She looked at her aging skin and felt sad. Since Brooklyn and Brystol had returned, she’d noticed how old she’d gotten over the years. Carly pulled her skin, trying to erase the wrinkles that had taken over her life in the last fifteen years and for a brief moment saw the woman she used to be.
And she missed her.
She missed the person she used to be. The one who took care of everyone, who opened her heart and welcomed strangers into her home, the one who loved fully and subsequently lost everything. She missed the old days when her days were filled with laughter and her nights occupied by the sound of the ocean crashing on the shore and the taste of a nice chardonnay. After her husband and son had passed, she couldn’t remember what it was like to feel arms wrapped around her, not until Brystol had understood what a hug was and could hold her grandmother in her tiny arms, and now she wanted one every day. From her granddaughter, the woman her son had loved, and his friends.
The inn was coming back alive, thanks to Brooklyn and Bowie, and Carly felt it was time to really give it her all. She would invite Austin’s friends for dinner. She wanted them gathered around her table again, and she would make it a weekly event. Maybe on Sunday, after church services. And yes, she would go back to church to reconnect with the people she had long shut out, with her friends from the community. Seeing a few of them downtown earlier had shown her just how much had passed her by. She would host a card game, maybe start a book club and invite the new winery in Skagit Valley to host a wine tasting in the ballroom.
Yes, life was looking up for Carly.
She stood and went to the window and pushed the pane up. She closed her eyes as the voices from outside washed over her. The light breeze pushed against her white nightgown, and she smiled. She knew it was Skip and Austin greeting her, telling her how much they loved her. The only solace she took in the death of her husband and son was knowing that they were together.
Carly left her curtains open as she retired to bed. She fluffed her pillows and rested her tired, aching body against them. She stared out the window at the moon; it was moving slowly toward the horizon but was still high enough to cast a glow into her room. The familiar tickle was back, and she cleared her throat, hoping to get rid of it. She was going to have to tell Brooklyn before too much more time passed. There were things she needed to know. Unfortunately, it was a conversation she wasn’t looking forward to.
Her eyes closed, and she thought of Skip and Austin, out on their boat, reeling in their catch for the day. She had always been so proud of her men, more so of Austin for starting a successful fishing company at such a young age. Not that she had expected anything less from him. He had always known what he wanted and had never had any qualms about going after his dreams. Brooklyn even being one of them.
He had confided in his mother about his relationship with Brooklyn. He had worried about Bowie and wondered if he was a better man for Brooklyn. Austin trusted that Bowie knew he’d never do anything to jeopardize their friendship. Brooklyn and Bowie were close, best friends, and that sometimes bothered Austin. Carly always reassured her son that Brooklyn loved him. She could see it in her eyes, and Bowie’s too. Austin wasn’t so sure. Brooklyn had dreams. She wanted to move, to head south and go to school, something Austin had promised her. He wanted to stay but couldn’t find the words to tell her, mostly because he thought she’d leave him. Leave him for her best friend, because as sure as he was of their love for him, Austin told her that Bowie likely loved Brooklyn more.
After witnessing the closeness of Bowie and Brooklyn, Carly would agree with her son. Austin had tried hard to be a good man to Brooklyn but had had trouble prioritizing his life. When she should’ve come first, fishing did. He was no different than his father. They both had hooked the woman of their dreams and then set them aside while they continued their chosen paths.
She thought more of Skip and the last time she saw him. She had been busy in the kitchen, the inn was full of guests, the dining room had tables full of people, and her cook had called out sick. Skip was leaving, heading out to sea. He had told her the night before it would take them a while to get where they were going. She remembered telling him to pack his warmer clothes because it was cold up north and she didn’t want him catching a cold. A cold would turn into pneumonia, and they were far too busy to deal with something like that.