"It looks terrific," I said. "I don't know how I'll ever thank you."
"Become a booming success and feature my first book," Bethany said, "and we'll call it even."
"Of course," I said, grinning at her. I had total faith in Bethany; she was smart, enthusiastic, dedicated, and one of the hardest workers I knew.
I glanced around the store, which was picture-perfect and ready for opening, with pride and anticipation mixed with a little bit of anxiety. After all, everything was riding on this venture. I'd spent the last twenty years taking care of my daughters, running a home, and working part-time at one of Boston's independent bookstores, Bean Books. Now that I was single again, I needed to be able to take care of myself, and after being out of the workforce for two decades, my prospects in corporate America were rather limited. Besides, I couldn't envision spending the next twenty years in some oatmeal-colored cubicle answering phones and doing filing, which was pretty much the only option available for someone with my work experience.
With real estate prices in Boston, there was no way I could pay my rent with the salary that Ellie, the owner of Bean Books and a dear friend, was able to pay me, even though she had offered me an assistant manager position. When Ellie told me Loretta was ill and might be looking for someone to help run Seaside Cottage Books—or even take it over for her—something inside me responded. I'd always fantasized about owning my own bookstore and living in a small community, and I wasn't getting any younger. Did I really want my obituary to say "She always wanted to own a bookstore but never got around to it"? No matter what happened, I was glad I'd gone after what I'd always wanted; and Ellie had been a terrific cheerleader and consultant during my moments of doubt.
Winston seemed to approve of the new digs, too; he'd settled down into the dog bed I'd put beside the old desk I was using as a counter, looking content for the first time that day. Or at least relieved to be out of his crate. I knew the demand for dinner would be coming soon, though.
"Mail is in the top drawer of the desk—there were a few things that looked important, so I put them on top of the stack—and I shelved another order of books that came in today," Bethany informed me. "There was a new one from Barbara Ross in the order, so I put it in the New Releases display."
"Perfect," I told her.
"I'm going to head home for dinner," she said. "But I'll be back tomorrow. If you need help unloading, I can ask my cousins to come give us a hand tomorrow morning."
"That would be a massive help; there's no way I could get that couch up the stairs on my own, much less the mattress. I can't thank you enough!"
"See you in the morning, then. I can't wait!"
"Text me when you get home, okay?'
"I will," she promised.
I watched through the front window as Bethany climbed onto her bike and turned right on Cottage Street, keeping my eyes on her until she disappeared from sight. Her house was only a few blocks away. I knew Snug Harbor was safe, but I also knew I wouldn't sleep soundly unless I knew Bethany had gotten home okay.
Once a mother, always a mother, I suppose.
"Let's stretch our legs," I suggested, grabbing a leash from the passenger seat of the car and clipping it to Winston's collar. With a glance back at the house—and the U-Haul I still had to unload—we headed down the grassy trail to the water, pausing to inspect a few raspberry bushes with berries hidden under the yellow-green leaves, Winston straining at the leash and sniffing everything in range. Berries I would pick and put into ice cream sundaes, into muffins... I had so many things to look forward to this summer. Beach roses filled the air with their winey perfume, the bright blooms studding the dark green foliage.
Winston romped happily toward the water, smelling all the grass tufts, only slowing down and treading carefully when we got to the rocky beach. The tide was halfway out, and Winston was staying close beside me. Even though the waves in the harbor were minimal, he'd been swamped by a rogue wave once, and had had new respect for the ocean ever since. As we walked, I scanned the dark rocks mixed with flecks of brown seaweed, searching out of habit for sea glass. I found two brown chunks, doubtless the remains of old beer bottles; a couple of green shards; and two bits of delicate pale green that must have started life as Coke bottles; and I was about to turn back when a glint of cobalt caught my eye. I scooped it up and rinsed it off; it was a beautiful, deep blue shard, my favorite color and a lucky find. I tucked it in my pocket and walked up the beach, my stomach rumbling. What I really wanted to do was go to one of those restaurants up the street and indulge in a lobster dinner, but I was on a tunafish budget, so a homemade sandwich would have to do.
I grabbed the overnight case from the back seat of the SUV and climbed the back stairs to the apartment porch, Winston in my wake. Then I unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping on
