Page 96 of Beautiful Place By the Sea

She’s running the book club? Is she the current children’s librarian?

As if my thoughts are being transmitted directly into her earpiece, she continues, “I’m actually head of adult services, but I’m filling in for our current head of children’s. She’s going to be leaving us once her third child is born next month, but she’s been put on bedrest, so we’re short-staffed a little sooner than expected.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to speak with you. And I’d love to set up an interview.”

“Perfect,” Brianna says, all business. “Can you do next Monday? Ten o’clock?”

I close my eyes, trying to picture the calendar on my phone where I’ve plugged in my shifts at Shoreline. Monday is also the day before Maisie leaves for her surgery. But I should be home at ten; I don’t have to work until noon. It really would be the perfect time to do the interview. “That sounds great.” Laurel will have to let me use her laptop for an hour or so, but I’m sure she won’t mind.

“Wonderful!” Some sort of crash echoes through the phone. “I should go; I think some of the kids just knocked over a display. But I’ll send you the details later today. Looking forward to it, Ivy!”

“Likewise. Thank you so much!” I hang up, then lay the phone next to my outstretched leg, staring at the screen when it goes black. I’ve gone from a path so narrow it makes me claustrophobic to an intersection that looks like something out of a Dr. Seuss book, colorful possibilities snaking off in every direction. Taking a steadying breath, I remind myself that these are just that: possibilities; options. Nothing is set in stone. Ultimately, I still get to decide.

All of these decisions are beyond overwhelming, though, and my heart is pounding in my chest like it can run away from making any choices at all. I’ve dealt with anxiety (and my psychologist mother) for long enough that I know my body’s just reacting to the stress. That doesn’t mean I enjoy feeling like I’m having a heart attack, though.

I need to get out of here. Oliver’s working a closing shift today, and Laurel’s back at it with her own peculiar spin on the British Invasion (heavy metal plus nineteenth-century artists). Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m dialing Simon’s number.

“Hello?” He sounds surprised to be receiving a call. Guilt etches a notch under my ribs.

“Hi, Simon. This is Ivy Parker.”

“Oh, hello, Ivy. Is everything okay at the house?”

Of course he would assume this was a tenant issue. Because we barely know each other, despite the family connection, so why else would I be calling?

But he’s the last tie I have to my grandparents, other than Janie, and she’s two hours away. I’ve never had a stronger urge to talk to Eleanor; to let Charlie tell me everything’s going to be okay. And I can’t have that, now or ever again. But Simon is here, and he knew them better than anyone.

“I wondered if you might be up for that visit we spoke about?” The desperation in my voice rings louder than the vaguely musical screeching flowing out from under Laurel’s door.

“Well, that would be lovely, Ivy. It’s so rare that I have guests.”

The guilt digs in deeper. “I’d love to come by. Two o’clock?”

“Absolutely. I’m up at the retirement community in Wells. Do you know the place?”

“I can look it up,” I offer.

“I’ve no doubt your grasp of technology is more than sufficient to get you here,” he says with no shred of mockery, just admiration. “I’m in room 412. I’ll see you soon.”

“See you soon, Simon.”

When I hang up the phone, it occurs to me that my heart rate has returned to a completely normal rhythm.

I show up to the assisted living facility in Wells with a bouquet of flowers. It seemed inappropriate to come empty-handed, though it felt equally ridiculous to bring what was essentially a housewarming gift to an octogenarian in a glorified nursing home. The rental of Beach Haven further complicated matters for me; was it weird to bring a gift to your landlord?

But Simon was sort of like family; he’d been so close to my grandparents for so many years. And he’d repeatedly hinted that he’s lonely. For that reason, my visit felt more like a social call than a business appointment.

But I struggled deciding what to bring. It’s always challenging to gift food to the elderly; who knows what they’re allowed to eat, or if their teeth can hold up to things like hard candy or nuts. I figured flowers were a safe choice, and also the least I could do.

Simon’s room sits at the middle of a long hallway disguised with cheerful wallpaper and bright carpeting, as if to say, “Hey, I’m not a nursing home. You could still return to your life—this isn’t the end.” He has a wreath of faux hydrangeas hung on his door, and a small placard above the doorbell reads “Simon Foster, Esq.” I swallow a laugh. While I realized Simon was a lawyer, the inclusion of the honorific in this setting strikes me as more than a little silly.

I experiment with several ways to hold the flowers while I wait for Simon to come to the door. Out in front feels too expectant; to the side, too disinterested. I settle on shoving them in the crook of my elbow just as the door swings open.

Simon is grinning broadly, eyes surrounded by laugh lines. His white hair is combed gently to one side, and his orange polo shirt has clearly been ironed. His khakis are equally well-presented, not even wrinkling against the edges of his wheelchair. I do remember Simon as a very good dresser, but it’s surprising that he’s kept at it now when there’s no one to impress.

“It’s great to see you,” I exclaim, holding out both the flowers and my hand at the exact moment he swoops in for a hug.

“Ivy, it’s been too long,” he says, something like wistful joy echoed in his voice.