Page 76 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

I think I’ve divulged too much to back out now, so I forge ahead. “I’ve been reading Grandma’s diary.”

Radio silence from my mother.

I go on. “There’s some pretty juicy stuff in there. And some conspicuous omissions.”

“Conspicuous omissions?”

“Several pages are missing.”

“Interesting,” she replies after a second, like this isn’t news to her.

“Mom.”

“Mmm?”

“What do you know?”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. “Why do you assume I know something?”

“Come on.”

My mother sighs. “You’re going to need to talk to your father about this.”

“Did Dad rip up Eleanor’s diary?”

“Ivy, I can’t. I’m sorry.”

I don’t understand what could possibly be so bad about a teenager’s journal that all of these fully grown adults are so upset about it, 66 years after the fact.

Was she a Soviet spy, or something? Did she single-handedly orchestrate the death of King George VI? Invent the hydrogen bomb and go into witness protection? The 1950s were a crazy time, to be sure, but I don’t think anything my grandmother might have done back then could be all that bad.

“I’m not sure I’m understanding what’s happening here,” I say finally.

“I’m sorry,” Mom repeats. “Please call your father.”

After talking to my mom, I wouldn’t say I feel any better, but I’m definitely distracted. From that perspective, the conversation was a roaring success.

I’m so distracted, in fact, that I walk straight into Oliver the instant I enter Shoreline a few minutes later.

“Not again,” he groans, hands flying instinctively to the side of his face, which my head has just hit. Hard.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry,” I cry, reaching for his cheek without thinking. “Are you okay?”

He catches my hand in his but doesn’t let go right away. “Careful. That’s a little sore at the moment.” His right cheek does look pretty red from the impact. It also looks like it might bruise.

I pull my hand back. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“I’ll be fine. But you hit your head. I think that’s the bigger concern right now.”

“Oh, I’m okay,” I reassure him. But the room is spinning a little, and my right temple is starting to throb. “I might just…I think I’ll go sit.” I take a wobbly step, then throw my arms out for balance as I start to fall. “Or maybe not. I don’t feel so well.”

“Come on.” Oliver puts his arm gently around my shoulders. “I’m going to help you sit down.” He guides me to the café and hovers against me as he lowers my body into a chair. “I’ll get you some ice.”

“Get some for yourself while you’re at it.” I tighten my lips into a line and gesture toward his cheek. “You’ve got quite a bruise forming there.”

He heads behind the counter and comes back a few moments later with two plastic bags filled with cubed ice. When he hands me one, I’m struck by the look of concern on his face.

“The bag is a nice touch. My mom always gave me ice in a dish towel, and then it would melt all over the place.”