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ELIZA
I’ve never beenone to believe in signs.
Rainbows? Just pretty colors painted across the sky. Ladybugs? They only land on you because they’re exhausted from flapping their wings a gazillion beats per second. Finding a face-up penny means you’re one cent richer and zero-point-zero-two percent closer to buying a latte at an overpriced downtown café.
Good fortune doesn’t come from exhausted beetles or wallets with holes in them. It comes from hard work and strategic decisions.
So the fact that the downpour obscuring my car windows and flooding the gravel lot seems like a promising sign shows just how low I’ve stooped. I’m so desperate for something good that my brain actually thinks the rain could be signaling a new beginning, washing away all the bullshit from the last two weeks that landed me in the nowhere-nothing coastal town of Garnet Shores.
Alright, maybe that isn’t a fair description. Garnet Shores, Rhode Island,ison maps. But the weather-beateninstitution in front of my windshield is one of the only reasons it’s there.
Compared to Boston, it’s as exciting as a desert—the kind without stunning canyons and fun cacti that look like they’re waving hello. Maybethat’sunfair, too, but I grew up in a town as confining as it was uninspiring, and this one is even smaller.
It’s not that this town is ugly. Garnet Shores is actually rather cute, with its quiet rural homes, sliver of coastline, farm stands, and stretches of trees. It’s quintessential coastal New England, without the preppy flair, lively atmosphere, or tourist energy I’ve experienced out on Cape Cod. This is a place where you come to read a book on a quiet porch, migrate to the beach to continue reading said book, and—when you simply cannot digest another page—grab a drink at the sole bar that caters to all five square miles of this town.
It isn’t a place to make six figures, get promoted to Marketing VP, or network with entrepreneurs at happy hour.
Yeah, because all those things worked outsowell for you.
Just like that, my chest tightens all over again.
I jerk my door open and shove myself into the rain. Promising-sign-from-the-universe or not, the downpour is relentless and distracting enough to stop my ribs from collapsing.
I’m tempted to dash across the gravel lot, but for some reason, running feels less professional than calmly allowing the rain to swallow me whole. So I keep my walk even as the smell of my new workplace cements itself in my head.
It kind of...stinks.Salty and briny with a hint of fish.
No surprise, given this gig is at an oyster farm, not a sterile office on the fortieth floor of ahigh-rise.
I’ll get used to the smell. I mean, I’llhaveto. My contract is for twelve weeks, ending mid-August, and “adaptable”is on my resume. And while I might have exaggerated my skills a bit—because that’s what youdoon resumes—Iamgood at making things work.
The closer I get to the office door, the more the building transforms from weather-beaten to charmingly rustic. Wood-shingled, two stories high, and sprawling, it’s surprisingly well-kempt. The shingles look freshly stained, pots of colorful flowers line the front porch, and I even see a few bird feeders. A post pinned with multicolored wooden arrows—the kind you see in the Caribbean—offers helpful directions.
Order pickups are somewhere to the right, tours start by a little dock in the distance, and farm operations all point to the back of the building, which transitions from giant wood-shingled home to warehouse. None of the arrows indicate the main office, but my welcome email told me it’s the yellow door under the porch. “Gold’s Oysters” is spelled out above it in carefully arranged oyster shells, which should be tacky, but is actually kind of endearing.
The whole place looks like it was designed by a grandmother—not the moth-balls-and-prunes kind, but the crafty-crocheted-blankets-and-gardening kind. It’s surprising, because, if my research is correct, the whole Gold’s enterprise is managed by men.
Maybe men who crochet blankets and garden?
That would be a blessing. I’m at my wit’s end with the unfeeling, inconsiderate assholes I seem to attract like flies in the city.
Under the cover of the porch, I pull down my hood, check my hair for fly-aways, and peer through the office door’s window. I don’t see anyone, so I tentatively turn theknob, and come face-to-face with the tiniest office I have ever seen. Like, tinier than my city studio apartment.
There’s one big desk with a computer monitor, a cup of pens, and an empty chair behind it. On the wall hangs a giant map of what might be the oyster farm, next to a closed door in one corner. Two cushioned chairs line the windows beside me, and…that’s basically it.
Gold’s Oysters is in the midst of becoming one of the region’s top-tier oyster farms, distributing to Boston’s best seafood restaurants, andthisis their front office setup.
There’s no one here to greet me. Not that I’m expecting a grand welcome party, but it’s my first day and I’m on time.
Eying the closed door beside the desk, I call out, “Hello?”
The only answer is the heavy patter of rain.
Taking another step forward, I try again, louder. “Anyone here?”
A muffled honk slices through the still air.
