Those Cassabaw Days. Cindy Miles
Matt in one, and Em in the other. She lifted her gaze to his as he claimed the one with her name.
“This is for you to remember me by,” Matt offered. “Since you like ’em and all. I’ll keep yours, see, and you keep mine.” Then his brows furrowed. “It doesn’t mean boyfriend and girlfriend, or anything stupid like that.” He drew closer, his voice dropping once more to a whisper. “It just means best friends. Forever.” His eyes softened. “No matter what.”
A sob escaped her throat as she flung her arms around Matt’s neck. His skinny arms went around Emily, and he hugged her hard.
“No matter what,” Emily repeated against his damp shoulder. “Forever.”
“Emily, darling, it’s time to go.” Grandpa’s deep voice sounded behind them. They broke apart and, once more, Matt swiped Emily’s tears away with his fingers. Her grandpa gently grasped her hand and led her away.
Emily’s vision blurred as more tears filled her eyes, and even more pain returned. She watched the mossy ground move under her feet as she walked, and she’d kick an occasional pinecone when it got in her way. The rain had eased up, and the salty brine of the Back River wafted through the cemetery. Moss hung from the live oaks like ratty old hair, and puffy dandelions swayed with the breeze. She didn’t once look up, but she knew Matt followed, just a little behind. At her grandparents’ Bronco, she turned and met her best friend’s gaze. Matt stared hard and didn’t say anything, seemed almost angry, and she stared back. In her palm, she squeezed her Matt angel wing shell tightly.
Grandpa opened her door, and Matt mouthed the word bye.
Emily, her heart in her throat, mouthed it back.
She climbed in, and as the Bronco began to move away, the U-Haul heavy behind it, Emily kept her eyes trained on Matt Malone, standing there in his white shirt, crooked black tie and dress pants, his hand lifted in goodbye. She raised her hand, too, and didn’t look away until her grandpa turned out of the cemetery’s long driveway, heading toward the interstate.
Then, Emily reached over the seat to grasp little Reagan’s hand, closed her eyes and silently said goodbye to her home.
Cassabaw Station Present day Late May
EMILY QUINN WAITED in a single line of four or five cars as the big steel bridge to the island broke apart, each side rising high. The warm early-afternoon sun poured in and warmed her skin. Fats Waller’s “Ain’t Misbehavin’” played as she watched the large shrimp trawler pass beneath her. She turned the volume up, the trumpets and trombones and tenor saxophones of the vintage twenties music she loved so much coming to life through the speakers. Down the river, stilt houses and wooden docks hugged the water and marsh grass. She was almost home. Moments later, after the trawler had passed safely below, the bridge lowered, and she was again on her way, heading off the mainland and onto the island.
The early-summer wind whipped through the Jeep’s open doors and top and Emily inhaled, filling her lungs until they squeezed against her ribs.
Emily peered ahead down the stretched two-lane highway. Palms and oleander trees lined the narrow seven-mile tract of road over the marsh to Cassabaw Station, and it was just as she’d remembered. A tinge of excitement raced through her body, making her skin tingle. She had missed this—the salt life, her daddy had called it. She remembered only hazy bits and pieces of her past, but that one in particular stood out. That, and her father’s sandy-blond curls.
The humidity lingered as heavy as the brine of the creek—so much that it clung to her skin, her tongue. Emily swept her gaze to either side of the road as she drove. Rudy Vallée sang “As Time Goes By” and she hummed along, and somehow the vintage music fit right into the feel of Cassabaw. Low tide and clumps of saw grass hugged the edge of the muck. Oyster shoals rose in scattered little hills from the water and blinked in the sunlight.
Across the marsh, a lone white shrimp trawler sat anchored to the pilings, its masts and outriggings jutting skyward. Multiple docks stretched out over the saw grass to the water. Several had small tin-roofed dock houses. One of them now belonged to Emily and her younger sister.
Not for the first time since leaving Maryland a jolt of self-doubt shot through her, an unfamiliar sensation to Emily. Had she made the right decision? Was this new life, this brand-new start in the place where she’d grown up, really for her? Emily wasn’t fond of these niggling, questioning fears because it was more typical of her character to ponder, make a sound decision and be done with it. Stick to it and be confident in it.
Now, she questioned herself. Was it just butterflies? The return home after so many years? Her dad’s old aunt Cora—Emily’s last living relative, save Reagan—had passed away and left them the river house and the Windchimer, a seaside breakfast-and-lunch café. With Reagan now in the air force and deployed to Afghanistan, and Emily’s recent breakup, there had been no better time to accept.
It was a good decision. It had to be. In truth, Cassabaw had been pulling at her for some time. She’d been unsettled with her retail manager’s job, with her relationship and the hustle and bustle of the city, and politics. Alone in Bethesda, or alone in Cassabaw? Somehow things didn’t seem so rimmed with despair on the island, even though she’d still be alone. The city never was her cup of tea. Now? The opportunity to leave it had been perfect. The therapist she’d had, so very long ago, had informed Emily that she suffered abandonment issues. Maybe. Possibly.
A couple of months earlier, Emily’s boyfriend had ended their relationship. She’d met Trent Hughes her sophomore year of college where they’d both played lacrosse for Mount St. Mary’s University. He was nice. Generous. Safe. Charming. Athletic. Everyone liked Trent. She may have even loved him, really, and had at the very least fancied the idea of growing old together. At first, she’d been hurt by the breakup. Hurt and rejected.
But politics and business—and his mother—always came first with Trent. And from the start Emily, with her spontaneity, her quirky love of the twenties and thirties and otherwise average life, just didn’t fit in with Trent’s political upper-crust Georgetown family—no matter how hard she’d tried. Mrs. Hughes definitely wasn’t thrilled about her dating Trent. The longer they stayed together, the bolder those facts became to Emily. Trent had always assured her he loved her the way she was, but over the past several months that assuredness didn’t really sit well with Emily and she had no doubt Allegoria Hughes had been a major factor in Trent’s decision to break things off. Emily, possessing a mammoth amount of pride, didn’t fight his decision—and that surprised Trent. And when the opportunity arose to move back home, she knew it was right. She wanted Cassabaw, not the Capital. She didn’t want someone to just merely accept her the way she was. At twenty-seven, her whole life lay ahead. Alone, she supposed it didn’t really matter. She’d make it work no matter what.
Finally, after fifteen long years, she was home. She inhaled deeply, letting the breath escape her pursed lips. Yes, indeed. It felt right.
Emily’s eyes slipped over the long, narrow road, crossing the marsh and river as she passed. The USCG station entrance stood ahead on the left. Matt Malone instantly rushed to the front of her memories. She fondly remembered her neighbor, Mr. Malone, as being part of the Coast Guard. He had worn his Coast Guard hat, and had really big muscles. Matt was his middle son and had been her very best friend. The years that separated them had somewhat dulled their old life together.
Now that she was back on Cassabaw...? Matt Malone seemed solid, real. Kind of like he would be waiting on the path that ran between their houses; a lanky twelve-year-old boy with a wide, toothy grin and emerald-green eyes. Random silly things they did as kids rushed back like a pot of water boiling over fast. Climbing trees. Eating wild blackberries that grew beside the keeper’s cottage. Racing up the steps to the lighthouse. Crabbing off the floating dock. Chasing fireflies in the summer. Dancing decades-old dances Matt’s Irish grandfather had taught them. So many recollections...
Emily