Page 52 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

He waits patiently, eyes roving over my face in a familiar way that feels like a caress.

“I couldn’t bring myself to part with something that mattered to her,” I manage finally, my eyes wet with tears that will almost certainly ruin my mascara if I let them fall. “She and I waited in line for almost an hour that day. We met the author; got the book signed. I think she read it that night. She was a big reader, my grandmother.”

Oliver’s continuing to regard me like I’m the most interesting person in the room. If only all the timelines of history could blur together in this space and Eleanor were here, too—then, surely, he’d realize that she was far worthier of that designation.

I try to shake off the idea that my grandmother could ever be here in this bar with us. I’ve been noticing the heat from Oliver’s arm a little too much to want Eleanor looking in on me. “Anyway, I also found her diary at her house when we were getting it ready to sell. Thank God for Fault Lines; I probably would never have looked closer at the pile it was in if I didn’t recognize the book on top.”

Oliver nods. “A happy accident, then.”

I consider how both the book, and all the ways it’s starting to get tangled up with my present, are indeed happy accidents. “You could say that.” I smile softly. “I’ve been reading her diary here this summer. I wanted to feel like I could bring her back with me, just one more time.”

“Did she like it here?”

“We used to come as a family,” I reply. “Every year of my life, in fact. Last summer, I had no idea…I didn’t know she was so sick. She’d had COPD for years, but I guess it had progressed more than anyone realized. After we got home from our trip, it was only a matter of weeks, and then she was gone.” My eyes well up again. “And my parents' marriage imploded at about the same time. That was also unexpected. And it just about killed my father.”

“Let me guess,” he says. “Your mom’s the one who wanted to end things?”

I nod slowly. “Yep. She requested a trial separation last fall. But the trial period is starting to seem indefinite.”

“I’m understanding a little bit more why you ignored her call earlier.”

“I really want to forgive her,” I start, then realize it isn’t true. “I wish I wanted to, anyway. But between losing my grandmother, and trying to help my dad, and then…some stuff at work, it’s just been a whole lot to deal with.” I grin wryly. “I guess you could say I’m not handling it well.”

Just then, Laurel arrives back at our table with two whiskeys and a fruity pink cocktail that looks like it’s straight off of Pinterest.

“And then there was alcohol,” Oliver says into my ear, tipping his glass toward me in salute. “Makes everything better.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “Does it?”

He snorts. “Nope. But it helps you forget it for a while.”

Laurel takes a delicate sip of her drink. “I’m trying to figure out which guy I should go talk to.”

“I’m not good enough for you?” Oliver feigns offense.

She rolls her eyes. “With all due respect, Oliver, you’re not at all my type. And besides,” she grins maniacally, “I think Ivy would kill me if I took the only sardonic, obnoxious book nerd in town away from her.”

I’m torn between angrily rebuffing her implication and ignoring her completely, but Oliver reaches over and pats my hand. “Fear not, Ivy. I could never be with a woman who makes coats out of puppies.”

Now it’s Laurel’s turn to be lost for words. At least for a moment. Then, she sets her drink down on the table a little too forcefully, sloshing some over the sides. “I’m going to do a lap. I’ll see you shortly.”

It only takes Laurel five minutes to locate a guy dressed entirely in Dockers, like he thinks the bar is a middle-class yacht. They’re huddled together over another cocktail table, her pink drink long forgotten at ours.

“Looks like she’s making waves with that ship’s captain over there,” Oliver quips.

I spit out my drink. “You don’t strike me as the type to enjoy puns.”

He shrugs. “A well-timed pun is always appropriate. Especially where bad coastal fashion is concerned.”

“I hope you’re feeling ferry good about that one.” I’m pretty pleased with my own joke, but I’m trying to hide my smile until he laughs.

He does, and it reverberates through my chest in a way that makes me feel more than a little bit glad Laurel left us alone here.

“Glad we’re in the same boat,” he replies.

“Oh, Oliver.” I shake my head. “Does Maisie know about this side of you?”

He takes a long sip of his Jameson. “Maisie loves puns more than anybody.”