As I crested the gentle hill, passing the town green on my left, the street in front of me seemed to fall away, leaving a perfectly framed view of Snug Harbor.
The water was a beautiful, deep blue, and beyond it nestled the pristine, tree-clad Snug Island; the tide was low, so the sandbar connecting Snug Harbor to the small island across the water was visible. As I rolled down the street, the whale-watching boat came into view; the big white vessel was just pulling out for its sunset tour. Beyond it, I could see the four masts of the Abigail Todd as it sailed out of the harbor toward the small, outlying islands.
It took my breath away, just as it had the first time I'd seen it more than thirty years ago, when I'd spent summers here at my parents' camp on a nearby lake.
I drove down to the end of main street and the pier, which was filled with a mix of working boats and pleasure boats (including a few large yachts), then turned left on Cottage Street.
I passed three dockside restaurants featuring lobster boils and fisherman's dinners, catching yet more whiffs of fried clams (this was going to be an occupational hazard), the cobalt harbor peeking out between the buildings and snow-white seagulls calling and whirling overhead in the evening light. There was a little blue-painted shop called Ivy's Seaglass and Crafts, which I knew housed an eclectic assortment of local jewelry and artwork, and then, on its own, a little way down the street, the walkway flanked by pink rosebushes... Seaside Cottage Books.
My new home... in fact, my new life.
I looked at the familiar Cape-style building with fresh eyes, admiring the gray-shingled sides of the little house, the white curtains in the upper windows, the pots of red geraniums looking fresh and sprightly in half-barrels on the newly painted porch. Two rockers with handmade cushions awaited readers. Behind it, I knew, a beach-rose-lined walkway led down to a rocky beach; a beach Winston and I would be able to walk every morning, greeting the sun. And the bookstore itself—it was a dream come true for me. A place where I could connect with other people who loved books, and introduce others to literary treasures that would open up their minds and their worlds.
Pride surged in me at the sight of the book display that graced one of the sparkling front windows—a hand-selected variety of Maine-centric books and beloved reads, including several of Lea Wait's delightful Maine mysteries, two books by Sarah Orne Jewett, a whimsical book by two young women who had hiked the Appalachian Trail barefoot, and—a personal favorite for years—Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods. They were like old friends welcoming me home, even though I'd just left my home of twenty years for the last time this morning. I smiled, feeling a surge of hope for the first time that day. A sign with the words OPEN SOON was hooked on the door, and I found myself envisioning the community of readers who would gather here.
Goose bumps rose on my arms as I pulled into the gravel drive beside the small building, carefully easing in the trailer behind me so as not to knock over the mailbox. I parked next to the rear of the house, so that it would be a short trip from the trailer to the back door of the shop. And the back door of my home, which was an apartment on the second floor with a cozy bedroom, a small kitchen and living area, a view of the harbor, and even a balcony on which I planned to put a rocking chair and enjoy my morning coffee, as soon as I could afford it.
My store.
My home.
It was the first time in my whole life I'd had something that was completely and totally mine, and I told myself in that moment that I'd do anything to keep anyone else from taking it away from me.
Of course, at the time, I had no idea someone would try quite so soon.
Like tomorrow.
"Hey, Max!"
As I clambered out of the Honda, a bright-faced young woman opened the back door of the shop and stepped out to meet me.
"What are you still doing here?" I asked.
"Just finishing up a few last minute things for the big opening tomorrow," she said. "My mom lent us some platters for cookies, I borrowed two coffee percolators from Sea Beans, and I've got a line on a punch bowl, too."
"You're amazing," I said, smiling. Bethany had been my right-hand woman in getting the bookstore up and running. She'd been crushed when the previous owner, Loretta Satterthwaite, became too ill to carry on with the store, and had banged on the front door two days after I bought the shop. I'd greeted her with cobwebs in my hair—I'd been dusting—and she talked me into an "internship."
"Snug Harbor needs a bookstore," she'd said. "Plus, I plan to be a writer, so I need to keep up with happenings in the industry."
"What about the library?"
"Their budget for new books is meager. I've volunteered there for years," she told me, "but Snug Harbor without a Seaside Books... it's like having a body without a heart." Since I felt much the same way—I'd spent many summer days holed
