Three years later . . .
The sun peeked up over the little hills in the distance, its lengthened rays casting an amber-golden glow that sparkled like jewels. Zoey lifted her camera and snapped three shots in quick succession. Then lowered her camera again, and just watched. Rows of tiny whitewashed houses snaked along the cobbled streets, their royal-blue doors and shutters dotting the landscape like flecks of blueberry. A flock of red-beaked seagulls passed across her field of vision. She heard the creak and groan of thick ropes as the fishing boat in the foreground rocked at dockside.
Was she really thirty? She could scarcely believe it. Three years had gone by so fast, like a time-travel hiccup or a trick of the light, and yet so much had happened in those three years. She had become a regular at Helena’s. She and Georgia Dawson had become good friends. And her whole life had changed.
Her mom surprised her doctors by hanging on for another six months. Zoey had made the trek upstate and back a few dozen times to visit her in the facility where she was being attended to, and the two packed more time together into those six months than they’d had in years. Henry called it their “bonus round,” and Zoey thought he had that exactly right.
Yet that sweet reprieve could not last forever. When her mom passed away, Zoey’s dad sold the home in upstate New York, and with those proceeds and the life insurance settlement as down payment, she and her dad went in on a little duplex in a cozy neighborhood in Brooklyn. Taking ownership, as Henry said. Tiny as it was, they each had their own bedroom, which in Zoey’s case also served as a little studio where she could write and do some yoga. And study in the evenings for her photography course. Just as Henry had predicted, it took her only six months to save up the tuition.
Paying off the credit cards had taken a bit longer. Once she’d learned how to set up her essential bill payments to go out of her checking account automatically on whatever day of the month she set, she put those credit card minimums on automatic. Not only did that lift another burden of worry off her shoulders, but she was also surprised (and thrilled) to see just how much she saved by not paying any more late fees.
Quite a decent latte factor itself.
Following a suggestion from Henry, she’d soon added a second automatic monthly payment on each card, timed two weeks after its corresponding minimum payment, and the two together were like a pair of sharp axes to a tree: in twenty-two months the tree fell, and her card balances hit zero. No more card payments. More latte factor.
The student loans . . . well, that was a more long-term project. It would take some years. That was okay. She’d get there.
The light was already changing, that amber-golden glow just beginning to pale. More noises from the boat. She lifted her camera again and snapped a few more shots.
The cards and loans weren’t the only places where Zoey found her latte factor lurking. The basic math Henry had scribbled on the little Starbucks napkin turned out to be pretty accurate. And, miracle of miracles and with Georgia’s patient help, Zoey had taught herself to cook. “It’s exactly like photography,” Georgia told her, “except that when you’re finished setting up and taking the shot, you get to eat it.” That made Zoey laugh so hard, she almost shot latte out her nose. The amount she saved by making her own lunches, though, that was no laughing matter. Like Baron’s unanticipated dividends when he quit smoking. His cigarette factor, she thought with a smile.
Zoey had canceled the premium cable channels she never watched (latte factor) and the gym membership she hardly ever used (latte factor). Gave away outfits she never wore and tossed the catalogs that would have seduced her into buying more (latte factor). Meanwhile her retirement account began building, and so did her Adventure Account.
The village now began to stir as the sun continued its climb, degree by degree, and she caught fragments of quiet conversation from fishermen readying their boats. Golden Hour would soon be past.
She snapped another photo, then another, and one more, then paused to study the camera in her hands. It was a beauty. An early birthday present from Georgia and Baron, given just days before she’d left the States, since they wouldn’t be with her on her actual birthday.
Which, as it happened, was today.
This was the last stop on her six-week swing through the Greek islands. She’d taken notes the whole time, and emailed in her story just the previous day. Barbara emailed her that night to tell her the news: they were running her piece in the next issue—with some of her photos—as a feature story! She would be returning to a promotion. Zoey was now not only an associate editor but also a contributing columnist. Barbara had concluded her email with this brief sign-off:
Happy birthday, Z.
—Boss
P.S. Nice postcards
This was Zoey’s third annual trip—her third radical sabbatical. The previous year she had ventured west of the Mississippi for the first time in her life and spent five weeks in the mountains of the American Southwest, from Sedona, Arizona, to Las Cruces, New Mexico. A few of her photos from that trip now graced a wall at Helena’s.
Sabbatical #2 had been amazing, but not even the Red Rocks of Sedona could outdo the magic of Sabbatical #1. That first fall, not long after saying goodbye to her mom for the last time, she and her father had spent four weeks together on the coast of Maine. They foraged wild blueberries, photographed bald eagles nesting in the waterways, went out on lobster boats. Told each other stories from years past, reliving moments with Zoey’s mom, sharing those living photographs framed in time and captured through the lenses of their hearts. The trip didn’t cost that much (which was helpful; Zoey was, after all, still saving for her Greek islands trip), but it was the richest experience Zoey had ever had.
Before leaving for Greece, she asked her father, if he could go anywhere in the world, where would he want to go? “Alaska,” he replied without hesitation.
“It’s a date,” she said. “Next year, Dad. Start packing.”
She took a sip of her hot Greek coffee and watched as the little village came to life under the Aegean sun. She hefted her camera in her hands again and lifted it to her eye—her oculus—to take another shot.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Zoey Daniels was thirty years old today, and as far as she was concerned, she was the richest woman in the world.