Page 3 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

I’d found the diary in a box of trash when we were cleaning out my grandparents’ house after Eleanor died. It was just three short months after we’d been to the beach together for the last time.

I’d met my dad at the house after work, and I’d noticed right away that he seemed more rumpled and dejected than usual, even in this new world without either of his parents. I knew he and Mom had been fighting, but I didn’t think much of it. I was too focused on powering through the evening without bursting into tears.

Stepping into my grandparents’ house for the first time after their deaths was like entering a tomb. But in the weirdest possible way, because it didn’t really feel like anything had changed. All of their belongings were exactly where they’d been left, as if Charlie or Eleanor might be back at any moment to return to their regularly scheduled programming.

That’s the hardest part of losing someone, I think. Trying to make sense of the world without them, all while realizing the world is actually the same one they’ve just left. They’re just not in it anymore.

What do you even do with someone’s coat, or their favorite hat? The book on their nightstand? You donate them, of course, or find a family member who’s the same size, or who likes the same types of novels. But in a more philosophical sense, what do you do? How do you come to terms with the fact that whoever you lost isn’t coming back to shrug on their jacket? That they’ll never again perch their hat jauntily atop their head?

Cleaning out the house was hard. I tried to keep myself busy finding things to shuffle into donation or keep piles. I think my dad was doing the same thing, but I wanted to give him space to grieve. At one point, while he was upstairs sorting through Grandpa’s record collection, I needed a breather, so I took a bag of trash out to the can by the front porch.

It was there that I noticed a cardboard box filled with old books, sitting on the ground near the garbage cans. I’m such a sucker for novels, and my grandmother and I had always loved traipsing through bookstores together. It broke my heart in two to think about throwing away anything from her collection.

My great-aunt Janie was the only one who had been by the house to clean so far. I was a little bit surprised that she’d toss books, but I tried to give her the benefit of the doubt. This entire experience was extremely emotional for all of us; who knows what her reasoning was.

I started to browse through the box, pulling out a copy of Little Women that I figured I’d add to my shelf at home. Grandma also had a novel called Fault Lines that I remembered her grabbing at the bookstore in Ogunquit that last summer together.

The author, Will Pearson, was doing a book signing while we were in town. Always in awe of successful writers, Grandma stood in line for 45 minutes to get her copy signed. I waited with her, and we chatted about our latest reads the entire time. I grabbed that book out of the trash, too. I couldn’t bear to part with the memories.

The day was chilly, and my hands were starting to protest the cold. I was about to go inside to warm up when I spotted the diary. It was a thin, black leather book with a stitched-in red ribbon to use as a bookmark. I flipped it open to see what was inside, then immediately closed it when I noticed my grandmother’s handwriting. I wasn’t ready to deal with that yet. Instead, I ran the three books to my car, stashing them under the front seat where my dad wouldn’t notice.

And I haven’t opened the diary yet. But today, here in this place, feels like it might be the right time. I’d brought it with me because I wanted my grandmother to be able to come back to the beach with us, just one more time. And I think that maybe, finally, I’m ready to face her loss.

I slide my finger under the cover and open to the first entry. July 9, 1953. My jaw drops. Today is July 9th. What are the chances that I would open this exactly 66 years after it was written?

It feels like a sign, somehow. I try to still my ragged breathing and wipe a stray tear from my eye. Then I steel myself and begin to read.

two

July 9, 1953

The sunset was pink the night we met. He was wearing blue.

I’d let my mother convince me to curl my hair, even though I didn’t expect to be making a first impression on anyone new. I assumed it would be business as usual; just me and Janie, dancing, laughing, coming alive to the music.

The dance hall was packed to the brim, mostly with couples eager to get out from under their parents’ critical gaze so they could cozy up a bit. With each swell of the band, I caught a glimpse of another girl, falling, doe-eyed, onto another jacketed guy’s shoulder while they swayed gently to the music.

I was used to this; these weekend outings with my sister. It was comforting, if not a little bit depressing, to be here on the outside looking in. I was accustomed to getting all dolled up and pushing aside my own loneliness, watching other people fall in love.

I can’t honestly say I ever expected to be one of them.

We spend every summer in Ogunquit. They call it “beautiful place by the sea,” and I can certainly see why. The ocean is calm on the vast beach, glittering in the sun and welcoming you to sit down and stay awhile. In my favorite part of town, the waves crash against rocky cliffs, while I walk the thin strip of land far above, surrounded by flowers.

Here, our days are spent marveling at the tranquil expanse before us or sitting under the canopy at the top of the beach, where I work on my embroidery. I’m not much of a swimmer, so I prefer to admire the ocean from a respectful distance.

Janie and I love our quiet, contemplative moments watching the sun go down beyond the horizon, which always looks so vast, thanks to the swath of waves stretched as far as the eye can see. We spend our weeknights stargazing on the sand, and, on weekends, we somewhat begrudgingly leave the shore in favor of the dance hall.

I probably wouldn’t have bothered going out dancing at all that first night if she hadn’t pushed me. If my mother hadn’t been worried that we were too isolated, spending all of our time together.

Crowds have never been my thing, and I have no idea how to talk to boys. Or men. We’ve met both here this summer. I would have preferred sitting in the back, sipping a cola, to introducing myself to any of the suited teenagers, or, worse, the lonely twenty-somethings who were desperate to find a girl.

But Janie was bubbly and bright, and she always knew what to do. The night I met him, she pulled me by the hand, dragging me onto the dance floor. Her curls bounced against her shoulders.

“Come on, Eleanor,” she’d said, eyes sparkling. “Let’s go introduce ourselves to those two over there.”

I nodded slowly and followed her to two men in blazers, standing along the edge of the dance floor.

“Hello,” Janie said loudly as we walked over. “I’m Janie. This is Eleanor.”