“Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go. Finish your waffles. The school bus is going to be here any minute.”
My little pep talk has no effect. Caitlyn stares at the television and absent-mindedly keeps chewing.
“Pumpkin?”
Still no response.
I pick up the remote and turn off the television, which finally gets her attention.
“Chop chop!” I say, clapping my hands.
“I’m ready,” she says with that sigh that every parent knows and loves.
“Got your math homework?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Go get your book bag,” I say, pouring myself a cup of coffee.
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Can I have some coffee?”
“What? No, you can’t have coffee.”
“Trisha Carpenter’s mom lets her drink coffee.”
“Trisha Carpenter?”
She nods.
“Yeah. Well, it kind of shows. No coffee.”
“You never let me do anything.” She pouts, but doesn’t really mean it. She hops off the chair.
“Yes, I’m a horrible monster for not— Hey! Young lady, where are your shoes?”
“They’re up in my room.” She shrugs.
“You are killing me this morning, sweetheart. You’re absolutely killing me. Book bag. Shoes. Come on. Let’s go!”
She rolls her eyes, grabs her bookbag, and dramatically stomps up the stairs.
I need to get her on that bus because I need to get to my writing. The novel is chugging along. It’s late, to be sure, but it’s shaping up to be that rare sequel that’s better than the original. I’ve been working on it every day in the ‘writing room’ of our new three-bedroom house in a quiet neighborhood in the beautiful seaside town of Avalon in California, between Monterey and San Francisco. After everything that happened, we needed a change—a big one. The drive across the country with Caitlyn was an incredible adventure, and the perfect way to start a new chapter together. We marveled at the changing landscapes, tried to find the most interesting places to eat, played “I Spy”, and listened to old radio programs. We’d stop at any roadside attraction that sparked our interest. My favorite was the Ice Caves in Wyoming. Caitlyn’s was, of course, a famous candy store in Illinois, where we enjoyed milkshakes and stocked up on enough chocolate, licorice, and saltwater taffy to last us the rest of the trip and then some. After a week on the road, we were both sad to see it end, but I told her how big California is, and promised her a drive along the coast next summer. She immediately began counting the days. We finally reached Avalon and began our new lives.
We’ve been here for almost six months. The memories of the Nightingale House will always be with us, but they’re fading, being overtaken by new memories and experiences. Caitlyn and I still don’t talk about it that much. I don’t think we ever will. There are some things we’ve held on to and other things we’ve left behind.
We both love it here. Caitlyn helped me pick out the house. It’s smaller, but still charming. In other words, exactly what we were looking for. The town is great. Caitlyn loves her school. She’s making friends, like the caffeine-riddled Trisha Carpenter, and Caitlyn’s lying has stopped. Our lives are moving on.
I open the front door, step out onto the porch, and glance down the street.
Damnit.
“Caitlyn! The bus is almost here!”
“Coming, coming, coming!”
She descends the stairs, shoes on, backpack slung over her shoulder, and hanging from her neck is the medallion with the last line of the poem; The Secrets That I Keep. She wanted to hold on to it. I felt like it was kind of fitting. I had a small hole drilled in the top and put it on a delicate silver chain. She wears it every day, just like how I wear Nicole’s ring.
I step back inside and meet her at the bottom of the stairs.
“Okay,” I say, straightening her clothes. “Have a great day at school. Pay attention. And remember that I love you very much, Caitlyn Nicole Price.”
I kiss her on the cheek.
“I love you too, Dad.”
She kisses me on the cheek.
Then, she completes the second part of our morning ritual by turning to the small table, just inside the front door. There’s a framed picture of Nicole. Caitlyn kisses the tips of her fingers and touches the photo.
“Bye, Mom.”
She then looks at the framed black-and-white photo of a young girl, sitting next to it.
“Bye, Katherine.”
With that, Caitlyn runs out the door as the bus pulls up to the end of the driveway. The doors hiss open. Caitlyn turns and gives me a quick wave. I send one back. She climbs in and I see her silhouette move down the bus and find a seat. The engine rumbles and the bus drives away.
I watch until it’s a small speck in the distance.
I go back inside, close the door, and look at the photos on the table.
Caitlyn knows that they’re gone. We both do. Even though we don’t talk about it that much, we’re both grateful for what they did for us. I kiss my own fingers and touch Nicole’s photo. Then I do the same for Katherine.
I head to the kitchen, grab my cup of coffee, and go to the Writing Room, which is a little glass-enclosed porch that offers a spectacular view of the Pacific Ocean.
The notebook is open on the desk, ready to go.
I look out at the shimmering expanse of water under the blue sky.
I pick up the pen and begin writing.
It’s a perfect day.
If Nightingale House had you tearing through the pages, don’t miss Steve Frech’s Dark Hollows. In sleepy Vermont, Jacob’s past is coming back to haunt him … Available now!
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