bigger. I know you’re all grown up now, and making your own choices, but I still remember the girl who would spend hours trying out different flavors in the cake batter, or chasing butterflies in the back gardens.
I hope that girl still exists. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during my lifetime, it’s that the world will always find a way to try and strip that childlike curiosity and joy away. To put you in a neat box, and set you on a narrow path through life. I know you want to make everyone proud, you’ve always worked so hard to keep up. But the true joys in life come from the unexpected; the meandering path, the spontaneous afternoon picnic. I just hope you can hold on to that joy you’ve always felt, even when you think the odds are stacked against you.
Listen to your heart, believe in a brighter tomorrow, and always, always leave room for dessert.
Your loving grandmother, always, Nana
I lower the letter, tears stinging in my eyes. The grief overwhelms me again. Grief, and love too. Somehow, she always knew. Knew the struggle I felt to live up to my over-achieving parents and perfect, straight-As sister. Knew how out of place I felt in the corporate world: biting my tongue, and blowing out my curly hair, and trying to be the polished, successful woman I thought I always wanted to be.
She saw the real me, and now, with one final selfless act, she’s given me something few people are lucky enough to have.
A choice.
I slowly fold the letter away, and dry my tears. My mind is still full of all the sane, rational reasons why I should sell the B&B as soon as possible, put the money in a savings fund and get back to work, but my heart…?
Right now my heart is aching for those summer afternoons in the kitchen, listening to the crashing of the waves, and old 60s records, as Nana worked her magic with butter, sugar, and flour.
