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Back up at the office, Ray asks us what we think.
“Are you going to show us the accommodations that go with the job?” I ask.
Kayla gives me an exaggerated apologetic look. “The old managers are still in there. But it will be all ready for you when you arrive, I promise.”
Scott and I exchange a look. How could they expect us to move here without first checking out the accommodations to make sure they’re suitable? “Could we explain to the people in there that we’ve flown two thousand miles to visit, and we’re only here for the afternoon? I’m sure they’d understand and let us take a peek.”
“You want the job or not?” Ray barks. “We’ve gone out of our way for you already. We’ve got plenty other people wanting this job, so how ‘bout we get on with it?”
His hostility hangs in the air. Kayla laughs nervously. I look at Scott and hope he’s on the same page as me. I hope he’s thinking, like I am, that this isn’t right. I want to move back to Salt Spring, but I can’t return after all these years to be a part of this. To live here, we’d need to be a part of the Salt Spring culture, not part of the destruction of it.
“Scott and I are going to discuss it, okay?” I say, my voice catching in my throat. I know I have to hold back the tears until we’re in the car. I manage a smile and say we’ll be back within a half hour. Kayla says okay and Ray grunts something as Scott and I walk back to the car.
I slip in behind the wheel and drive away from the resort. Tears are streaming down my face now. Scott’s quiet. We drive down the narrow road, past St. Mary’s Lake, then I turn toward Fernwood Dock. I used to come here, sometimes, on my long walks.
I pull over to the shoulder and turn off the car, and we walk in silence down the path to the public dock. Its bright red wooden planks stretch out into the ocean. Our footsteps echo, a hallow, empty sound. We pass a woman who’s heading back to land, and she gives us a friendly smile. We reach the end and lean up against the ledge, peering over at the barnacles that cling to the posts in the low tide. I take a deep breath of the salty air. It’s just as I remember it.
“Maybe there’s another job you can get here,” Scott offers after an eternity of silence.
I force a smile as I shake my head. There isn’t. I’ve been watching the paper online for years. Waitress and housekeeping jobs are all there are. We’d have to live here to find something through word-of-mouth.
A minute passes, then another. I stare down into the water. My mind is swirling with thoughts, ideas, possibilities, and impossibilities. We could go back and grab Morgen and just move here anyway. Hope to find another job. But that’s so uncertain. That would be like what we did in Portland, moving without any security. I can’t do that to my family. I hear voices and turn to see a couple walking down the dock toward us. They look about our age and for a second I wonder if I might know them. But I don’t. They’re just two strangers.
I start back toward the car, silently saying goodbye to Fernwood Dock. Scott walks beside me and takes my hand in his. Together we step off the wooden planks and climb the path to the road. Goodbye, I think to myself, goodbye, goodbye. I start the car and head back down the narrow island road. Trees tower above us, St. Mary’s Lake appears, and then Salt Spring Resort is up ahead on the right. I don’t slow down.
Scott turns his head to watch the resort sign disappear behind us. Then we’re driving through Ganges. We could stop and walk around, and maybe we could grab some food. But I keep going.
When the town’s behind us, I pull over. “I need you to drive,” I say. I can barely see through my tears.
“Where?”
“Just go straight. This road leads to the ferry.”
I lie back in the passenger seat, close my eyes, and take deep, even breaths. I know the beautiful Salt Spring landscape is rushing past, but I can’t bear to look at it. I know we’re passing the wildflowers, the on-your-honor veggie stands, and the old homestead houses, but I’ll only cry more if I see them. I keep my eyes closed and focus on my breathing.
After an eternity, we slow down and I hear Scott buy a ticket. He inches forward and turns off the car. “We’re in line,” he says.
I wipe away another tear from my cheek and keep my eyes closed. Only when we’re parked on the ferry do I sit up and open my eyes. Passengers are getting out of their cars and making their way up to the observation deck to sit in the covered seating area. We follow them up the metal stairs and head over to the railing.
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