Page 99 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

My father is a self-employed web developer, so he’s always at home. Or, these days, at his apartment. I hesitate to refer to that as his home, and I’m sure he’d be even more reluctant. Grabbing my phone, I hit his number on speed dial.

Dad picks up on the third ring. “Ivy Bean!” He greets me with the nonsensical nickname he bestowed upon me at birth. “How’s it hanging, kiddo?”

I suppose some women about to turn 30 might be bothered by the childhood nickname or the “kiddo” diminutive, but, in my heightened emotional state, I’m finding it oddly heartwarming.

“I’m doing pretty well, Dad. Reading on the beach right now, actually. How are you?”

I can practically hear the longing in his voice. “Ahh, that sounds perfect. I wish I were there with you.”

Swallowing hard, I remind him, “You could be.” But I think we both realize that maybe being here would be too much for him. At least for right now.

“Hopefully soon, kiddo. So tell me, what have you and Laurel been up to?”

“Well,” I chuckle, “Laurel’s basically been sequestered, working on her dissertation. And occasionally wreaking havoc back at school.”

“That sounds like Laurel.”

“You’re not kidding.” Without stopping to consider whether it’s a good idea, I barrel on. “I visited Simon Foster yesterday.”

In that moment, the world goes utterly silent, save for the gentle crash of the waves on the shore. It must be at least five seconds before Dad says, “Oh, really?”

“Yep. I was feeling guilty that he’s all alone in assisted living. He hurt his leg, did you know?”

“Oh, I think maybe Greg told me that.” His voice sounds lightyears away now. Disinterested, or maybe sad. Does this mean he knows about Simon’s feelings for my grandfather? I suppose that could be a little hard to navigate; knowing that someone besides your mother loved your dad so much, but couldn’t have him. Doubly hard when that person is someone you looked up to; someone your whole family loved like one of their own.

“Other than his leg, though, Simon seemed great. Well-dressed, as always.”

“Of course.” I hear the smile creeping back into Dad’s voice.

“I’ll probably try to get up to see him again before I head home,” I say. The word “home” sounds hollow to me all of a sudden; the idea of going there at the expense of being here like a cold bucket of water thrown over my head.

“Hey, Dad. Did you—” I hesitate, not sure if I should continue; sure that I’ll regret it if I don’t. “Did you know Grandma kept a diary?”

This time, the silence stretches a good 15 seconds at least. “She did always like to dabble with her writing,” he says finally. “It doesn’t surprise me that she’d have a journal.”

I can’t quite put my finger on the specific reason—is it his tone, or the pause, or how acutely jovial he suddenly sounds—or maybe all three—but I know in an instant that he’s lying.

“Right.” I kick the sand with my toe. “Well, I should probably let you go.”

“Sure thing, Ivy Bean. Thanks for calling. Let’s talk again soon, okay?”

“Absolutely. Love you, Dad.” The words stick in my throat, and I suddenly feel like I’m going to cry.

“Love you too, kiddo.”

After we hang up, I lay back on the towel and cover my eyes with my forearm, desperate to keep the tears from falling. The ocean continues its relentless pursuit for the shoreline, crashing to the rhythm of the truth that won’t stop pulsing through my head. I wonder how many times the Atlantic has watched things fall apart—for Eleanor, for Charlie. For Mom and Dad. For me. All I wanted to do was put some of them back together. But maybe it’s already too late.

The week flies by. Shoreline has never been busier, thanks to Ogunquit being at the height of its peak season. Oliver’s largely occupied helping Maisie get things in order ahead of her surgery, so working the register and helping customers falls largely to me.

I’m loving every minute of it. I feel like a matchmaker, a go-between for readers and their perfect stories. This is why I became a librarian, I realize—to proliferate my love of reading and help others find theirs, too.

During my lunch break on Wednesday afternoon, I finally summon the courage to call Becky Green, my boss at Farnsworth. Maisie hasn’t brought up me staying, and neither has Oliver, but I know I owe them both an answer. Simon also needs to be kept abreast of my plans so he can rent out Beach Haven after my departure.

Hell, I owe it to myself to firm up my plans, too.

Becky’s clearly in summer mode, answering the phone with a cacophony of splashing and children yelling in the background. Excellent, I think. She’ll be distracted by her kids and more likely to say yes.

I surprise myself by how aloof my explanation is. “I might need to take a brief leave of absence at the start of the school year,” I tell her.