Page 68 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

eighteen

After my disappointing call with Janie, I lick my wounds for a bit, then I remember I need to make something to bring to Maisie’s house tonight. In addition to cooking dinner for us, she insisted that both Oliver and I take today off. There’s no way I’m showing up empty-handed.

I scour the kitchen cabinets for cookbooks, but I come up woefully short. I try to google various recipes, but I don’t have great cell service today. The meteorologists are calling for pretty major storms tonight and tomorrow, and there’s an awful lot of cloud cover.

There has to be some sort of cookbook in this house. It occurs to me that I could check the attic. Laurel and I had noticed the pull-down stairs above the hallway our first day at Beach Haven. If I use the step stool from the kitchen, I can probably reach.

Shielding my head with one arm just in case a mountain of dust is about to fall on me, I pull the stairs down and gently test them with my foot. They feel a little wobbly, but I think they’re solid enough for me to make my ascent.

The attic is sweltering, to the point that I can barely breathe. I desperately look around for a window I can crack open for a few minutes. Spying one on the far side of the room, I skirt around boxes covered in years of accumulated dust, sashaying my way across. The window, unsurprisingly, is almost impossible to budge, but I finally get it open with a shove the likes of which I never thought I was capable.

Sticking my head out the window as far as it will go, I gasp in the muggy outdoor air, which feels refreshing in contrast to the attic. I run my hands through my hair, trying to get it off my neck, which is already slick with sweat.

Most of the boxes up here are labeled in elegant script. Christmas decorations, one proclaims. Winter blankets, says another. Photo albums, declares a third.

I know I’m here to look for a cookbook, but the photo albums box calls to me. I wonder if Simon has any pictures of my grandparents.

When I slide the interlocking flaps of the carton open, they fling another cloud of dust into the air. Coughing, I fan my hands in front of my face in an attempt to filter it. I’m not sure it works very well, because I sneeze several times in rapid succession when particulate flies up my nose.

The albums inside the box vary in size, but they’re all black, and every last one has a white label on the spine with a date. I start rummaging through the box, pulling out albums as I go. 1945 is the earliest one I see. 1946 to 1948. 1951.

I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for when I started, but when my eye snags on the volume from 1953, I grab it immediately. This is the year of George and whatever heartbreak he brought along with him. Shifting to the wooden planks beneath the open window, I settle in for a journey to the past.

Simon has several photos of Beach Haven standing proud along the dunes. One such picture features a middle-aged couple, who I assume must be his parents. It hits me that this house has likely been in their family for several generations.

There are photos of gulls on the beach, and one of a skittering crab trying to make off with part of a sandwich in its claw. I see a young man who resembles the Simon I knew from dinners past, before the years gifted him wisdom and wrinkles.

And then there’s a face that’s very familiar: Grandpa Charlie. My breath catches in my throat. He’s smiling widely at the camera, a very familiar expression on his lips. I rack my brain for where I’ve seen that look, but it doesn’t immediately hit me.

Flipping the page, I see several more photos of Charlie dressed in the same outfit, probably all taken on one day. His pictures give the vibe of test shots an excited photographer takes with their best friend upon getting a new camera.

About two-thirds of the way through the album, I spot a picture of my grandmother. She’s lithe and gorgeous, hair gleaming in the sunshine, laughing at the edge of the shore. A stunningly handsome man in striped swim trunks rests his arm on her shoulder, a grin on his own face indicating that he was the one to make her laugh. Could this be George?

And next to them, so far off to the side that he was almost out of the picture, was my grandfather, smiling at the camera in that same secret way.

Something’s tugging at the edge of my brain, but it flickers so faintly I can’t make it out. Shaking my head, I shut the album and lay it gently on the floor under the window. I need to keep looking for a cookbook if there’s any hope of making something before I have to get ready for Maisie’s.

Fortunately, it’s not long before I find a box labeled “Kitchen,” and a red-and-white checkered cookbook is lying right on top. “Bingo,” I say to myself. I grab the book and race back down the stairs, eager to get away from the must and memories in the attic.

After wiping the cookbook with a damp paper towel to rid it of any lingering dust, I lay it out on the counter and run a finger down the contents page. Appetizers, canning, candy; something called “jiffy recipes.” Sounds like the perfect main course to pair with an aspic. “How old is this cookbook?” I muse out loud. Quick breads, pies. Then, an idea hits me. We are in Maine, after all.

Digging through the fridge, I find two pints of blueberries that Laurel and I had grabbed at the farmer’s market over the weekend, plus milk and butter. I know we have flour, salt, and sugar. And it looks like Simon has a pie plate under the stove. I think a blueberry pie would be perfect.

The cookbook offers instructions for giving your fruit pie a lattice top, and I’m struck by an uncharacteristic desire to make art through pastry. I’m not a particularly good chef, and I’ve never attempted to make food pretty before, but impressing Maisie feels very important to me. She’s the sweetest person on earth, and she deserves something delicious and beautiful as a thank you for inviting us into her home.

Rising to the level of Oliver’s “unbeatable” chocolate raspberry cheesecake is only a small part of my sudden resolve to accomplish this.

Impressing him with my latticework? That may be a slightly larger part.

Whipping up the filling is a cinch, and rolling out the pie crust is only slightly more challenging. Where I really start to falter is with the latticework, which requires precision and a steady hand. And apparently I have neither.

I’m not thrilled with how everything looks when I’m done, but it will have to do. I barely have enough time to bake the pie and let it cool before I’m due at Maisie’s.

Just as I lay my last piece of protective aluminum foil over the lattice, my phone buzzes in my pocket. Are you wearing your curtain dress tonight?

I snort. Leave it to Oliver to refuse to let a joke die. It depends. What are you wearing?

Well, if you’re dressing up, I guess I will, too.