The minivan came to a stop in the gravel lot beside the Eastport Chronicle building. The engine ticked softly as it cooled, the sound a familiar, final note at the end of their long journey. For a moment, no one moved. They just sat, listening to the new silence. It was a different quiet from the forest; this was a living quiet, filled with the distant cry of gulls, the rustle of the sea-wind in the trees lining the street, and the faint, rhythmic wash of waves on the shingle beach just down the hill.
"Well," George said, his voice a comfortable rumble in the hush. "This is it."
He turned in his seat, his smile encompassing all of them. It was his 'new adventure' smile, the one that had convinced them to pack up their city life for this distant, beautiful corner of the world. Trisha reached over and squeezed his hand. She saw the same hopeful exhaustion in his eyes that she felt in her own bones.
"I call first shower," Amelia announced, already unbuckling her seatbelt with the practiced speed of a veteran road-tripper.
"You can call it," Trisha said, playing along. "But the unpacking crew gets first dibs on the hot water. That's the rule."
Amelia groaned, but it was half-hearted. She was already looking up at the building, her eyes scanning the second-floor windows. "Which one is mine?"
"Let's go find out," George said, heaving his door open.
The air outside was cool and carried the rich, damp scent of the sea. It was a tonic. Mike scrambled out after his father, his head on a swivel, taking in everything. His eyes were wide, his sketchbook forgotten on the seat. He pointed at a large grey seagull perched imperiously on a nearby fence post.
George nodded. Bird. Big, he signed.
Mike signed back, Watch me? with a questioning look.
"I think he's just waiting to see if we have any food, buddy," George laughed. "We'll have to be careful with our picnics."
As George popped the trunk, revealing a Tetris-like puzzle of suitcases and boxes, Trisha walked to the base of the wooden staircase that led up to their apartment. The door was solid, painted a deep, glossy blue. She ran a hand over the smooth wood of the banister. It felt solid. Real.
Across the street, an older woman with a wide-brimmed straw hat was on her knees in a magnificent flower bed, tending to a riot of purple lupines and orange poppies. She looked up, saw the new arrivals, and waved, a dirt-smudged glove moving in a friendly, unhurried arc. Trisha waved back, the simple gesture feeling like a formal acceptance into the fabric of the street.
"They all just… wave," Amelia said, coming to stand beside her mother, her arms crossed. She sounded less suspicious and more genuinely curious.
"It's a small town, Ames," Trisha said. "People see each other. They notice things." She handed Amelia a heavy duffel bag. "Here. Make yourself useful."
With a theatrical sigh, Amelia hoisted the bag and started up the stairs. George followed with two large suitcases, his footsteps heavy on the treads. Mike, wanting to help, carefully picked up a small box labeled "MIKE'S ROCKS" and followed with immense concentration.
George fumbled with the large iron key Barbara had given him. It turned in the lock with a satisfying, heavy clunk.
The door swung open to reveal their new home.
Sunlight streamed through large, east-facing windows, illuminating a living room with worn but polished hardwood floors. The walls were painted a soft, creamy white, and the air smelled faintly of lemon polish and, underneath it all, the sea. The rooms were empty, waiting.
"Wow," George said, setting the suitcases down with a thud. "It's bigger than it looked from the outside."
Amelia dropped her bag and immediately dashed through the doorway on the left. "Dibs on this room! It has a window seat!" Her voice echoed slightly in the empty space.
Trisha walked to the center of the living room, her shoes clicking on the floor. She could already see their couch against that wall, their bookshelf there. She moved to the kitchen, a quaint space with older, well-kept appliances and a porcelain sink that looked out over a small backyard and, beyond it, a sliver of the glistening sea. On the kitchen table was Barbara's promised welcome basket: a loaf of crusty bread, a jar of jam that glowed like a ruby, a ceramic dish covered in foil, and a note that read, Welcome to Eastport! – B. Smith.
It was a gesture of such uncomplicated kindness that Trisha felt a sudden, unexpected prick of tears in her eyes. She took a deep, steadying breath. This was good. This was right.
The next hour was a blur of activity, the comfortable, weary chaos of moving in. The thump of luggage, the scrape of cardboard boxes, the debate over which bedroom was whose.
"Mike should get the smaller one," Amelia argued, already claiming territorial rights to the larger room by placing her backpack in the center of the floor. "He has less stuff."
"He also needs space for his art desk," George countered, heaving a box marked "KITCHEN" onto the counter. "And quiet. Your 'music' is an assault on the senses."
"It's called artistic expression, Dad."
"It's called noise pollution, Ames."
Trisha let their good-natured bickering wash over her as she started unpacking the kitchen box. She found their kettle, filled it at the sink, and plugged it in. The familiar hum was a tiny piece of their old life, a anchor in the newness of it all.
Mike, tired of carrying things, had found his box of rocks and was carefully arranging them on the windowsill in the living room, each one a treasured specimen from a different hike or beach trip from their old life. He was building a little piece of his own history.
Later, as the late afternoon sun slanted through the windows, painting long golden rectangles on the floor, they took a break. They sat on the floor of the living room, leaning against boxes, drinking tea from mismatched mugs they'd unpacked. The casserole Barbara had provided—a delicious tuna noodle bake with a crispy, buttery topping—was half gone.
"I like my room," Amelia admitted, sipping her tea. "The window seat is cool. I can see all the way down the street to the water."
"I told you it would be great," George said, nudging her foot with his.
"You were right. This once."
Mike, curled against Trisha's side, was nearly asleep, lulled by the warmth of the tea and the exhaustion of the day. His breathing was soft and even.
Trisha looked around at her family, silhouetted against the light of their new home. She listened to the sound of the wind outside, the distant sea, the absolute absence of sirens or traffic. It was so quiet. So peaceful.
George caught her eye and smiled, a soft, tired, contented smile. He reached out and took her hand, his thumb rubbing gently over her knuckles.
"We're here," he said quietly.
Trisha nodded, squeezing his hand. "We're here."
Outside, the woman with the gardening gloves stood up, stretching her back. She looked toward their lighted windows, smiled to herself, and gathered her tools. The sun began to dip toward the hills, painting the sky in shades of peach and lavender. The town of Eastport settled in for the evening, quiet and calm, holding its new family in the gentle palm of its coastal silence. The day was over. A new one would begin tomorrow. For now, there was only the comfort of a roof, four walls, and the weight of the keys in George's pocket, finally home.