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“Very well, Ms. Franklin, is there anything else I can do for you today?” he asked, sliding an old-fashioned key across the table. As I picked it up, I felt a thrill roll through me. My key. It was my key now. Antsy, I stood.
“Nope I think I’m good! So which way is it?”
“Just down the main road a bit here and then curve down Maple Street. You can’t miss it,” he replied, standing and gathering all the paperwork for me. “You let me know if you need anything, promise?”
“I promise. Thanks for everything,” I answered, shaking his hand and then practically prancing down the walkway.
Turning down the street, potentially my new street, brought a ton of memories flooding back. An entire summer I’d spent here, the sun on my face and the sand underneath my feet. This town had been my universe, tiny and enormous existing within the same space. I’d often wondered if I’d had the chance to come back again, would it be the same? Would it be as magical, as picturesque, as quaint? As comfortable? They say you can never go home again, but this was never my home. It was my fairy tale.
And as I turned into the long and winding driveway that led up to Seaside Cottage, I was struck by how much more it was. It was even better than I had remembered it. Set apart from the town by maybe not even a quarter of a mile, the house stood sentry over the ocean as it had for more than a hundred years.
I pulled the car into the driveway, the gravel crunching underneath the tires. I gazed up at the two-story Victorian, the tall pitched roof concealing the enormous attic. It was cozy and homey, grand and stately all at the same time. From the car, the sightline was all house and ocean. Once I started for the front porch, the cliff behind was revealed, with the winding wooden staircase I remembered just peeping over the edge, leading down to the beach below.
Looking around to make sure I was alone, and I was, I let out a nervous giggle as I practically danced up the front steps. Whitewashed and bleached out from the sun and salt, the wooden bannister felt warm beneath my hands, solid and perfect. And as I ascended the last charming creaky stair, I stepped onto the wide expansive porch, dotted with ferns and flower boxes filled with a riot of color. Purples, pinks, sunny yellows, and—whoa!
My left foot went through the floorboard, pitching me to my knees and tossing the contents of my bag across the planks.
I took a moment to mentally assess. Foot? Still attached. Shin? Felt scratched up a bit but not too bad. I cautiously pulled my leg from the hole in the porch, testing my weight on the surrounding planks. I’d shredded my already ripped jeans, and it looked like I had a nasty scrape, but I was otherwise unharmed.
“Nice work, Viv, you broke the house,” I chided myself. My voice was carried away on the wind blowing in from the ocean. Mmm, salty. Briny. Oceany. I dusted myself off and put my bag back together. Undaunted but with a slight limp, I approached the grand front door, the window just above the doorknob covered in a lacy curtain.
Would it look the same? I closed my eyes for a moment, letting my memory run wild. I recalled the front entryway, deep burnished oak halfway up the walls with a built-in bench just inside for shoes and boots, the space above studded with old-fashioned hooks for jackets and coats. A long mirror, creating the illusion of a space larger than it really was. Wide, shining planked floors leading the eye to a grand staircase of more honeyed wood. The scent of wood soap and lemony oil rubbed into the wood to make it gleam. I could almost see it.
And I would, as soon as I managed to get the old key to work. Twisting it this way and that, I finally got it to turn. I held my breath as I let myself into the house. Preparing myself for the beautiful woodwork, the gentle sun shining through a picture window on the west side, I stepped inside.
I breathed deeply, waiting for the lemon and the pine and the wood soap. But what I got was . . . mildew? It was dark inside, and I let my eyes adjust as I let out a mild cough. Throwing open the yellowed curtain on the door to let some light inside, I turned in a complete circle, taking it all in.
Dull, scratched woodwork. Stacks of old magazines. Clothes in piles along the stairs. Dust bunnies the size of their namesakes. The long mirror, foggy and shadowed. And every single hat that had ever been manufactured on the West Coast gathered on a hat tree that was leaned toward me in an imagined jaunty greeting.
I went further into the house, the formerly elegant but cozy living room now almost buried under piles of old calendars, boxes full of what looked like teacups, and again, stacks and stacks of magazines. And old tin buckets; everywhere with the buckets. The dining room? The old table was still there, covered with dolls of all shapes and sizes and about an inch of dust. Into the kitchen I went, and promptly turned right around and came back out. Covering the counter were industrial-size cans of Beanee Weenees, stacked three high like someone was getting ready to cook for a summer camp.
Beanee Weenees. What the actual f**k?
Terrified of what I would find, but determined to push through, I climbed the stairs to the second floor, wincing at how loose the bannister was and how powdery and almost, well, gnawed looking the spindles leading up the stairs looked. The entire staircase used to be grand and gleaming; now it was held together with a prayer. To say nothing of how creaky the steps were as I made my way up, winding around crates of glasses stamped with cartoon characters and bags of what looked like tube socks.
The upstairs hallway wasn’t any better. An Oriental rug runner that had seen better days led me through canyons of commemorative cheerleading banners, and an actual suit of armor. Well, half a suit. I’d no idea where the torso might be, but the knight’s metal legs were in residence in the hallway. I peeked into one, two, three guest bedrooms and found more of the same: tidy but serious stacks of things. And stuff. It was just more and more things and stuff.