Ocean thought she was done grieving Clare, at least for the moment. But all it took was someone mentioning her name.
As they broke off the hug, that thick lump formed in her throat again. She blinked back tears and forced herself to swallow.
“Arthur said you guys got in yesterday,” George said gently, looking away. “So, how long are you staying? What’s the plan?”
“My mom’s still trying to figure things out.” Ocean shrugged. “Mind if I look around?”
“Of course not. Make yourself at home.” He settled back onto his stool, nudging his perpetually crooked glasses into place. “You looking for anything in particular?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I’m here if you need anything.”
Ocean nodded, then turned toward the shelves near the front. Familiar and unfamiliar titles caught her eye as she wandered farther back. The quiet and the books were so calming.
From the way Arthur bragged about him, she guessed George probably knew this bookstore better than anyone. He wasn’t just some guy who worked here. He was basically a walking, talking, database of books. Arthur swore his employee could run the entire English department at the college rather than just take classes.
Moving deeper into the store, Ocean breathed in the scent of the old volumes. Combined with a hint of coffee, the smells wrapped around her like an old sweatshirt. The place was cozy in a way that big bookstores never could be. It was more like hanging out in someone’s personal library. The shelves weren’t just neat, orderly rows. Instead, Arthur had created little nooks and corners, like secret rooms waiting to be discovered.
A couple of high tables near the front counter were stacked with ‘Staff Picks’ and ‘New Arrivals’. Toward the back, in quiet niches, well-worn armchairs invited people to sit, flip through a book, and maybe even forget the time. The lighting was warm, a little dim in some spots where the shelves cast long shadows, but that only added to the atmosphere. It felt like the kind of place where books whispered to each other when no one was around.
Ocean trailed her fingers along the spines as she meandered along, her sneakers making almost no sound on the ancient wooden floorboards.
She liked taking her time. Maybe a book would leap off a shelf at her.
“Hey Ocean, before I forget...”
George’s voice reached her. He caught up to her by a section crammed with fantasy novels and used paperbacks.
“This lawyer from New Haven’s been by twice,” he said. “She’s looking to buy something your grandmother has in the Salt Box.”
“If the barn is packed with as much stuff as the house is...” Ocean frowned. “Did she say what she wants?”
He shrugged. “Not really sure. A box of postcards or letters. Something like that. She left a card.”
He handed it over, and Ocean slipped it into her pocket without a glance. She didn’t want to think about her mom selling Clare’s house or the business. She definitely didn’t want strangers picking through the stuff. Rapacious vultures.
George turned to head back toward the front.
But something tugged at her.
“Hey, do you have anything on Harbor View?” she asked. “You know, like the history of the town.”
Clare had always collected local antiques, stories, bits of history. Maybe it was time she started learning more about the place herself.
“Absolutely,” George said, nodding. “And do yourself a favor. Skip the shelf up front labeled ‘Local Interest.’ That’s mostly brochures, writing notebooks with pictures of the coast on the cover, and a life-coaching book someone’s aunt self-published. The good stuff is back here.”
George led the way to an alcove tucked into the back corner of the store. A single upholstered chair sat beside a well-worn step stool and a low coffee table. Surrounding it all were towering bookcases, packed from floor to ceiling. The shelves bowed slightly under the weight of age and stories. A window faced out on the neighbor’s garden, and dust motes floated in the light.
“This,” he said with a touch of pride, “is the real local history. Memoirs, centennial publications, maps. All kinds of cool stuff.”
Ocean turned in a slow circle, taking it in. Four bookcases. Dozens, maybe hundreds, of books and binders.
“Wow,” she said, almost under her breath.
George nodded. “Almost everything here was written by locals. Shopkeepers, fishermen, teachers, sailors, even Harbor View’s very first mayor. If you want to understand this town, this is the place to start.”
She stepped closer to the shelves, drawn in. “Thanks.”
