CHAPTER TWO

Maven

Welcome to Solitude Ridge:

"Where solitude inspires the soul."

The large, wooden sign, which boasts carved mountains followed by the town's motto, welcomes me like an old friend.

I can't believe I'm back.

There was a time when I wasn't sure if I would ever return, not to mention if I could.

At first glance, everything looks exactly the same. The same small shops and businesses line Main Street, and the wooden boardwalk that trims the road is still as worn as I remembered. The structures hold the same moody color scheme of navy blues and dark greens from when I last saw them. It's clear that they are well-loved and maintained.

That's something I always loved about the Solitude Ridge locals: their dedication to the town, its appearance, and its people. I've missed them over the years of my absence.

In Solitude Ridge, the people are not just part of the town, they are the town.

I slow to a stop at a red light, watching a parade of people cross the road, bags in their hands as they rush from shop to shop—most likely hoping to get a souvenir to commemorate their trip, or gear for camping, hiking, or whatever outdoor activity they came here to do.

Solitude Ridge hosts tourists year round, but the warmer months are the most popular, as it's known for its picturesque hikes leading to insane views. My eyes scan the trees—still full and green, but I spot hints of gold and yellow doting the leaves at this higher elevation. The forest is doing its best to conceal the change of season that will be here before we know it.

My family and I have been coming to Solitude Ridge for as long as I can remember. My parents purchased the land where they built our family's cabin before I was born, and over the years, during breaks from school or on weekends, you could always find us here in our second home.

We come to Solitude Ridge every chance we can.

Or at least we used to.

As the light turns, I urge my car forward, praising my luck that despite the curves and slopes of the mountain roads, the small trailer is still attached to my car. I look to my left and notice that the bike shop has been replaced by what appears to be a coffee shop—which I'm definitely not complaining about. The road from here is a series of twists and turns, but I know this road well, having traveled it countless times over the years.

In a way, it feels like only yesterday that I was last here, but in another, it feels as though I haven't ever been here.

Five years.

I can't believe it's been five years.

I shake my head, trying to remove the thought.

Keep it together, Maven.

I repeat the mantra over and over, refusing to fall apart, especially while driving. What good would that do? We've only been here a couple of minutes, and if I break down now, living here won't be plausible.

I check my rearview mirror, making sure no boxes have fallen out of the flatbed trailer my car is pulling, and to be sure Mom is still following me. She smiles warmly, peering through her windshield. I'm sure she's having the same mix of emotions and thoughts I am—returning to a place we love, excitement about seeing our friends again, but also, the bittersweet memories that remind us of a time when things were different.

Memories that are remnants of a full, but past, life.

So many places in this town hold so many minor, insignificant moments with my dad, but now that he's no longer here, they are possibly the most valuable things I have left of him.

We drive through the outskirts of town, passing neighborhoods and resorts until we start to encounter miles upon miles of private land. The trees are taller and closer together, and the more distance we travel makes it feel as though we've stepped into another world.

I always loved this feeling—the sensation of escaping and entering a world made just for us.

No matter the phase of life I was in, Solitude Ridge was always exactly what I needed it to be. Sometimes, the woods were a place of adventure, and other times, a sanctuary. It was our family's oasis—a place far from the hustle and bustle of life.

After ten miles of nothing but trees and brush, the familiar street sign comes into view: Spruce Road.

I've driven down this dirt road numerous times, but after the last few years, seeing it only in my dreams and memories, the real-life beauty is overwhelming. Large branches hang over the narrow lane like a canopy, almost completely blocking out the sunlight all the way down the long stretch of road.

And then I see it, the gravel stone driveway.

I pull up the drive, my tires crunching against the small rocks, before a break in the thick, evergreen foliage reveals a cabin. A wave of nostalgia washes over me, fast and powerful, and I feel a combination of relief and heartache as I take in the cabin for the first time in years—for the first time since my dad was still alive.

My mom pulls up next to me in the driveway, and I step out of my car gingerly, my legs stiff from the long drive. She exits her car, and without taking our eyes off the cabin, we walk until we both face the front of it, standing side by side. She grabs my hand and squeezes it, but we remain silent for a few minutes, absorbing it all.

The dark blue siding fits the ambiance well, and the immense windows on the front of the A-frame structure seem to be in great shape, while the bright, sunshine-yellow front door is as welcoming as I remembered. The massive spruce trees surround the cabin as if creating a cocoon, providing shelter from the unforgiving sun. Sitting on the expansive front deck are the same whitewashed rocking chairs—as if they've been waiting for us to return.

"Well, here we are," my mom says with a sigh, breaking the silence.

"Here we are," I reply, still observing the cabin that has frequented my dreams.

She tilts her head to me. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

I honestly don't know, but standing in this spot, looking at years of history, makes me feel like I'm honoring my father in a way.

The cabin itself is an homage to my dad's work as an architect—he designed and built this place himself.

His hands touched every slab of wood.

He hammered every nail.

He designed a place for his family to create happy memories together.

I doubt he ever thought of the grief it would cause his wife and daughter someday.

He etched himself into every corner, leaving us with a constant reminder he was here but he's not really here anymore.

But despite all of that, it was time for me to come back, to come to terms with life at Solitude Ridge without my dad in it. Even with him gone, I still love this part of the world. Yes, he"s everywhere I look, but this place holds more for me than just memories of him. It holds part of who I used to be, too.

"I shouldn't have waited this long to come back—it's way overdue," I finally reply.

"I know, but . . . everyone heals in their own way."

I turn to face my mom, grabbing her other hand in mine. "I'm ready. I promise."

She smiles, but I see the sadness and worry in her eyes as she tucks a strand of my long, dark hair behind my ear, scanning my round face.

"Are you okay, Mom?"

She turns back to the cabin and smiles wider. "Yeah, I think your dad would be happy that we're here."

I squeeze her hand tighter as I look toward the cabin. "I think you're right."

Hand-in-hand, we walk up the creaky steps to the front door. Mom withdraws her key ring and fishes through it to find the one that hasn't been used in years. It still glides in easily as she turns the lock, the worn handle twisting, and then she softly pushes the door open. Muggy air meets us with the familiar smell of a dark nuttiness that has always lingered in the walls.

The furniture was removed, leaving it bare save for the appliances in the kitchen. The vaulted ceilings are as tall as I remember and are met with natural, dark wood walls and floors.

A set of stairs at the back of the cabin leads to the loft, which was where I slept if I wasn't camped out in front of the fireplace. Continuing our perusal of the main floor, we approach the bedroom in one corner and the bathroom in the other. Like the main area, both are bare but clean. I reach for the light switch near the door and flip it on, but nothing happens.

"Ah, I forgot I asked Grant to shut the power off when they packed everything up," my mom says.

It was too emotionally daunting for either of us to come back here those months following the accident, and I physically couldn't—as I was bedridden for so long. My mom didn't dare leave my side, but the cabin couldn't stay as it was forever. After a year of sitting untouched, our friends in town, who are more like family, packed up the cabin and ensured it was secure and cared for until we returned.

"I'll go around back to flip the power on," my mom continues, jutting a thumb over her shoulder. "Mina said some more boxes and furniture are in the storage shed."

I spin on my heel and head through the front door. "Let's get the trailer unloaded. We can go through the shed later," I say flatly.

"Sounds good."

I prop the front door open so we can easily carry things inside, then remove the tarp laid out over the boxes on the trailer while my mom goes to find the power box. The rustling sound of the tarp echoes off the trees, reminding me how truly quiet it is out here.

It's weird how I missed the sound of silence.

Stacking a few of the smaller boxes on top of each other for my first load, I begin the route inside, unload, and head back to grab another. My mom was hesitant at first to let me lift that much weight when we loaded everything onto the trailer back home, but I assured her I would be fine. My back and knees have never been the same since the accident, but I was cleared to go back to normal movements and routines by my doctors a long time ago.

We make quick work of unloading the trailer, and when the last box is placed inside, I sit on the floor, wiping sweat from my forehead as my mom leans against a stack of boxes.

"I say we unpack the rest of the boxes later. Want to go into town?" she asks, giving me a knowing look.

I smile wide. "I was hoping you would say that."

She laughs, reaching out her hands to help me to my feet. We rummage through our bags to find something to change into as our shirts are damp with sweat. I find a pair of denim shorts and a black top, then quickly brush out my hair before twisting it back into a bun on top of my head. My mom changes into a floral blouse and a flowy skirt, leaving her wavy, strawberry-blonde hair loose around her shoulders. We look like complete opposites, which we are in many ways—appearance and personality wise. My mom is bright and upbeat, and I am moody and skeptical.

As we make our way to the car, I can't contain my giddiness. "I can't wait to see everyone!" I say louder than I mean to, but seeing our friends again was a big reason for wanting to return at all. If we didn't have close relationships here, I'm not sure I ever would've even considered it.

"Me too, sweetheart," she says, smiling and turning the engine over. "So, to the bookshop first?"

I give her a bemused look. "Of course! They're expecting us!" I exclaim.

She laughs again, backing out of the driveway. Both of us are beaming, and I realize I can't remember the last time either one of us smiled this way—grinning like we're actually looking forward to something.

If this is the only thing we gain by coming back here, then I say it was worth it.