Page 98 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

“Could be.”

“And,” he continues, “for what it’s worth, you can rest assured you’ll have a place to stay, for as long as you want to be here.”

“That’s so kind of you. But I’m sure you could get more money from vacationers. Wouldn’t it be better for you if⁠—”

He shakes his head vehemently. “You’re family, Ivy. You’re Charlie and Eleanor’s family, so you’re mine. I don’t care about the money.” Simon casts his eyes to the photo at his left. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for Charlie.”

Something tugs at the edge of my mind, vying for privilege of the floor. I try to ignore it, but it whooshes in regardless. Was Simon…is Simon…in love with my grandfather?

I rush to clear the shock from my face, but I’m sure it’s too late. Simon smiles at me gently, as if acknowledging the elephant in the room. “Don’t walk away from love, Ivy. There’s nothing more important.”

“Of course,” I whisper, thinking of Oliver, thinking of Simon. Thinking of Simon pining after my grandfather all those years, staying close because they were best friends, yes, but also because his feelings offered no alternative.

I wonder if Charlie knew. God, I wonder if Eleanor knew. She was always so kind to Simon; they both were. I have to imagine, if they knew, they were okay with it. That the three of them had found some sort of balance, where they could live around the edges of the truth and just be happy with what they each were able to give one another.

“So, tell me about working at Shoreline.” Simon’s eyes are rapt on my face, as if he didn’t just divulge what must be his deepest, most intimate secret.

“It’s really wonderful,” I say. I’m sure my eyes light up, because my heart does. And I tell him all about it, from the thrill of finding the perfect book for each customer to the soothing rhythm of shelving books to the way Oliver and Maisie and I all get along so beautifully. But the whole time I’m talking, a little part of my mind is aching, throbbing like an open wound, at the realization that Simon lived his whole life with the person he loved most just out of reach.

“It’s just so tragic, you know?” I lift my head off Oliver’s chest, fresh off a frenzied fit of passion in absolute silence so as not to disturb Laurel, who already went to bed.

He pulls my hand to his lips and presses a kiss against my fingers. A thrill goes through me that I get to be here with him. That our very divergent paths happened to cross this summer.

“It does feel like a very unfortunate set of circumstances,” he agrees. I’ve been telling him about my afternoon with Simon. I’m not sure I can discuss it with Laurel; she doesn’t even know I went to see Simon in the first place.

“I just can’t imagine it,” I breathe against his skin.

“Can’t imagine what?”

I love feeling his voice vibrating against me. I settle further into him, wishing this moment could stretch on long past September. “Not having this,” I reply. “When it’s so close.”

His breath stills beneath me. “Are you likening your feelings for me to the unrequited, decades-long love affair of your grandfather and his best friend?”

A chuckle rises to my throat. “I suppose I am.”

“Well, let me be the first to tell you how flawed that comparison is.”

I think my heart stops. “What do you mean?” Is it possible I’ve massively misunderstood what’s happening here?

Oliver shifts onto his side and looks right into my eyes. “Because this,” he says, taking my other hand and pressing it against his heart, “is very, very much requited.”

My heart swells until I feel it might burst out of my chest. “Oliver,” I breathe. Then my lips are on his, and his hands are threading through my hair, and I’m pressed against him as tightly as humanly possible, wanting with every fiber of my being for this moment to stretch on into an infinite future.

And maybe it’s because of how he’s making me feel, or the distraction of Simon’s big reveal earlier, but when I remember I haven’t told Oliver about my interview, I decide not to bring it up. At least not today.

twenty-eight

Oliver leaves straight from Beach Haven to head to Shoreline in the morning. “I hope you don’t think I’m being presumptuous,” he’d said with a wicked grin the night before, showing me the change of clothes and toothbrush that he’d brought.

“Please sleep here every night,” I’d replied, pulling his face to mine. Maybe these butterflies are going to fade someday, but they’ve shown no signs of settling down yet.

Laurel and I have pancakes for breakfast (I cook this time, so the process is much neater than when she made waffles our first week here), then she retreats to her room (or, as she’s taken to calling it, her “study”) to write. I’m working a closing shift at the bookstore today, so I have plenty of time to read and relax before I have to head out.

I’m finding it hard to focus on my book, though. There are so many emotions taking up space in my mind that I find myself reading the same page over and over again, until I dejectedly resign myself to a bookmark.

Perhaps it was the visit with Simon yesterday, but looking out at the waves that have watched the rise and fall of the House of Parker is making me feel more than a little homesick. Not so much for Brookline itself, but more for the people that make it home.

My mother’s words flash through my mind: “You can call your dad, too, you know.” A pang of guilt hits then; Dad’s probably been lonely and depressed, dealing with work and estate stuff all alone. I should have called him sooner.