Page 91 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

We sit together for several minutes in silence, Oliver running his hand up and down my arm in soothing strokes, until the storm in my head has made way for the sun. “I feel better now. Thank you.”

He peers into my face. “Are you sure?”

God, he’s making it really hard to fathom leaving here and going back to Farnsworth. “I’m sure.” I kiss him, tentatively at first, then with more emotion, like I can channel my gratitude straight into his lips. Aside from my parents, no one has ever intuited my anxiety so well before. Or bothered to help me through it when it attacks.

When I break away from the kiss, I clear my throat. “I struggle with anxiety, and sometimes panic attacks. Typically I can manage them on my own, but it’s always nice to have someone to wait it out with me. So, thank you.”

He’s looking at me dubiously. “How could I let you go through that alone?”

My heart melts into a puddle at the base of my torso. “Not everyone understands what it’s like to feel trapped in a whirlwind of their own thoughts,” I shrug. “I’ve always assumed they don’t realize how appreciated their help would be.”

“I might understand the feeling of being trapped more than most.”

My mind flashes back to his poem. “I think you probably do.”

“I didn’t mean to cause you anxiety,” Oliver offers. “Or force you to make a choice about staying here.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “You didn’t. It’s just that a part of me is terrified to make such a major change. And another part of me,” I look knowingly into his eyes, “wants nothing more.”

Oliver’s clearly trying to remain neutral, but the hope written all over his face gives him away. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I really am, now.” I snuggle in tighter.

He grins. “Well, I don’t want to sway your decision one way or the other, but Ogunquit’s really gorgeous in the fall.”

“You seem exceptionally unbiased,” I tease.

“No opinion whatsoever.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “If you decide to leave, I’m sure I can find another girl to help me write the September staff picks.”

I lean against his shoulder. “There’s no way she’d do as good a job.”

He kisses my forehead. “No way in hell.”

twenty-five

The more I consider the possibility of staying in Ogunquit, at least until Maisie’s back from surgery, the better the idea feels. At first, I hate that I’m using this opportunity as an excuse to run from something. After endless rumination, however, I come to terms with the truth—Farnsworth isn’t the right fit for me. Certainly not anymore, even if it was once.

I’m bored there. The administration doesn’t care enough to let me make changes, to make things better. The programs I run are stagnant, and worse still, I feel stagnant. I don’t think I’m doing justice to the kids, and there’s nothing I can do to remedy the situation.

And then there’s Kyle, and Alex, and that whole mess. I don’t know how I’m going to manage it, but I need to give myself permission to run away. Laurel was right when she suggested leaving Farnsworth in the first place. I realize it more with every passing day. I just hope someday I’ll stop feeling like leaving is giving up on something, rather than allowing myself to chase the future I deserve.

I think through the logistics of the situation. If I’m going to hang around Ogunquit longer, I’ll need somewhere to stay. And if that place is going to be Beach Haven, I’ll need to talk to Simon.

Sunday’s my day off, but I think Simon’s cleaning lady is working. She’d stumbled into Beach Haven with a mop last Sunday, scaring Laurel and me about half to death while we were eating breakfast. I send a text to the number I have stored in my phone for her, asking for Simon’s contact information.

She provides it almost immediately, warning me that Simon plays pinochle at noon, so I’d best try to catch him before that.

My heart’s pounding in my chest when I dial, even though I freely admit there’s no reason I should be nervous. No legitimate one, anyway.

“Hello?” A bright tenor, only slightly shaky with age, answers on the first ring.

“Hi, is this Simon Foster?” There’s a brief pause, during which I assume he’s trying to figure out if I’m a serial killer, so I rush out with, “This is Ivy Parker. Charlie and Eleanor’s granddaughter.”

“Oh, hello.” From the relief in his tone, I guess that I did unsettle him a bit with my questioning-before-self-identification. “How are you, Ivy?”

“I’m doing well, thank you. And you? I heard that you were having trouble with your leg.” As soon as it’s out, I wish I hadn’t added that last bit. Maisie probably shouldn’t be gossiping about his medical challenges.

“Ah, it’s been a bit of a struggle, but I’m managing. Tore my ACL on the pickleball court. I had surgery, but I’m stuck in a wheelchair for the time being.”