The Oysterville Sewing Circle. Susan Wiggs
had come here because she needed breathing space, a way to sort herself out, a plan for the children. She had no idea if she’d find the answers here, but she was out of options.
“It’s kinda spooky out there,” Flick said from the back seat.
“You think?” In the early light, the estuaries and forested uplands probably did look vaguely threatening.
“Are we safe?”
He asked her that a lot. No six-year-old should have to ask that question. Finally she felt confident of the answer. “Absolutely.”
“I don’t see any houses. Just woods and fog.”
“And hundreds of thousands of shorebirds,” she pointed out. “It’s the spring migration, and all kinds of birds come here to rest and feed. I’ll take you exploring, and you’ll see. We’ll get you some binoculars like a professional bird watcher.”
Addie awakened with a whimper. “Is it morning?”
“You got lost,” Flick said. “You were naughty.”
“I’m not naughty.”
“She’s not naughty.” Caroline intervened before the bickering had a chance to take hold. “Addie, even though you didn’t mean to do anything wrong, you forgot to stay put when I went after Flick back at the gas station.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. The little girl yawned and rubbed her eyes. “It’s scary to me when I don’t know where you are every moment. So when you climbed back into the car without telling me, I got really worried.”
Addie stared out the window, blinking the sleep from her eyes.
“Mama left without telling us,” Flick pointed out.
Caroline tried not to flinch at the memory. “That’s completely different. She didn’t leave you by choice. She wouldn’t have done that for the world.”
Since the incident—she didn’t know what else to call it—she had been speed-reading books on helping young children through crisis. During the weeklong drive, she’d had daily videoconferences with a child psychologist she couldn’t afford. The counselor and the books offered suggestions—how to speak in terms the children would understand, how to respond honestly and reassuringly. Yet ultimately, there was no script for this, no road map to point her in the right direction. Despite her efforts so far, she knew that in the end, words would never be enough.
Don’t lie. But don’t overexplain.
“You said we were almost there.” Flick switched topics, craning his neck as they passed a billboard welcoming them to your tidewater vacationland.
“Are we almost there?” Addie asked.
“Well, that depends on what you mean by almost. I can tell you, we’ll be there in time for breakfast. I sent my sister Virginia a text message, and she said she’s making blueberry pancakes with real syrup. Her blueberry pancakes are the best in all the land.”
A glance at the rearview mirror told her she had their attention. Good, she thought. Engage them in the “right here, right now” moment. Another thing she’d figured out in her crash course in parenting was to offer the children concrete information on a level they could understand. Tell them things in advance. Not too far in advance, but let them know what to expect and anticipate. They had only ever known the busy, eclectic neighborhood of Hell’s Kitchen, where they’d lived with their mother, just a block from their primary school on West Forty-Fourth Street. Now they were about to enter a strange new world, and Caroline could tell from their quiet, wide-eyed expressions that they were worried.
“Let’s play the remembering game,” she said, hoping to stave off the restlessness that often preceded meltdowns. “What’s the name of the town where my family lives?”
“Oysterville,” they piped up together.
“Hey, that’s great. You got that down. Here’s a tricky question. How many brothers and sisters do I have?”
“Five!” Flick said.
“Five kids in my family, so I have four siblings.”
“How many is four?” asked Addie.
“Like your fingers,” Flick said, holding up his hand. “One, two, three, four.”
“You’re right about the fingers,” Caroline said. “I have two older sisters and two younger brothers. Remember, I told you our family was a sibling sandwich with me in the middle.”
Crushed in the middle, she thought.
“Let’s play the name game one more time,” she said. She wanted to familiarize them with their new circumstances so things wouldn’t feel so completely foreign to them. “Can you remember my sisters’ names?”
“Virginia,” said Flick. “You just said.”
“Good. How about my other sister? Remember how I said we’re all named after states. Caroline for Carolina, Virginia, and …?”
“Georgia!” Flick said.
“Georgia,” Addie repeated.
“That’s right. And my two brothers are both younger than me, because I’m in the middle. Our parents named the boys after cities.” In the too-much-information department, her parents liked to tell people they named each child after the place where he or she had been conceived. “See if you can remember,” she said. “I showed you their pictures on my phone.”
“Jackson.”
“That’s right. Jackson lives on a boat in the harbor at Ilwaco. It was dark when we passed it, but I bet he’d like to show you around. He’s the seafood buyer for the restaurant, and he’s a fisherman, too.”
“How can he live on a boat?” asked Addie.
“Believe me, you’re not the first girl to ask that.” Jackson was the free spirit of the family, never overly concerned with domestic matters.
“Is it a house, only it’s on a boat?”
“Not exactly. It’s more like a boat with really small rooms. You’ll see one day soon. Now, what about my other brother—the youngest one in the family?”
Hesitation.
“Starts with Au,” she hinted. “When you’re older, you’ll study states and capitals in school, and you’ll learn that this is the capital of Texas.”
Flick shrugged. “I forgot.”
“That’s all right. It’s hard to remember names before you get to know who they belong to. My brothers are Jackson and Austin. My parents’ names are Dottie and Lyle. How about this one—can you remember the name of my family’s restaurant?”
“Star of the Sea!”
During the drive, they’d stopped at dozens of restaurants, diners, and truck stops. She had told them about the Shelby family restaurant, founded by her parents. A now-famous destination on the peninsula, it was located on the beach at the edge of the dunes, where the sea and sand met in irregular stitches.
“That’s right,” she said. “Star of the Sea. I think you’re going to like it.”
“Can we go there now?” asked Flick. “I’m hungry.”
“My sister is fixing breakfast at the house,” Caroline reminded him. “You’ll have plenty of chances to eat there. The whole Shelby clan works at the restaurant in some way or other.” Her brother Austin was the finance guy, a CPA who kept the family books, and Georgia was the restaurant’s general manager. “It’s a true family business.”
“Except you,” said Flick.
“Except me,” she admitted.
When she was little, Caroline hadn’t realized how hard her parents had worked—the long hours,