Page 5 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

He raises a dark eyebrow. “Someone in particular?”

Laurel, always better-equipped for casual small talk with strangers than I am, walks closer to him and sticks out her hand.

He shakes it with a confused look on his face.

“Hi, I’m Laurel Montgomery-Parker. And this is Ivy Parker.” She flashes a charming grin. I don’t know why Laurel bothered with last names. Surely we’re not going to be spending more time with this guy.

Seeing her like this reminds me why she was always the one boys gravitated toward when we snuck out to the dilapidated dance hall in town during our annual vacations here. The same one that my grandmother wrote about in her diary, I realize with a start.

“We’re in town for the summer,” Laurel continues. “Ivy’s here to talk to Maisie about the job opening.” She jerks her head toward the sign in the window.

“Oliver Clarke,” the writer nods in introduction, running a hand through his hair. It’s such a deep brown, it’s almost black. “Are your parents gardeners, or something?” he asks, nodding between us.

“What?” I wrinkle my forehead.

He mirrors my facial expression, like it should be obvious. “Laurel and Ivy.”

I guess it is obvious. I feel a flush creep up my cheeks. “Oh. That.”

He’s still looking at me like I might be a little slow, but Laurel saves the day with her typical enthusiasm. “I’m actually named after my great-grandma on my mom’s side. Ivy and I are paternal cousins, so no obvious horticultural connection there.”

Oliver doesn’t react, but Laurel barrels on. “My great-grandmother was Laurel Rose, and her daughter was Rosemarie, so the garden thing runs pretty strong going back quite a ways.” She beams a little too eagerly.

Oliver is, after all, a perfect stranger. He probably doesn’t need to know this level of detail about her matrilineal naming history. And judging by the look on his face, he probably doesn’t care very much, either.

“Huh,” he replies noncommittally, then looks back down at his notebook.

“Do you know when Maisie will be back?” I ask, watching Oliver scrawling a sentence on his paper. The ink strokes sweep messily back and forth across the page like waves crashing onto the beach. Also like waves on the beach, I’m finding them oddly soothing.

He doesn’t glance up from his notebook. “Should be here by six,” he says.

I tear my eyes away from whatever he’s writing, which I can’t even read from where I’m standing. “Thanks.” Turning to Laurel, I incline my head. “Shall we?”

She gives me a quizzical look. “It’s 5:45. Wouldn’t we just stay here?”

I can’t quite explain why, but the idea of sitting in silence for 15 minutes while Oliver works feels very unappealing. And the notion of hanging around the bookstore and chatting loudly with my cousin (because that’s the only way she knows how) seems even worse, because I’m pretty sure Oliver would still just be sitting there, silently judging us. Perhaps wishing we were quieter, so he could focus on writing what I assume is some sort of angsty Holden Caulfield-type novel.

“Let’s go grab a coffee next door,” I suggest. I realize there’s a small coffee counter right here in the bookstore, but I want to leave as quickly as possible.

Laurel still looks confused, but she doesn’t push me. “Okay, sounds good.” She grabs her brown raffia bag off the café table where she’d set it down when she shook Oliver’s hand and tosses it over her shoulder. “See you later, Oliver.”

He barely lifts his head. “Bye.”

“Bye,” I mumble as we hustle out. The bell on the door jingles loudly as it swings shut behind us.

We’re just a few steps down the sidewalk when Laurel rounds on me. “What was that about?”

I shake my head. “Something about Oliver’s general disposition made me feel very judged.”

Her tinkling laugh fills the air. “He was a little grumpy, huh?”

“Indeed,” I chuckle. “Now, time for a latte.”

We grab a bench on the road to the beach and people-watch while sipping our coffees. At this time of day, most of the passers-by are heading back to their hotels and rentals, dragging beach wagons and cranky children behind them.

I marvel at the sheer amount of stuff some families seem to feel is required for a day along the shore: beach chairs worn as backpacks, wagons packed to the brim with umbrellas, boogie boards, buckets and sand toys, pop-up tents, coolers, bocce ball sets, blankets, towels.

I guess things probably change once you have kids, but, for me, a tote bag with a towel and my book has always been enough. Maybe a bottle of water and a tube of sunscreen, too. I’m coming to the beach to swim or read or just be; the experience feels like plenty without the addition of 50 cubic feet of sporting equipment. But to each their own, I suppose.