When the two women finished, they rose and embraced each other. Then, needing the touch of sympathy, they risked hugging each other, not knowing when they’d have this luxury again.
There were few words left to say. Linnea watched them depart in single file along the narrow beach path. These were the people who made up the heart of her world. Each one of them had in his or her own way pointed her in the direction of her own path. She knew she’d still be afraid of failure. That she was flawed and would make many more mistakes. But it was their individual examples of day-to-day bravery that encouraged her to keep trying, to not give up, to be authentic. To be like the turtle and follow her instincts.
Each of these people was on his or her own path too, she thought. Emmi was on her way to Pawleys Island. Anna and Cooper were leaving soon for the university. Palmer and Julia would begin a new house project somewhere. David and Cara bookended Hope, who would be their chief focus for several more years to come. Only John remained at her side. Linnea turned to look at him now.
He was wearing a black shirt and black jeans. She let her gaze wander over his strong nose, dark brows, and ruddy skin. He stood solid with his legs spread and his arms crossed, watching the exodus. He, as much as or more than anyone else, had rocked her world. He’d made her feel the exaltation of love and the heartbreak of abandonment. He’d also revealed sincere regret and humility and the desire to change. His declaration of commitment had, she knew, taken courage.
“Where are you headed off to?” she asked him.
He turned to face her, squinting in the light from the rising sun. “I haven’t figured that out yet.”
She mulled that over. “Me neither.”
He cracked a begrudging smile. “Gordon settled up and left.”
“I know.”
“I guess it’s over between you?”
“I guess.”
John rocked on his heels. “What have you decided?”
She looked up into his green eyes and shrugged with a freedom she hadn’t felt in a long time. “I’ve decided not to decide.”
He blew out his cheeks. “Okay.”
She laughed at his confusion. She understood it all too well. “It was Flo who made it clear to me.”
“Flo? Really?”
“Yep. She told me something very wise. If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”
“Lord help me,” John said, looking skyward. “She must’ve said that at least once every day.”
She laughed again. “But did you listen? I know I didn’t. All summer long I worried about if and when I’d get my job back. Then it was whether Anna was depressed or Cooper horny or my mother mad. Or if Daddy would get his house built. If David would get well. If Hope would ever go home again. Where Gordon would live and, of course, if you were going back to California. Every time I thought I had a plan figured out, something else would come up and blow the plan into ether. Now, I confess,” she said, scratching behind her ear, “it took me a while to understand what Flo was trying to tell me. But it finally sank in. I can’t make a plan or a decision right now. None of us can. We’re in the middle of a pandemic! We have to know when to zig and when to zag to avoid the calamity that’s heading toward us every day. The key word for us is pivot.”
Linnea turned to face him, her intent to be heard. “Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Yet in this year of 2020, there is no hindsight to be had! All of us are trying to make the best of this year like no other. We don’t know what the future will bring. It’s like you said, every day is precious. So let’s be happy just living in the here and now. Let’s try not to get sick.” She laughed. “That’s enough adventure for me. That’s all the decision I can make right now. There’s a freedom in that. The pressure is off. I’m going to take it one day at a time. And you know what?”
John shook his head.
“Today, I’m glad you’re here.”
His face broke into a wide grin. “I am too.”
Linnea looked out across the empty beach. Not even a dog frolicked at the shoreline. The tide had swept away all sign of trespass. Nary a footprint scarred the smoothness. Linnea felt a sudden urge to make her mark.
“Want to take a walk?” She stuck out her hand.
John grasped her hand, and they began walking down from the dune to where the sand was soft under their feet. Luna trotted happily at her side, nose in the air. Linnea looked over her shoulder. The sea oats waved on the dune where a seashell sat on a small mound. The only marks along the beach were her footprints and John’s, side by side, in the sand.
Looking forward again, she smiled and lifted her face to the rising sun.
acknowledgments
EVERY BOOK I write is a journey. Yet the writing of The Summer of Lost and Found was, like the year 2020 it was written in, an experience like no other. For the past twenty years I have written books in a process that I had designed to help me create themes I developed from the species or environmental issues I chose as the novel’s backdrop. That process included intuition in the choice of species, academic research, extensive interviews with experts in the field, and finally, hands-on work experience with the animals. From that research and experience, I derived my story. By the time I wrote the first word, I knew my themes, plot, characters, setting, and often, the end.
Not so with this book. I figured that since all my stories center around a woman’s life—I write family sagas—what could be more interesting to write about than the changes and challenges families faced with forced isolation, togetherness, and economic strain? I wanted to write about this phenomenon we were living in—not about the Covid-19 illness, but family dynamics. And how better than with a family I knew so well—the Rutledge family of the Beach House series.
I wrote this novel in real time—and what a roller-coaster journey it has been! I let go of a process that worked for me and went boldly into the story. I write from structure and yes, I did begin with an outline. The problem came, however, when living through the weeks and months of the pandemic year, my perspective kept changing and I threw out my outline. I was introducing the next generation in the series and recognized that the problems of 2020 were different for the older generation than the younger. After the original shock and fear of a global shutdown, we went through the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Our defense strategies shifted to coping strategies.
What I wanted to say in April was different in July and changed again in November. Rewrite followed rewrite. I pulled my hair out, cursed the characters, the story, swore I would never do this again. It was a long, arduous process. By the year’s end, I read my novel for the last time, tweaked the final words, and smiled with satisfaction. My story was told. I’d sharpened and shared my perspective of 2020 through the voices of my characters, especially the two Rutledge women of two generations: Cara and Linnea.
I realize, too, that like so many other aspects of my life in 2020, I could not have written this novel alone.
I must begin my acknowledgments with those women I spent the pandemic with as we sheltered in place at my house in the mountains: Marguerite Martino, Ruth Cryns, and Lauren Rutledge. To the Women of Windover—thank you for the early morning sessions with birdsong, poetry, coffee, and hope. And to my mountain girlfriend Cindy Boyle, thank you for brainstorm sessions and messages of encouragement. Tweet-tweet!