The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs

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СКАЧАТЬ to direct the design process, but the others had thrown themselves into it with no regard for aesthetics. When their mother saw it, she’d burst into tears, and to this day, Caroline wasn’t fully convinced they were sentimental tears. Now, decades later, the mailbox was a silent sentinel to the past, evoking memories she was suddenly quite grateful for.

      She turned into the lane that led to the Shelby family home. The driveway was paved with crushed oyster shells and edged by wind-sculpted shrubbery and a row of beach roses. Since she had left home right out of high school, she had dutifully visited a few times at Christmas, flying into Seattle or Portland, renting a car, and making the three-hour trek to the coast. That seemed to satisfy the family and also preserved her status as the official black sheep.

      Every family needed a pet, her brother Jackson used to joke.

      Today’s arrival was different. This wasn’t a visit. And now the black sheep had two lambs.

      Nothing here, in the watery kingdom where she’d grown up, had changed. That was her first impression. The trees and structures were wind-sculpted and weather-beaten, anchored to the landscape by their spreading roots that clawed into the dunes. The home where she’d grown up was a big, unassuming saltbox, its clapboard siding painted iron gray, its trim white, its roof perpetually furred by moss and lichen.

      The ordinary dwelling was made spectacular by the setting. Beyond the garden lay the dunes. The prelude to a kingdom. The shifting sands and blowing grasses stretched toward the sea, wild as a restless dream. There was no boardwalk here as there was in the main town of the peninsula, no network of pathways, just a tangle of waist-high beach grass entwined with sturdy small flowering plants—coastal strawberry and sea rocket, native lupine and beach pea. The occasional wind-harried cypress or cedar tree reared up, bowing eastward as if in perpetual flight away from the ocean.

      “We made it,” she said to the kids. “This used to be my whole world, once upon a time.” She scanned the yard, with its gnarled apple trees and the big liquidambar with a wooden plank swing hanging from a high branch. There was a chicken coop and a garden surrounded by a deer fence. It really was a beautiful place—one she couldn’t wait to leave.

      “We’re here?” Flick asked.

      “We’re here!” Addie said. She clutched Wonder Woman to her chest.

      “Finally,” Caroline assured them.

      By the time she parked and unbuckled the kids, her parents had come out to the front porch to greet them.

      “Welcome home,” said her mother, rushing down the steps and crossing the yard, her arms open wide. Her long hair flew out behind her, and for a moment she looked ridiculously young in fitted jeans and a plaid cotton shirt, and the customary Blundstones she favored for gardening.

      As she drew closer, Caroline could see the wispy lines fanning her mother’s eyes, the slight thickening of her figure. But the smile and the outstretched arms were the same as always.

      With the kids clinging like remoras to her legs, Caroline felt herself enclosed in Dottie Shelby’s firm hug. Her mother smelled of hand soap and Jergens lotion, and her embrace was a sanctuary. “I’m so glad you got here a whole day early,” she said, stepping back.

      “I couldn’t sleep, so we loaded up and started driving,” Caroline said. “Hey, Dad.”

      He enveloped her in his assured, powerful embrace. It was the first time Caroline had felt truly safe since Angelique’s death. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to savor a moment of bliss, receding briefly into the role of cherished daughter.

      Her parents were sturdy and good-looking, often cited in the local chamber of commerce brochures as the epitome of a couple who had built their dream out of hard work and dedication. They had met at culinary school in the Bay Area—Dottie, a peninsula girl, and Lyle, a California native. By the time the program ended, they had woven their dreams—and their lives—together.

      “Well,” Caroline said, “it’s good to be back. Flick and Addie have come a long way to meet you.”

      Her mother went down on one knee and regarded the children at their level. “I’m glad you’re here. My name’s Dottie, and that’s Lyle. You can call me Dottie, or Grammy Dot. That’s what my other grandchildren call me.”

      By other grandchildren, was she implying something?

      “You don’t have to decide right now,” she added.

      Addie clutched Wonder Woman and stared at the ground. Flick regarded Dottie with sober contemplation. “My real name’s Francis,” he said.

      “Oh! Do you prefer that to Flick?”

      He shook his head. “When I was a baby, I couldn’t say Francis, so I called myself Flick and it stuck. So I’m keeping it.”

      “Good plan. I bet you’re hungry,” she said. Dottie Shelby was the sort of person who saw others the way they wanted to be seen. She had a particular talent for finding the best in people, children and adults alike.

      “We heard a rumor of pancakes,” Caroline said.

      “You heard exactly right. Come on in and let’s eat. Dad will bring in your things. There’s so much to do and see, but you don’t have to do it all today,” Mom nattered on. “You both look like you love to run and jump. Are you into running and jumping?”

      Flick and Addie exchanged a glance, and Flick offered a slight nod. Mom didn’t press but strode ahead with confidence.

      The kids stuck close to Caroline as they all went inside. The old house welcomed her, as familiar as her mother’s embrace. The foyer was bright with a mirror reflecting the light from the outside and a hall tree made of driftwood.

      Every house had a smell. This one was a particular mix of baking, salt air, and the dry, tumbly aroma from a constantly running clothes dryer. At least it used to run constantly when Caroline and her siblings were young. Now there was probably far less laundry cycling through, but the fluffy smell lingered still.

      The living room was filled with an eclectic mix of furniture, family pictures, a few antiques, and Mom’s old upright piano.

      “We all took lessons,” she said, noting Flick’s interest. “My brother Austin got really good at it.” She steered them to the hall bathroom and somehow managed to change Addie out of her pee-smelling clothes and into clean ones. Then she supervised the washing of hands, still somewhat befuddled by the idea of having to supervise anything of the sort. Just a short time ago, she was on her own, living in the heart of New York City’s fashion district.

      There were artifacts everywhere—the pottery soap dish Jackson had brought home from preschool with his little handprint in the middle. Another family picture hung above the commode, this one of the older girls holding up a surfboard with Caroline and the boys seated on it. She still remembered the roars of laughter that had erupted as they’d struggled to stage the shot, getting dumped into the sand multiple times. She was eight or nine in the photo, wearing Virginia’s hand-me-down swimsuit, which she’d rescued from looking like a hand-me-down by sewing a rumba ruffle to the back.

      “I’m off to work,” Dad called from the front hallway. “See you tonight, okay, C-Shell?”

      “Sounds good,” she said.

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