by Nicole Bross
Before you read the rest of this letter, I want you to go back to the inn. Go up to my office on the second floor, sit out on the balcony, then finish it.
I know you’re impatient, and probably even a little pissed at me for bringing you here, but I mean it. This is important. Please do this one thing for me.
Love,
Roz
For a second I’m tempted to flip the page and keep reading. Roz is right—I am a little pissed at her for dragging me all this way, only to be sent on a treasure hunt all over town. I close my eyes, letting my mind wrestle with my heart for a moment.
“Go on, Audrey,” Bill says, interrupting my mental war. He must be in on the plan. “I’ll be here when you’re finished.”
A wry sniff escapes me. “All right then. See you soon.” I fold up the letter, stuff it into my back pocket, and make my way back into the street. Suddenly I hate everything about Soberly, from its stupid quaint tourist-bait shops to the fact that there isn’t a single Starbucks within ten miles. More than anything, I hate the dumb fucking Soberly Inn and Public House. I hate it for existing, for trapping my aunt here with its tacky coastal charms when she should have done bigger things with her life. I kick an empty soda cup into the street with a fury it didn’t deserve. Maybe if she’d lived somewhere that had modern amenities, her cancer might have been discovered before it was too late. Fuming at the injustice of her early demise and my own predicament resulting from it, I make my way back to the inn. Cora peers at me over her half-moon glasses as I wrench the door open so hard the glass panes rattle.
“That was quick,” she says.
“We didn’t even get started.” I throw the page down in front of her. Cora reads it over with a raised brow.
“Roz always had a flair for the dramatic. Her office is right up this way. I’ll show you.” She leads me through the same door she first appeared through, into a more utilitarian office, dominated by filing cabinets and cork boards with everything from staff schedules to tidal charts tacked to them.
“She’s trying to persuade me to stay,” I say as Cora unlocks a door and makes her way up the wooden staircase, each tread creaking under her weight.
“I know,” she replies. “The view from her balcony was her favorite. It was what persuaded her to buy the inn years ago—the prospect of getting to see it every day. She always said you couldn’t call what she did work when you got to spend your time looking out over the ocean from a spot like that.”
“She should have picked Hawaii,” I grumble. “Then I might consider it.” Cora offers me a snort that might be her idea of laughter.
At the top of the stairs is a room that’s part study, part sitting room, with bookshelves along one wall, a sturdy-looking oak desk, couch, and a small kitchenette in one corner.
“Was this a guest room once?” I ask. Cora shakes her head.
“The previous owner’s living quarters. It has quick access to the entry, for latecomers or any guests who required assistance after hours. Neither of us liked the idea of being woken up in the middle of the night, so we hired a night desk person, and Roz turned the space into her personal office.” She nods in the direction of a set of double French doors. “Out there.”
“Thanks.” Cora’s already halfway down the stairs. I could see how it had pained her to be in this room from the way she’d stayed close to the door, keeping her gaze away from the personal effects scattered about. A gourmet magazine had been left open on the couch. A dirty coffee mug, complete with lipstick stain, sitting on the desk. For all I knew, it was the first time she’d been up here since Roz’s death.
I stubbornly avoid looking out at the sea as I settle into one of the Adirondack chairs. The sun is still high enough in the sky that I’m protected from its glare, but the sunsets must be spectacular from this vantage point. Shit. I’d been looking without meaning to.
Roz was right: the view was amazing. I can see for a couple miles in each direction. It’s a perfect day for the beach, with the sunlight dancing like Fourth of July sparklers on the waves as they roll in toward the sand. Over the dunes toward the north, I can barely see a lighthouse perched on a rocky outcropping. Yep, as far as ocean views go, this one was pretty much perfect. Dammit, Roz.
I’ve half-crumpled the letter in my too-tight fist, and there are faint marks left behind from my sweat. I take a moment to smooth the pages out on my lap and take a couple of deep breaths before focusing on the hand-written words.
Dear Aud,
It only takes two words for my eyes to well up. In my early school years, I’d always been taunted by kids calling me Odd, Oddball, or from one particularly creative jackass, Odd-pee, which was always followed by apsss sound, or a lunge for my crotch. To Roz, being called odd was never a slur. Odd was a badge you wore with pride, and when she affectionately shortened my name, it didn’t feel like an insult.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I say to the gulls circling lazily above, as the tears roll down my cheeks. It’s the first time the impact Roz had on my childhood, mixed with the finality of her death, has really hit me, and suddenly I’m not mad at her anymore. With a couple of shaky breaths, I turn back to the letter.
Dear Aud,
Let me start by saying, it wasn’t supposed to turn out this way. I never thought I’d die so young, and especially not when everything started coming together. No one does, right? This place—the town, the inn, the people—all of it is something I never knew I was looking for until I found it. It’s so, so perfect, except for one thing missing. That was you.
I know I told you when you were young that I’d come back for you, and we’d go on adventures together. I remember using those exact words. I wasn’t just paying lip service—I meant it, but you know how it goes. Shit gets in the way, and you lose track of time. I always figured time was something I had plenty of. For years, I didn’t really have anything of value to offer. I know you’ve always taken care of yourself—God, with your mother dead drunk half the time, and my brother’s zealotry, what other choice did you have? I don’t think you’ve found your way yet, despite your success with your career and the life you’ve made for yourself. You’re me, ten years ago, searching for something you know you need, but can’t identify.
The plan was supposed to be that once I’d turned the inn around and paid off my debts, I’d lure you here for a visit. In the stories I’ve created in my head, you’d fall in love with the place instantly. But the reality is I know you’d need some convincing. Probably a lot. I had all sorts of schemes. For starters, the history of the Oregon coast, and Soberly in particular, is fascinating and more than a bit mysterious. You could spend the rest of your career documenting the stories of the pirates, smugglers, native tribes, and early settlers. What I wanted was for us to run this inn together, as partners and co-owners. To give you the roots, the family, that you’ve never really had.
You see, things are going fine here, well, even. The inn is holding its own amongst all the other places like it along the coast. I could say the same about myself. I’m happy with the life I’ve made. Most days, I find it hard to understand how I got so lucky.
But. (there’s always a ‘but,’ isn’t there?)
I’m a bit selfish. Well isn’t enough. Happy isn’t enough. You—your passion for the past, your ability to find those interesting details that make history come alive (I’ve read every article and paper of yours I can get my hands on, you know) could make the inn one of a kind, something authentic, a testament to bygone days. You could fill the part of me that’s missing my family, wanting to finally fulfill the promise I made eighteen years ago. As much as I think this place is what you need, having you here is what I need too.
Of course, that’s all gone to shit. Suddenly I’m out of time and have to come up with some half-assed Plan-B instead. So, here you go, Aud. The keys to the rest of your life, if you’ll take them. I really, really hope you do. I’m not going to try and make bargains or set time limits. I’m not even going to pull the Dying W
oman’s Last Wish card. If I’m right, I won’t need to, and this place will weave its way into your heart the way it did mine. If I’m wrong, know that I still love you, and always have. You’re the closest thing to a little sister I’ve ever had, and if there’s any sort of afterlife, I’m looking out for you. The decision is entirely yours to make, Aud. You know yourself best.
Seriously though, this view. Doesn’t it make you feel like you could step over the side and fly like one of the gulls?
Love,
Roz
“That’s exactly what it feels like,” I say to the sky. I’m not sure at what point of the letter I started crying again, but the tears are flowing freely. “I don’t know, Roz, I just don’t know. It’s so much to ask.”
I can’t think of anyone who could offer me advice, or even lend an ear so I could talk it out and process the position I’m in. I don’t have even a Christmas card relationship with my parents anymore, no siblings, no close friends to speak of, not even an ex I’m still on good terms with. That lack weighs heavily on me now, and with a strangled half-laugh, half-sob, I realize Roz is probably who I would have called if anyone else had dropped this all on me. The difficult part is, I already know exactly what her advice would be.
She’d tell me to jump off the edge and soar.
REGRESS
His heart was racing, although the last tendrils of the dream were already receding from his mind, which was groggy from waking so soon after nodding off. Something about being pursued? He was uncertain, only that who—or what—ever had been chasing him in his sleep had frightened him so badly he’d sat up in bed, choking back a cry.
He was no stranger to nightmares. His dreams had always been full of terrors. He was a worrier, his subconscious filtering through his fears, transforming them into narratives that often left him as he was tonight, soaked with sweat, full of adrenaline, and afraid to close his eyes again. Sometimes the breathing exercises and calming words his doctor had taught him were enough to settle his mind, but tonight he knew he’d need the sleep tonic if he was going to get any more rest.
Gritting his teeth against the shock of leaving the warm covers, he slid out of bed, hoping not to disturb Lilith’s slumber. They’d both stayed up too late, unable to tear themselves away from the radio and the terrible news from Pearl Harbor. Maybe the thought that America was under attack had triggered tonight’s dream, he reflected as he padded down the hall, navigating by memory in the dark.
Lilith insisted he keep the sleep tonic in the kitchen, at the back of the highest cupboard where it would be out of reach from the children. Behind the cooking sherry and his single malt scotch, which he considered far more of a threat. The medicine cabinet in the washroom ought to have been safe enough—they kept a bottle of aspirin in there after all, for God’s sake—but she was adamant.
“If—God forbid—one of them drank the whole bottle, they’d never wake up again,” she’d said when he brought it home from the pharmacy. Lilith was asleep within five minutes of laying her head on the pillow, no matter what the circumstances, and didn’t wake again until the alarm clock on her night table jangled the next morning. Even when the Japanese were invading. But it was easier not to argue.
He paused at the top of the stairs, hearing a small cough from behind the boys’ closed door. Had he failed to muffle his scream and wakened one of them? Charlie was a restless sleeper, and, even at five, seldom slept through the night. Perhaps he’d come out of his room with his hair sticking out in every direction, rubbing his eyes, and asking if it was morning yet. They could sit at the table with mugs of warm milk and have a man-to-man talk before heading back upstairs. He smiled at the thought, hoping the boy would be up, but the door stayed closed. After a moment, surrounded by a stillness so complete he knew he was the only one awake, he stepped off the landing.
His foot landed solidly on a toy car—how had he missed it coming up to bed earlier?—and he felt himself falling backward as it skidded out from under him. Instinctively, he pinwheeled his arms forward, grabbing at empty air in an effort to remain upright.
This was a mistake. Rather than suffering a hard landing on his backside at the top of the stairs, he pitched head-first down them, tumbling over and over.
Still, he might have survived with only a broken collarbone, which snapped in half on the third step, if the newel post hadn’t had such sharp corners at its base. His temple smashed into it with all the momentum of his body behind it, caving in his skull and killing him almost instantly.
His mind, still groggy and trying to process what had even caused such a calamity, was completely blank at the moment of death. He passed without even realizing these moments would be his last.
5
“Are things any clearer now?” Bill asks, releasing my hand from in between both of his own.
“Clear as mud, as a former professor used to say to me.” Roz’s letter is once again stuffed into my back pocket, and I feel it crinkle as I sink into the chair across from the lawyer’s desk. Doubt shadowed me on the short walk over, eating away at the hope that had built on Roz’s balcony. “I appreciate Roz’s effort to try and help me, but this isn’t right for me. The inn should be Cora’s. I told her I wanted to work something out with her. This is her home, not mine. I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Audrey,” Bill says. “Roslyn knew there was a chance you would want to continue with your life as you’ve made it. Transferring ownership to Cora is the most logical choice, and I know your aunt would be happy the inn isn’t going to a stranger.” The file folder is still on Bill’s desk, and he pulls out a sheaf of papers. “However,” he continues, “before a sale can be made to Cora, the inn has to be transferred to you, and that will take a bit of time. The will has to be filed with the court, and the title to the inn has to be made out in your name. Estate taxes will have to be paid, and after all that, the inn’s financials will have to be reviewed. All debts and assets will have to be established so an accurate value can be determined, and then an offer of sale can be made. I expect it to take at least three weeks, possibly four if you intend on returning out east and we have to mail documents back and forth. If you can stay in Soberly, however, it’s possible we could have everything finalized in eight or nine business days, with one more day for the sale to Cora, provided neither of you place any conditions on the sale that will require time to meet. Do you have a pressing need to get back home?”
“Not really,” I say. “Although I haven’t arranged to stay here either.”
“One of the benefits of owning a hotel is that you always have a bed to sleep in,” Bill says with a chuckle.
“Not tonight,” I reply and tell him what Kellen said about the inn being full until the end of the weekend. I wonder to myself how comfortable the couch in Roz’s office is. It might be my only option if I want to stay in town.
“Well, it’s good to hear the business is doing well,” he says. “Let’s get to it, then,” and starts handing me papers to sign. “I also need two pieces of government-issued identification from you. Your identity needs to be verified, and copies need to be filed with the county.”
“Two? I have a driver’s license.” I start rummaging through my wallet. “What about my old student ID, or my health insurance?”
“Both need to be issued by the government, unfortunately. A passport would be an acceptable second piece, or a birth certificate or social security card.”
“I don’t have any of those with me,” I tell him, starting to panic. “My passport expired years ago, and the other ones are probably at the bottom of a box somewhere back home. I have my social security number memorized, so I never need the actual card. I’m me. I mean, I am who I say I am, I’m not an imposter.”
“I believe you, Audrey,” Bill says, his voice soothing. “It’s a matter of the law, that’s all. I do happen to know that you can apply for a new birth certificate online and have it mailed out to you. If you put a rush on it, you can get one in a week or tw
o, depending on the state you were born in.”
“We can get everything else squared away in the meantime, right?”
“A couple things, yes. The transfer of the property can’t begin until your identity is confirmed and filed.”
“Seriously?” I pinch the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb. If I’m not careful, this habit of mine is going to leave bruises by the time this process is finished.
“We can fill out the application form right now on my laptop. Don’t worry, Audrey. Think of it this way, you can have a relaxing week on the beach, eat the freshest seafood in the country, maybe read a couple good books, and before you know it, this will all be settled. There isn’t a man or woman alive who doesn’t need a good vacation, and the forecast this week is clear skies and sunshine.” His blue eyes twinkle. I frown in reply.
“Okay,” I say, resigned to the inevitable. “Let’s get me a new birth certificate.”
***
It’s not uncommon for me to see the moment of a person’s death in a past life. It is, after all, a momentous event—maybe, after birth, the most important moment anyone experiences. The fact that we were meeting to discuss a shared acquaintance’s passing might have triggered his spirit’s recollection of that particular time. It was one I definitely planned on logging in my notebook and possibly pursuing further—finding an American man who died from an accidental fall on the day Pearl Harbor was bombed, especially when I knew the first name of his wife and one of his children, would not be all that hard. Then, if I could learn when Bill Blackmoor was born, I’d have a definite answer to the amount of time between his death in a former life, and his birth in this one. I’d only managed to unravel that time frame on a couple of other occasions, and I was excited to add to the data pool. Judging by his appearance, he ought to have been born right around the time of World War Two.