Page 23 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

Something in my chest lurches at the surprising concern he’s exhibiting for my well-being. “No, that’s okay. Thank you.”

“You sure?”

I nod. “Would it make you feel better if I texted you to let you know I got there okay?”

“I mean, a little,” he shrugs.

“How shockingly chivalrous of you.” I grab my phone and click to create a new contact, then hand it to him. “Go ahead and add your number.”

He types it in quickly, then passes the iPhone back to me. “So what have we learned tonight?”

“Hmm,” I muse, digging my toe into the sand at the edge of the sidewalk. “That we shouldn’t encourage debaucherous street youths?”

“Damn straight.” He sounds grumpy, but I don’t think he’s actually angry. At least, I hope not. He’s annoying, but we’re going to be working together all summer. I don’t want to upset him too much.

At least not right away.

“Well, thanks for the walk,” I say, hovering somewhere between earnest and coy. “Night, Oliver.”

“Goodnight,” he replies.

I don’t turn around until I get back to Beach Haven, but when I slip into my porch chair and look back toward town, I think I see him still standing at the edge of the street, watching me walk home.

You didn’t need to wait there, I text the number he’s added to my phone.

Okay, it’s definitely him. The person I saw has started walking away now, but is digging something out of their pocket.

A moment later, my phone buzzes. There’s a gang of unruly street youths out tonight. I did what I had to do.

I snort. Well, thank you for your service.

Anytime. See you Friday.

I set my phone down on the porch table and turn to look out at the ocean. It’s too dark to see much right now, but lights from shore occasionally pick up a whitecap or two as they roll in. I close my eyes and breathe deep to the sound of the waves, whooshing their way onto the sand.

With each one, I feel my body start to relax. I pretend the departing waves are taking my worries out to sea, where I’ll be free of them. Free of heartbreak, free of grief.

I imagine the new waves are carrying hope, and love, and my whole future, washing it up onto the sand like a seashell I can wear. Like I’m a hermit crab who can abandon my now-outgrown house and pick up a new one, carried ashore just for me.

Like maybe, here in this place, it’s actually possible to start over.

seven

Ispend most of Thursday cleaning around Beach Haven and reading the books I brought. I finish Ghost Writing, which is delightful but makes me cry at least once per chapter, then start Flowers in the Cove, a new Scarlett Sinclair book I’ve been eagerly anticipating. It’s lush and dramatic, and it keeps me on the edge of my seat (and, at times, my beach towel) all the way until its sappy conclusion.

I start my third novel just before dinner, cursing my decision to gift Oliver my free book from Maisie. I’m going to be done with this one in a matter of days, and then I’ll only have one left to get me through the next five-and-a-half weeks.

Let’s be real, I’ll have to buy something after work on Friday. There’s no way I can go all summer with just one more beach read in my stash. I laugh to myself, imagining asking Oliver for a recommendation. He’d probably suggest something by Jack Kerouac. Or whatever’s most like the pretentious nonsense he’s been writing when he takes his breaks in the café.

Laurel and I make turkey sandwiches for dinner, because it’s hot and neither of us feels like cooking.

“I’d love to order takeout, but I don’t think I can do that every night, plus sit around all day writing, and still maintain this smoking hot bod,” she jokes.

I cackle into my sandwich. “I understand your dilemma. Besides, we need to reserve our money for going to bars with cute lobstermen.”

“I’m sorry, with whom?”

“You know, the strapping young sailors who supply all the restaurants in town. I’m sure they hit up the bars here at night.”