I knocked on the cottage door impatiently while attempting to huddle inside the door frame. Everything was gray and misty as it often is during a gale at the cape. The waves on the ocean were fighting against each other raucously as the rain shot down in torrents.
This was not the day to walk to Mrs. McKettry’s cottage.
“Oh! Hello there, dearie! Get out of that there rain!”
Torrents of rain dribbled onto her waxed floor by the front door while I danced around on her floor mat pulling off my shoes. I took my time putting my parka on an old brass rung while I looked around. Nothing much had changed since last time I was at her cottage. The walls were still a deep wallpapered hunter green; the kitchen lights had that inviting yellow luster summoning me down the hall.
“I’ll bring the tea into the living room, yes?” She asked as she retreated to the distant kitchen stove.
“I’ll be right there!”
“Take your time, honey dear. I have to pull some biscuits from the oven.”
The hallway was dim, but it was a cheery dim. Tons of old photographs lined the walls, trophies of Mrs. McKettry’s past. There she was, a blue-eyed beauty of 16, going to her first dance with a date. She had the kind of elegance I always imagined of a fairy princess. The next picture was of her and a tall man, midswing on a tire swing in someone’s backyard. He was pushing her and she had her head cocked back in full laughter. I always liked that picture. That was Mr. McKettry. He was on-leave from the navy that year, I remember her telling me. They were inseparable from the start. Several other pictures dictated their lives, pictures of her reading books to their children under a tree, pictures of Christmases past, pictures of baby grandchildren. Their home was full of happy memories and golden sunshine. I think that’s why I always admired her cottage.
“Tea’s ready, Cat.”
“Okay.”
I’m Catherine. Cat for short. I used to beat up anyone who called me Catherine when I was young. See, I was named after my great-aunt, and I never really liked her. She always seemed to think I liked all the little sweaters and knee socks and stuff she knitted. It was annoying. I pretended for her so I wouldn’t hurt her feelings. And her house smelled funny. Kinda old and musty, like she hadn’t laughed in 30 years. It was nothing like Mrs. McKettry’s home.
I wandered into the living room. The fireplace had that wonderful country vintage look of old cracked paint and dried flowers in classic vases. The fire was a lovely gold contrast to the ranting gray of the outdoors. Mrs. McKettry settled herself in a plush chair next to the fire. I ran a finger across all the old books she had on her packed bookshelves. Stories of the great operas, Shakespeare, fairytales, Nathaniel Hawthorne’s short works, the many lives of Caesar, Charlemagne, and the Crusades. I had the world at my fingertips, both real and imaginary. An old piano sat in a darkened corner near the window. I knew the music would be Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue.
Rain pattered on the roof. I sat down next to my dear old friend.
“Anything change since you were here last?”
“Only me.”
“Ah. Time has a way of doing that, no?”
“Yeah. You know, I used to hate that a lot when I was little. I never really noticed the passage of time, but when I did, it felt terrible. I’d get this awful nauseous feeling in my stomach, and I found it hard to breathe.”
“You were a remarkable child.”
“Was I?”
“Most children just go with it, you know. You…” Mrs. McKettry paused to sip her tea. “You relished being a child. Not everyone does that.”
“Hm.” I blew on my tea.
“And have you found being an adult is just as terrible as you thought it would be?”
“You know what? No. It’s not so bad. I had a great childhood. It would be wrong for me to try to extend it any further than it already has. My dream is to give that great time to other children.”
“Yes. Do it. You know what I’ve noticed? Childhood is the one time in our lives where dreams are our realities. Everything is new and perfect to us, and we have no cares in the world because our parents will make everything okay. That’s the joy of innocence.”
I thought on that for a while. We both stared into the fire and watched as the flames told their stories.
“What made you realize adulthood isn’t quite a terror?” Mrs. McKettry had a twinkle in her eye.
“Well, I guess I realized this is where I can make my dreams come true. I’ll have to work hard for a while, like everyone. I don’t want anything handed to me on a silver platter. But I figure that if I can manage to be responsible now, the rewards will be endless. Optimism. That’s what I’ve learned from this whole growing up thing.”
“Good. Honey, I believe God taught you that one. Optimism is a rare commodity in this day and age. You’ll never be truly disappointed with that. There’s always something new to learn from mistakes, yes? And that’s the way life is. Not everything is smooth sailing and rainbows. You have to get your hands dirty sometimes.”
“Mmm.” The tea was nice and strong. I felt myself melting into my chair. Rain continued to batter the roof for what felt like hours. The flames gave way to soft glimmering of charcoal. Soon I heard a faint pattering of small droplets being shed from trees over the cottage roof. Several sunrays managed to escape the clouds. In my dreams-or was it real?-I saw streaks of gold and rose hit the ocean water. All was calm and smooth and the air was sweet from that pure summer rain.
Suddenly I felt a jolt. I jumped up and glanced at the old Victorian clock.
“5:00! Oh my gosh!”
“Something wrong, Cat?”
“I lost track of time again!”
Mrs. McKettry laughed. “You have a gift for that, for sure.”
“I’ll see you soon!”
“Bye, girlie. Send my love to your folks.”