Page 12 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

I watch her tip the cutting board on edge and scrape quartered cucumber slices into the salad spinner.

“Nah,” I answer in what I hope is a nonchalant tone. “Just stopped to take in the river from Bridge Lane.”

She fixes me with a knowing look. “As I said, nostalgia’s the theme here.”

“So very true.” I grab two plates from the cupboard and am accosted by a cloud of dust. “Jesus,” I cough. “When do you think these things were last cleaned?”

“Who knows?” Laurel shrugs. “Simon’s been in the nursing home for a few years, right? I feel like Grandma Ellie went to see him the last time she was here.”

“I think you’re right,” I agree, a pang of grief hitting me low in the gut. I run hot water over the dishes, squirting them with the watermelon dish soap Laurel scored at the local Hannaford on her way into town.

“We should probably wash everything before we use it. I can pull all the dishes down and clean out the cabinets in the morning, if you want.” I figure Laurel’s going to be busy working on her dissertation tomorrow, so I might as well make myself useful. It should only take me an hour or so to head to the bookstore and fill out paperwork with Maisie.

Laurel considers me carefully. “Alternatively, you can enjoy your summer vacation. I’m getting the feeling you really need it.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to relax.” I roll her concern off with a hitch of my shoulders. “I’ll clean tomorrow, then head to the beach in the afternoon.” I snag a piece of pizza and shove the box down the counter toward my cousin. The first bite is perfection.

“Okay, sounds good. I’d offer to help, but I really do need to make some headway on my writing.” Laurel smiles apologetically. “I’m about 5,000 words behind where I wanted to be at this point in the game.”

I visibly shudder. “You do what you need to. I can’t imagine having to write 100,000 words on the intersection of feminism and the Pre-Raphaelites. I don’t want to stand in your way.”

She snorts. “What can I say, it’s my passion.” Taking a bite of her pizza, her eyes close a little. “This was absolutely worth the wait. Hey, how did it go with Maisie?”

“Great,” I reply. “She’s super sweet! We chatted for a bit, and then she offered me the job.”

“Ahhh!” Laurel throws her arms around me and squeezes. “I’m so excited for you!”

Snickering, I hug her back. “Thanks, Laur. It’ll be nice to make a little extra cash so we can support your wine habit.” I nod toward the bottle of rosé she was a good third of the way through already when I arrived with the pizza.

She sticks her tongue out at me. “I don’t drink that much.”

“Tell that to your favorite Pre-Raphaelite, Christina Rossetti,” I joke. “I bet she sees you tipsy all the time when you’re supposed to be writing.”

“I so regret telling you that I talk to her when I’m working,” Laurel moans, putting her hand on her head in mock desperation. “It was just a joke, you know.”

“If you say so,” I tease. The idea of Laurel chattering away to a bunch of dead artists while writing her dissertation is both hilarious and disturbing. “But I don’t blame you for liking Christina the best. You can’t really beat her writing. I mean, look at Goblin Market.” I crack a grin. “Sexualized poems for kids with weird religious undertones? Sign me up.”

“It’s not my fault Grandma read us that poem. Honestly, I think she did it because the one girl’s name is Laura, and then she has a sister named Lizzie. Sounds sort of like Laurel and Ivy.”

I wrinkle my nose at her. “But not really, though.”

She laughs. “But a little? Maybe she thought we’d like it. And I’m not sure she thought it through beyond that. I mean, how often does classic lit have such overt sexual undertones, or such terrifying imagery?”

“If you’re paying attention, actually quite often,” I point out. “But I forgive her.”

A hush settles over us both as we’re lost in memories of Eleanor reading to us from her Norton Anthology on the porch of our old summer rental.

“She was great,” I say finally.

“She was the best.” Laurel agrees, wiping the side of her right eye. “Anyway, I’m going to finish my wine, and then I think I should probably get to bed.” She sighs, resigned to the fate of a newly minted adult with real responsibilities. “It’s been a long day.”

I nod. Because it has been a long day. A long month; a long year. My own glass of wine is swirling through me, pulling warmth in its wake, dragging me under. Things are feeling a little fuzzier than usual when I impulsively say, “I found Grandma’s diary. At her house before the estate sale.”

Laurel’s eyes grow wide. “Whoa. Anything juicy?”

“I haven’t read most of it yet,” I admit. “It feels like an invasion of privacy.”

“Then why’d you take it?”