Page 112 of Four Dates and A Forever
—Unknown
Teagan Bianchi was at the crossroads of Forgiveness and Letting Go when her GPS crapped out—a problem of living life on autopilot for too long. In the past she would have relied on her intuition. But intuition was one finicky prick.
“Are we there yet?” a tiny voice asked from the back seat. It was the fifth time since their last potty stop. One of thousands on their trip from Seattle to California.
Teagan always encouraged curiosity in her daughters, so it wasn’t the question that bothered her. It was the feelings it evoked. It made her feel like a fraud. Even worse, a failure.
“What does your tablet say?” she asked Poppy, her elder daughter by seven minutes. After thirty-three weeks of sharing thirty-six centimeters, the twins had come out of the womb inseparable.
“Da blue dot is by da red dot,” Poppy said, her Ts sounding more like Ds.
“What number does it show?” She glanced over her shoulder at her daughter, and all four years of her smiled back, filling Teagan with a sense of purpose. With the disillusionment of her marriage in the rearview mirror, she was moving away from her immediate past and toward a happier and simpler time.
“Five,” she said, holding up the coordinating number of fingers. “One, two fwee. Four. Five.”
“That’s right. Good job,” she said, and a bark of agreement came from the back seat as a wet nose nudged her shoulder.
Their horse-sized puppy, who’d broken free from his crate—with help from his two partners in crime—wedged his head between the two front seats.
“GD, back seat only.”
Garbage Disposal barked excitedly at the mention of his name, then took a flying leap, and 120 pounds of dog landed on the passenger seat with a thud. Teagan leaned right, pressing herself against the window to avoid being smacked in the face by a wagging tire iron.
“You want me to pull over and put you in the cage?” she threatened but he panted happily and stuck his head out the open window so he could drool on the cars behind them. Part Portuguese water dog and part Great Dane, Garbage Disposal looked like a buffalo with two left feet fathered by Mr. Snuffleupagus. While he more than lived up to his name, he had a heart the size of his stomach.
Teagan pulled through the quaint downtown, noticing gas-lamped streets, brick sidewalks, and awninged storefronts, then turned down Lighthouse Way, where the landscape opened, revealing the crystal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. Coiling with intensity, the waves gathered speed before crashing against the cliffs ahead. On her left sat rolling hills dotted with cypress trees and rows of bright-colored Victorians. To her right was the road to fresh starts, childhood memories . . . and heartache.
It was the last part that had panic knotting in her chest and activating her internal countdown. She wasone, two, fwee, four minutesaway from the place she’d called home for most of her childhood—well, the happy parts anyway.
Pacific Cove was a sleepy beach town nestled between Monterey and Carmel. Settled by Episcopalians, it was a sea of steeples on a stunning horizon. It was later home to many military families during World War Two, thanks to its location close to three military bases: Army, Navy, and Coast Guard. Teagan’s grandmother had been one of those Navy wives whose last missive from her husband had been aJust in Caseletter with his wedding ring enclosed.
Grandma Rose had reinvented herself in this very town, and Teagan could too. Or at least that was the hope.
“Are we there yet?”
At a stop sign, Teagan turned back around to look at Poppy. “You just asked that question.”
“Lily wants to know. You said we’d be there atfwee-oh-oh.And it’sfour-oh-oh.” Hushed negotiations ensued. “Lily say that four comes after fwee.”
Teagan’s ETA hadn’t accounted for the wind drag of towing a twelve-foot trailer or the volume of potty breaks. “We’re about four minutes out from Nonna’s.” Even though Nonna had passed and willed the beach cottage to Teagan, she always thought of it as Nonna Rose’s house.
“We’re about four minutes out from Nonna’s.” Word for word, Poppy repeated their ETA to Lily and then, doing their twin thing, her too-big-to-be-toddlers and too-small-to-be-schoolkids had a complete conversation without saying a word. “She’s gotta go number one.”
Better than number two. “Sweetie, can you hold it for just another few minutes?”
Lily, who was having a silent conversation with the tops of her shoes, shook her head, then gave a thumbs-down to her sister.
“She said no,” Poppy translated, and Garbage Disposal barked in solidarity.
Teagan had known that last juice box was a bad idea. Almost as bad as adopting a rescue puppy three months before moving two states away. A clumsy, untrained, former outside dog who loved to be inside and eat Teagan’s shoes, handbag, tampons—the list went on.
“Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.”
After an intense exchange of looks, Poppy said, “Fwee works but not four.”
Teagan gunned it. She knew better than to tempt fate. Especially when Lily’s Go Time was about as accurate as a nuclear countdown clock. T-minus fwee was Go Time—toilet optional.
She blew through the stop sign and took a hard right onto Seashell Circle. An ocean-soaked breeze filled the car—reducing the stench from Lily’s bout of car sickness, which had kicked in her twin’s sympathetic reflex.
