what now? | outerbanks

• ninety-two •

Sarah

    "I have something really special for you."
    "You've already done so much this week, John B. I don't know what else—"
    "He gives me that classic, mischievous smirk. "I think—" He pauses, and I hear a car pull into the driveway outside. "Yeah, I think we're ready."
    I'm nervous, but I close my eyes anyway, putting all of my trust in him. A few beats pass, I hear some footsteps up the front steps, and then the front door opens. I can make out the shoes against the hardwood—a pair of dress shoes and a pair of heels. Not crazy heels, though. Just a simple, easy pair.
    A flitting "Oh my" billows from the front door before I can say anything. I know that voice. I know that voice.
    My eyes fly open. Nanny and Pops.
    Nanny stands there, elegant and enticing like always—shiny grey hair pulled back effortlessly with a French pin, donned in floral dress and gold jewelry. And then there's Pops—brown leather shoes, gold watch, classic linen button-up. They're just like I remembered. Nanny doesn't even look like she's aged. I'm sure she's gotten work done—at least a little bit of Botox here and there—but she looks good regardless. And she'd never spill if she did.
    She slips off her heels at the door and runs toward the sofa immediately, crouching down at my side and wrapping me in this most perfect hug, full of missed years and patchouli perfume.
    She leans back to look at me, then dives right back into the hug. We sit there for a minute, maybe longer, and then she finally pulls back for good. Her hands find my cheeks, and she holds my face between them like she needs to inspect every inch of it.
    "My darling girl..." she drags out, voice perfectly sweetened and curled with southern charm. I haven't heard it in years. Seven, almost.
    She was my muse growing up. My mother was, too, but, oh, was my Nanny. They were always around when we were kids. When Evelyn couldn't make it, they could. And even then, sometimes they'd just come over to hang out. Or, we'd go over to their house and pretend it was some big, grandparents-and-grandkids-only vacation and not just a house a few minutes away.
    Nanny and Pops are my mom's parents—Belle and Earl Williams. They were a great force in the Outer Banks. Most people think it was my father who built our family's reputation—that it was all in the Cameron name—but that isn't totally true. Sure, my dad built himself a kingdom. He hadn't always been, but he made himself wealthy. Still, it's not like my mom married into that kind of dynamic. She brought in just as much of a name as Ward did.
    The Williamses were old money, coastal empire money. They had land going back generations—tracts of marsh and undeveloped beachfront tucked into family trusts that never made it into public records. My great-grandfather built half of the boardwalk and owned most of the shops that used to sit along it. I remember Pops getting stopped on the street by men who owed their college degrees to the Williams Family Scholarship.
    But it was all a different kind of money. It wasn't loud, or ugly, or gaudy. It was quiet. It was respected and untouchable.
    The Williamses are sewn into historical plaques and charity galas. Nanny had committees galore, and I've heard fairytales of my mom's wonders. So, when Camille Williams married Ward Cameron, it wasn't some rags-to-riches storyline. It was two legacies intertwining. She used the overflowing power for good.
    But then she died.
    Nanny and Pops still stayed. Helped Ward. Helped Evelyn. They moved into the guest house behind Tanneyhill and did what they could to support the family.
    Even after Rose started coming around, they stayed. They tolerated her because they knew we needed them. But after a few years, after the wedding, they couldn't take it. They couldn't stand watching Ward move on like their daughter was just an old memory.
    They still sent letters and books, gifts for the holidays. They'd call and text once in a while, but they never did come home. And I didn't blame them. Most days, I wanted to run from Ward and Rose too.
    Nanny scoots aside so Pops can have his turn. He smells warm—like money, tobacco, and leather. Just his smell alone brings me to tears.
    He notices as soon as I sniffle once and immediately wipes my eyes with his thumb. "No need to cry, baby girl." He pulls me in tighter, kissing the top of my head like I'm still the five-year-old he used to know. "Gosh, you look so much like Camille," he whispers into my hair. I can't see his face, but I'm sure he's crying now too.
    They greet John B. next, hugs and all, even though he probably only expects to go in for a handshake at first.
    "It's nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Williams," he says, a little nervous.
    "Oh, it's our pleasure!"
    "Not to scare you, son, but my Sarah is a special girl, and I just—"
    I drop my head into my hands. "Pops, please," I groan. "Leave him alone."
    Nanny swats his arm and then comes back in closer, grinning and wiping tears from her eyes, cooing, "Now let me see that baby."
    "Well, you can't see her yet," I giggle. "We have at least a month left."
    John B. crouches by the armrest of the sofa, leaning over me and kissing me softly. "Yup. Little Bit's still cooking in Mama's tummy."
    Nanny gestures for me to get up. "Come on now. I know the doctor wants you lying down, but you have got to show me that belly!"
    I groan and roll my eyes. "Nanny..." I whine, but I push myself up anyway. Pops offers his arm as leverage.
    I'm in a pair of pajama pants, pulled below my belly, and the matching tank, which rests just above. Not that my grandparents are complete prudes, but it does make me a little self-conscious to have my bump fully out in front of them.
    "Oh my stars," she whispers, eyes misty as she gently places her hands on either side of my belly. "I just can't believe this, sweetheart. You are just radiant. Absolutely radiant. Look at you!"
    Pops lifts my hand above my head and gets me to spin in a circle. "Girl or boy?" he asks.
    "Girl," John B. answers for me. "A little Routledge girl."
    "A girl!" Nanny exclaims. "Earl, do you hear that?!"
    Pops doesn't say anything. He just stands there, shaking his head, tears in his eyes.
    John B. moves his hands strategically, one on my hip, the other on my elbow, silently telling me to lie back down.
    "Hey, John, why don't you come help me unpack a few things from the car? Belle has some boxes of baby things."
    John B. follows him out the door like a worker bee, eager to help. Gravel crunches, car doors open and shut, and the boys come back carrying four, maybe five, cardboard boxes, all labeled, "Baby Things—Cam's."
    "Nanny insisted on bringing Camille's baby things," Pope says, still a little out of breath from the heavy lifting.
    "How'd you know to bring my mom's and not any of her brothers' things? What if it were a boy?" I ask.
    Nanny squints back at me. She looks wise. "I just had a feeling," she whispers. "And I prayed real hard." She settles in beside me on the sofa, tucking a pillow behind my back, eyes glancing up and sweeping over the room.
    Pops stands beside John B., taking it all in. "This house," he says after a beat. "It's beautiful, you two. Truly."
    "Thank you," I say softly. "It's our first house together. Well, we auctioned a small house with some of our friends before this, but this is the first real house we've had."
    "We were in that shack for a while. It's next to the shop we founded, so it was a convenient place to stay while we were building a foundation," John B. explains. "But after... well, after some things came together," he says slowly, "we decided to plant roots."
    "It suits you both," Nanny says. "Lots of room, lots of light."
    "Say, this is quite the jump from a shack in the Cut," Pops cuts in, giving John B. a sly look. "How'd you pull it off, if you don't mind me asking?"
    John B. and I exchange a glance. We have a split second to decide how we'll answer. Do we tell them the truth? Tell them about the Siren's Tear and El Dorado? Or do we just keep it neutral? John B. isn't going to answer before I do, I can tell.
    "We kind of stumbled into it," I say slowly.
    Pops raises a brow. "Stumbled into it?"
    "With a job?" Nanny asks.
    We share another look. "It's a long story," I say, trying my hardest not to be awkward.
    John B. goes along with it. "We were part of this big salvage thing. Historical stuff. Old shipwrecks, lots of research. It paid off."
    "Sounds like treasure hunting," Nanny cackles, slapping her knee.
    I do my best to laugh along naturally. "That's a better name for it!"
    John B. does the same. "Makes it sound interesting."
    Pops pats John B. on the back. "Well, it did y'all good, didn't it?"
    "Thank you, sir."
    They keep chatting about the house, and eventually, John B. takes him off into the rest of the rooms to give him a tour around. Knowing both of them, they could be at this for hours.
    Nanny sighs through the silence.
    "Everything okay?" I ask.
    She smiles. It's an honest smile. "Yes, baby, I'm fine. This is just... a lot to take in."
    "Nanny," I frown, "I know we're young and this might seem kind of crazy—"
    She stops me immediately, placing a hand on my arm. "Oh, baby, no. Yes, it's different from how Pops and I did things, but I know you. You're a good girl, Sarah. I'm just—" Her eyes start getting wet again, "I'm so proud of you."
    Her words hit me harder than I expect. My throat tightens, and I have to look down at my hands to keep from breaking into a full-on ugly cry. "You are?" I whisper.
    "Of course," she says, brushing hair out of my tears. "You've been through more than most women twice your age, and you're still standing. You're building a home and starting a family. You didn't let this ruin you. That's the biggest thing."
    My lip trembles despite my best effort to keep it all together. "I wish Mom were here," I murmur.
    "Oh, Sarah," Nanny says, pulling me right back into her arms. "She is. Every single bit of her is right here in you. I see her in every word you speak." She leans back just enough to tap my bump gently. "And soon, she'll be in this little one too."
    That's when I completely lose it. A few tears slip free, and Nanny doesn't say a word—just rubs my back in slow, patient circles, the way only a grandma knows how.
    The front door creaks open again, and Pops' voice carries from the hallway. "Belle, you've got to see the size of their backyard. Big enough for a garden, maybe even a swing set."
    Nanny smiles knowingly at me before calling back, "You hear that, Sarah? He's already planning spoiling rights."
    I laugh through the tears. "Wouldn't expect anything less."
    John B. trails back into the living room with Pops, both of them wearing matching grins like they've been plotting something.
    "What?" I ask suspiciously.
    "Nothing," John B. says too quickly.
    "Nothing at all," Pops echoes, but the twinkle in his eye gives him away.
    I narrow my eyes at them both, but Nanny pats my leg. "Let them have their secrets, sweetheart. We've got our own catching up to do."
    Nanny kneels beside the first box. Camille's neat handwriting is still faintly visible along the edge. The cardboard is worn soft from being taped and untaped and taped again over decades. She pulls back the flaps, and the scent of cedar drifts up—the smell of old closets and careful keeping.
    "My, my, my," she murmurs, lifting out a stack of well-loved picture books. The covers are faded, and the corners are softened from small, eager hands. "These were your mama's favorites. She used to sit on the porch swing for hours and read to me, even when she could barely sound out the words."
    I take one—The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Gray Bridge—and run my fingers over the cracked spine. "She read this to me, too," I say softly, the memory blooming warm in my chest.
    Next comes a tangle of stuffed animals, their fur matted from years of love. Nanny holds up a floppy-eared rabbit with one button eye missing. "This one," she chuckles, "was my Camille's constant companion. She forgot to pack it for school once. That girl cried and cried until her daddy drove all the way back home to get it. You were just like her in that way—you never let up when you had your mind set on something. Boy, did she love this bunny."
    I cradle it in my lap, smiling through the lump forming in my throat. "Maybe the baby will love it too," I say.
    Nanny's eyes soften as she digs deeper, pulling out a bundle of folded paper tied together with a ribbon. She unties it slowly, revealing stacks of my mother's childhood drawings—sketches of sailboats, sprawling houses, and tiny, awkward people with big smiles. "She was always drawing," Nanny says. "If she wasn't outside, she was making something. That girl was always using her hands for something creative. I think you have that in you too, you know."
    We spread the papers out across the coffee table, laughing at some of the silly details—like one where my mother gave herself a crown twice the size of her head—or falling silent at the ones that look almost like glimpses of her real life back then.
    Then, carefully, Nanny reaches for the bottom of the box. Her hands move slowly, almost reverent in a way, as she lifts out a small, tissue-wrapped bundle. She doesn't say anything at first—just sets it gently in my lap.
    I peel back the paper to find a delicate white christening gown. The lace is yellowed slightly with age, but it is still impossibly fine. Tiny pearl buttons trail down the back, and the hem is embroidered with the faintest floral pattern.
    "This," Nanny says, her voice low and warm, "was made by your great-grandmother Evangeline's hands. I wore it, your mama wore it, and so did you. And now..." She pauses, smiling through a shimmer of tears. "...now it's waiting for your little girl."
    My fingers trace the lace, imagining the tiny body that will one day fill it. "It's beautiful," I whisper.
    "It's history," Nanny corrects gently. "It's love, passed down. And it's yours to keep."
    For a long moment, neither of us moves. The house is quiet except for the faint echo of the guys walking through the house. It's crazy to witness—John B., the boy I fell in love with and one of the first people ever to have stolen my heart. I couldn't ask for more.
    And here, sitting beside the woman who gave me so much of myself, I don't feel twenty. I don't feel like a mom. Suddenly, in this moment, I'm four and clinging to her legs in the kitchen while she makes us dessert. I'm eight and lying in her bed, crying because I miss Mom. I'm thirteen and watching their car leave the driveway for the last time. But this time, they came back.