“Hey Mom,” I say, when she answers.
“Did you get my message? I’m running behind. Just finished up at the hospital,” she says, sounding breathless and busy—her default setting.
“I can’t make it tonight,” I tell her. “I’m…not in New York anymore. I quit. I moved down to Beachwood Bay to reopen the bed and breakfast.”
It comes tumbling out in a rush. Better to rip off the band-aid than admit it all slowly, piece by piece.
There’s silence.
“Mom?” I ask at last, cringing.
“I’m here.” Her voice is cool. “And when exactly did you make this life-altering decision?”
“Last week.” I can sense her disapproval, coming at me in waves down the line, and I hate it. This is exactly why I put off calling for so long, to avoid just this moment. “It all just kind of…happened. You know I haven’t been happy at work,” I add hurriedly. “And then Harper told me should just leave if I didn’t want to be there… So I did. I left.”
“And drove five states away?” Her voice rises. “Honestly, Noelle, what were you thinking? You need to come back right now. I’m sure we can fix it with work, and even so, one bad job is no reason to throw your life away here!”
“What life?” I counter, trying to be strong. “Mom, you know I don’t have one. I work, and work, and come home, and then work some more. My only friends are other lawyers, and I haven’t had a real date in years.”
“Is this about a man?” her voice changes.
“No!” I protest quickly, banishing thoughts of Ash from my mind. He’s not the reason I came here, and after my humiliating display the other night, he’s definitely not the reason I’m staying. “It’s about everything,” I try to explain. “I need a change, I don’t want to keep going through the motions. It feels like I’m sleepwalking through my own life.”
“There are drugs for that,” Mom says crisply. “Therapies, too. Is this depression, do you think?”
“No, I’m not depressed!” I exclaim. “I’m feeling better already than I have in months. I’m doing this, Mom. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I knew you’d be like this.”
“Like what? I’m concerned for you, darling, I’m your mother. And now you tell me you’ve thrown everything away, and run off to the back of beyond…”I fade her out as she continues, telling me exactly what a terrible mistake I’ve made, and how there’s no future for me in a place like this.
“Why do you think your father left for college and never looked back?” she finishes. “It’s a cute town for a vacation, but you’ll be bored out of your mind in a couple of weeks!”
“It’s my life, Mom,” I say firmly. “And I’m doing this. The first guests arrive tomorrow, and there’s lots to do. Give my love to Dad.”
“Oh, don’t think this is the end of it.” Mom sounds furious. “We’ll talk after I’ve told the news to your father. He’ll be heartbroken, you know that.”
“Bye, Mom.” I hang up, feeling an ache of guilt.
For years, all I’ve wanted to do is make my parents proud. Live up to their shining achievements and be the accomplished daughter they always wanted. Now, I’m failing them in spectacular fashion.
But I’m not failing myself, at least.
I turn back and start walking again, towards the cottage. It fills me with a curious sense of pride and belonging to reach the front of the house, look up, and know that it’s mine: from the crumbling chimney up top, to the freshly-painted picket fence out front. I’ve never felt this way about a house: my parents moved us around the city every five years or so growing up, as they switched jobs and climbed their career ladders. I got to know a dozen different doormen, and navigated fresh subway routes across town, but I haven’t felt such a strong attachment to simple bricks and mortar before now.
Home.
10.
Two days later, and my new life has begun as the official proprietor of Rose Cottage Bed & Breakfast. “You’ve got everything you need?” I check with my first guests. “There’s a paperback library in the lounge and beach towels in the hall closet, along with some picnic chairs.”
“We’re all set,” Mrs. Peterson reassures me. “We’ve done this so many years, we’ve got our routine down cold. Isn’t that right, Harold?”
Her husband chuckles. “Ten summers now. Don’t you worry about us.”
“Well, take some brownies for the beach.” I thrust a tupperware container at them, still anxious. “And just let me know if you want anything baked special for breakfast.”
Mrs. Peterson laughs. “You’re going to spoil us, I can tell.”
She takes the brownies and tucks them in her beach bag, then waves as they set off, ambling towards the beach. A friendly couple in their seventies, the Petersons have been dream guests so far: content to sit on their sun porch, drink tea, and take the occasional trip to the beach or town. The other guests have been just as easy to manage: the Keller family arrived complete with two rambunctious seven year-olds, and barely take the time to grab a plate of muffins from the breakfast table before striking out for the day, their minivan loaded with beach toys and sporting goods. They return every night, the kids traipsing sand through the front door as they yawn and head for bed.