Page 24 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

Laurel purses her lips. “You realize this is not the song ‘Brandy,’ right?”

“But their love and their lady probably is the sea.”

She shakes her head dramatically, her topknot flopping from side to side as she does so. “Ivy, Ivy, Ivy. What am I going to do with you?”

“I’m not sure what you can do, really,” I say in mock seriousness. “It’ll be good when I’m at work tomorrow so you can get me out of your hair.”

“Oh, absolutely. I’ve been counting down the hours.”

“Thanks a lot.” I grab a second pickle out of the jar. “How goes the dissertation?”

Laurel sighs loudly. “I mean, I’m making progress. My advisor actually emailed me today to check in, and I was happy to be able to say I’m on track, for once. I sent her what I have so far to prove it. She’s kind of a raging asshole, and I’m not sure she’d believe me without receipts. But I have such a long way to go. And I’m getting sick of staying in this house.”

“You could work on the porch from now on,” I suggest, crunching loudly into my kosher dill. “You can’t beat the view.”

“Good idea,” Laurel agrees. “The only view that would be better would be the one you’re in for tomorrow.”

“Huh?”

“You know, at work.” She waggles an eyebrow at me.

“I mean, I do love a carefully curated bookshelf, but I’d still rather look at the ocean.”

“No, dummy,” she says, like we’re still kids. “Your new coworker.”

I nearly spit out my food. “Are you talking about Oliver again?”

She nods.

“Give it a rest, Laur. He’s annoying. It’s just not going to happen.” I poke her shoulder. “Besides, if you’re so interested, why don’t you try to snatch him up for yourself?”

I think she considers it, but then she shakes her head. “Nah. Not my type.”

“And who is your type, exactly?” Come to think of it, it’s been a year or two since Laurel’s really dated anyone. At least, anyone that she’s mentioned.

“I’m partial to John Everett Millais,” she replies, a gleam in her eye.

“Laurel. He’s dead.” If she’s cracking jokes about being romantically linked to nineteenth-century painters, she needs to get away from Beach Haven even more than I thought.

She grins. “When you spend as much time writing about him and his artistic brethren as I do, it really doesn’t feel like it.”

“Okay,” I say, patting her head patronizingly. “That’s it. We need to get you out of this house. This weekend, you and I are going to a bar. We’re going to meet other people—friends, lovers, whatever. You need to socialize with someone besides me, and certainly besides the imaginary Pre-Raphaelites I’m starting to wonder if you’ve been talking to when your door is closed.”

“I can neither confirm nor deny these allegations,” Laurel says, still smiling. “But I will agree to a night out. Especially if I can eat something really bad for me.” Her eyes light up. “Ooh, like nachos!”

“Sure thing,” I promise. “We’ll get you some nachos.”

I’m pretty sure her grin could illuminate all of Maine.

After dinner, I let Laurel get back to work, and I head to my room to read. I get a few more chapters into my third book, but I’m not in the mood for a thriller. The fourth novel I brought is a mystery, and I don’t think I want to read that right now, either.

I stand and stretch, looking aimlessly around my room, desperate for something to do. I really should have packed my laptop. I was so hellbent on creating a perfect getaway, free of any semblance of responsibility, that I defiantly left it sitting on my desk at home. It has my Netflix login, though, and I definitely overestimated how much time I’d want to spend just sitting on the beach, alone with my thoughts.

It occurs to me I could keep working through Eleanor’s diary. I peek out my door, but Laurel’s is closed. I can hear her blasting Black Sabbath in her room, so I know she’s in deep-focus mode. I’ve always thought her heavy metal obsession was pretty weird, but I guess it does do a good job at masking the noise in your head. Maybe it helps her think more about the work at hand.

Damn it, now I want to listen to Ozzy, too. I throw some music on my phone and grab my grandmother’s diary from my dresser drawer. Now that Laurel knows about it, I don’t feel the need to keep it hidden.

I flip past the first entry and find the second, which is dated July 22, 1953. Almost two weeks after she first wrote.