Page 4 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

The first man, blonde and blue-eyed, grinned at her. “Francis,” he replied. He turned to the taller, darker man next to him. “And this here is⁠—”

The other man raised his eyes to meet mine. “Eleanor, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” I felt like his gaze was piercing my soul, it was so intense. Butterflies flittered around my stomach. I’d never felt anything like it before.

It didn’t even occur to me that he didn’t introduce himself to Janie. I took his hand and let him lead me onto the dance floor. They were playing “Till I Waltz Again with You” by Teresa Brewer.

And that’s how we met. And it’s been a week now, and I can’t stop thinking about it.

three

Idon’t tell Laurel about the diary. I figure I can bring it up some other time. Plus, I’m still feeling some kind of way about intruding on Eleanor’s intimate reflections of her first time meeting my grandfather. I have to sit with this for a while, figure out how to process it, before I can bring myself to talk about it.

My cousin’s shower is long and ostensibly luxurious. By the time it’s my turn, there’s very little hot water left, so I get ready quickly and we leave Beach Haven to set off into town.

“Want to hit the bookstore first, and then grab dinner?” Laurel asks as we head up the sidewalk toward the town square.

“Sounds good to me,” I agree.

My heart flips in my chest a little as Shoreline Books comes into view. I have so many happy memories here with my grandmother, taking strolls off the beach and browsing for what felt like hours in the cool, air-conditioned shop.

She always let me pick out a new paperback to take back to our rental, even when my parents told her not to. When I was younger, she’d read the stories to me before bedtime. As I got older, we still shopped together, but we’d coordinate to get two books we both wanted to read, and then we’d take turns.

We called it BOGO books, even though we were still paying for both. Well, she was. Even once I was an adult and had a job, Grandma never let me so much as pull out my own credit card.

“None of that, Ivy,” she’d say, hands shaking as she unzipped her pocketbook. “This is my treat.”

As I remember her now, gray hair always permed close to her head, dyed within an inch of its life, I feel tears forming behind my eyelids. I shake my head, willing them away. This summer is about loving the past, yes, but it’s also about escaping it. Moving on and making new memories.

The wooden shingles of the bookshop are stained a slate blue that meshes perfectly with the blue hydrangeas out front. A pride flag flies next to the door, and a small white sign in the window says, “Help Wanted for the Summer. Ask for Maisie.”

My heart thuds against my ribcage. Help wanted? Seasonally? Something like hope whirls around my chest. Maybe this is what I could do while Laurel’s working on her dissertation. Pick up some hours at the bookshop, make some extra (much-needed) money, live in the memories of my grandmother, all while making new ones with every reader who comes through the door.

Eyes bright, I turn to my cousin. “Did you see that sign?”

“I knew you were going to bring that up,” she teases.

“It’s just…I could really use the money,” I tell her, picking what feels like the most acceptable reason for wanting to work here. I’m subletting my condo while we’re away, but that will just barely cover my share of the cost of Beach Haven.

Laurel nods. “I hear you. Also, you’ve been in love with this bookshop since we were kids.”

I can’t deny that she’s right. In fact, coming here with my grandmother and falling in love with books the way I did is a big part of why I decided to become a school librarian. I didn’t see myself as an author, and I wasn’t sure I could handle the business side of running a bookshop, even though I would love nothing more. But guiding young minds and making a difference, all while surrounded by books? That seemed like an attainable goal. Much more realistic than the romantic notion of being a bookseller.

Sure, I’d always dreamed about a future where I ran a cute little bookstore like this one. Usually, the fantasies took place in a seaside town, too. And often, they involved an attractive rival bookstore owner, à la You’ve Got Mail, but that’s neither here nor there.

For countless reasons, working at Shoreline Books for the summer feels like a great idea.

“I’m going to apply,” I say to Laurel, sounding more confident than I feel.

“Of course you are.” She grins over her shoulder and pushes open the door to the shop. A bell jingles behind us, the only sound in an otherwise silent space.

The cashier station is empty, and I don’t see anyone giving off a worker vibe, reshelving books, or anything. In fact, aside from an elderly couple browsing the biographies in the back corner, and a thirty-something guy bent over a notebook in the little café area to our right, the bookstore appears to be empty.

“I don’t think anyone’s working here,” I say quietly to Laurel.

“There has to be someone,” Laurel replies, a little too loudly.

The writer glances inquisitively up from his notebook. “Are you looking for something?”

I wasn’t expecting anyone to join our conversation, in no small part because we’re at least 15 feet away from everyone else. “Oh, no,” I answer, suddenly feeling flustered. “Someone, actually. Not something.”