Tales From Sea Glass Inn (12 page)

Ari took her backpack into the gray room. She
moved a few shells and other trinkets off a shelf and stacked her reference
books in their place. A pile of legal pads and a box of her favorite
fine-tipped black pens went on top of the desk. She put her laptop on the desk
as well, parallel to the front edge. She sat down and stared out the window.
Maybe she should scoot the desk to the other side of the room, where she
wouldn’t be distracted by the view. Or would it help to stare at the repeated
pulse of the waves?

She got up and went into the bathroom instead
where she unpacked her toiletry bag and laid everything neatly on the vanity.
She’d be here a month, but she wasn’t planning to do more than sit at her
computer, and Mel had offered her the use of a washer and dryer. So she’d brought
very little with her, and unpacking took a disappointingly small amount of
time.

Ari picked up a notebook and pen, more to
soothe her conscience than because she had anything to jot down, and a map of
Cannon Beach from Mel’s welcome packet. She went downstairs and out the back
door to Pam’s studio. It was unlocked and empty, crisscrossed with interesting
shadows from the windowpanes. The October sunlight turned gold in here,
spotlighting some partially finished landscapes and a rough-hewn table. Ari sat
at one of the split-log benches and put her notebook on the table. There was
depth in this place and the air was heavy with the burden of artistic work. Ari
shook her head. Not today. Today she would settle in her temporary new home.
Maybe pick up a few snacks at the grocery store or buy some souvenirs for the
neighbors who were watching her house while she was gone. Saltwater taffy
sounded good. She could get some of that in town, surely. She got up and left
the studio.

She’d write tomorrow.

*

Ari walked along the sidewalk with her
shopping bags dangling from one hand and a soft, cream-filled pastry in the
other. She took a big bite and wiped powdered sugar off her lips with the back
of her hand. She’d browsed through the nearly empty shops until she found just
the right vase for her neighbors. It had been hand-blown locally and had bands
of oranges and reds and yellows. The colors of a sunset. She had also found a
powder-blue trinket box covered with tiny seashells and a generous coat of
glitter for their young daughter. A bag of assorted flavors of saltwater
taffy—heavy on the black licorice ones—would keep her company in her room at
night.

She wandered slowly past shops selling toys,
sailor-inspired clothing, and just about anything on which someone could glue a
seagull replica. The gulls were kitschy but cute, and she figured she’d be the
proud owner of two or three before it was time to go home. She could justify
any purchase, no matter how silly she felt making it, because the local
businesses needed her support. She was glad to offer it, especially if it gave
her an excuse not to write for the day.

She stopped in front of an art gallery called
Tia’s Closet and stared at a washed watercolor of a woman on the beach. Her
hair was piled up in a messy gray-blond bun and her back was to the artist.
Something about the tilt of her hips as she walked barefoot in the sand made
Ari think of her mom. She would have loved it here, and she’d have been wading
through the shallow wake of waves even though the water was freezing and the
beach wasn’t pristinely clean. She would have grabbed hold of this month at the
ocean in a way Ari never could. Her mom had always tried to pull Ari out of her
head and into the world. She made everything an adventure and lived each
adventure fully, while Ari preferred to stand a bit distant and observe. Later,
when Ari would write her thoughts down on paper, she’d feel more alive and
present than she had when actually there. Ari turned away from the painting and
wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her green shirt. Where would she be when her
mom wasn’t calling her out of her shell and into life? Would Ari retreat
completely?

Of course not. She would live and feel again
someday, once she put her grief on paper and could handle its intensity. She
saw a bookstore and hastily popped the rest of her pastry in her mouth before
going inside. She needed a reminder that she had a presence in this world, and
what better place to find it?

The gentle tinkle of a bell over the door
made the woman at the counter look toward her. Ari paused, captured by the
woman’s eyes like a rabbit staring at the lights of an oncoming car. Her auburn
hair was held in a neat french braid, with no wisps allowed to escape, and her
eyes were large and Mediterranean blue. She was wearing a pumpkin-colored
button-down shirt and dark khaki cargo pants. There was something elegant and
efficient about her clothes, as if she could go from boardroom to a fancy
restaurant with just a flick of her collar. She looked ready to cope with
anything, and her cargo pockets were probably full of useful items like Swiss
army knives and string cheese and a first-aid kit. She was helping a customer,
but Ari barely noticed the other woman.

“I’ll be right with you,” the woman behind
the register called to Ari, flashing a stunning smile. Ari nodded and ducked
out of sight behind a shelf. She usually felt disheveled and gangly around
capable-looking women like this one. Not that Ari wasn’t capable, but she
had
managed to arrive
at Cannon Beach with about a hundred pairs of underwear and only two socks. And
she’d forgotten toothpaste, but Mel had kindly provided a tube. She just would
never match such a stylish and unwrinkled state of being, no matter how hard
she tried.

She found herself standing in front of a
shelf full of nature guides for Oregon. Not what she needed—she’d better be too
busy writing to wander around identifying trees and lichen. She came out of the
alcove, quickly moving past the register on her way toward the fiction section,
and she overheard a brief exchange between the clerk and her elderly customer.

“What did you think of last month’s bundle,
Rosalie?”

“It was perfect, of course. I don’t know what
made you choose the book on old sailing ships, but I couldn’t put it down. I
never would have picked it for myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it. You might be surprised
by one or two of this month’s books, but give them a chance first. You can
always bring them back for an exchange or refund if you don’t want to read
them.”

“I’ve learned not to second-guess you, dear.
You have an uncanny knack for choosing books I love to read.”

While the transaction was being completed,
Ari leaned around the end of a shelf and tried to read the titles on the
counter. She was intrigued by the conversation and wondered, first, what this
mystery woman would choose for her to read. Second, she wondered if she had
ever recommended Ari’s own books to a hungry reader.

The two women chatted some more, changing
topics from books to the customer’s granddaughter, and Ari lost interest. She
found fiction and skimmed to the
K
s.
Knight, Ariana. All eight of her novels were on the shelf, and one was even a
face-out. Not her best seller, but her personal favorite about an agoraphobic
woman and the collection of friends she made online. Ari straightened the books
slightly, making them flush with the front of the shelf. When she heard the
door ring again, she turned away from her books and faced the shelf opposite
them, not wanting anyone to associate her with her books and identify her as
the author. She picked up a mystery at random and turned it over to read the
back cover. Mel knew who she was, of course, but Ari had begged her not to tell
anyone else she was in town. She felt embarrassed enough about her inability to
write, even more so now that she was apparently supposed to be a good influence
on Pam, and she couldn’t face the questions she was bound to hear. How do you
get your ideas?
I don’t
know. I don’t have any.
When is your next book coming out?
Probably never, since I missed my
deadline eight weeks ago.

“Welcome to Cannon Beach and the Beachcomber
Bookstore. I’m Jocelyn Sherman.”

Ari shook the proffered hand. Jocelyn. A
perfect name for her—sort of lacy and strong at the same time. A bit unusual,
but not too far out there like Planetia or Iguana. Ari usually agonized for
hours over the names for her characters and she liked when real-life people
matched their names so well. Ariana had always seemed a little too ethereal for
her, but she still used it instead of a pen name. She realized she hadn’t let
go of Jocelyn’s hand yet while her mind had wandered off on a tangent, and she
reluctantly dropped the contact. Jocelyn’s handshake had been firm, as Ari had
expected, but somehow mobile at the same time. Her fingers skimmed across Ari’s
palm as they let go of each other, and she felt the impression of them even
after the warmth of Jocelyn’s skin dissipated.

“I’m Ari,” she said, using her everyday,
incognito name. “This is a great store. Are you the owner?”

“Owner, chief cook, and bottle washer, as
they say,” Jocelyn said with a laugh. “Can I help you find something, or would
you prefer to chance upon something unexpected?”

Ari nodded at the phrasing. Jocelyn
understood book people. Ari loved the serendipitous finds she’d unearthed in
bookstores when she wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but today she
didn’t trust fate or dumb luck to throw anything good her way.

“Your last customer seemed to think you have
a talent for picking the right book for people. Why don’t you give me a shot?”

“Ah, a challenge. I love a challenge.”
Jocelyn’s brow furrowed as she looked Ari up and down. “I don’t know anything
about you, but I’ll give it a try on one condition. You have to read what I
choose and not dismiss it at first glance.”

“Fair enough,” Ari said. She didn’t mind
challenges herself. She had liked the sensation of Jocelyn’s gaze on her at
first, but she’d started to fidget after a few seconds, as if Jocelyn was
reaching too deep and pulling something out of her.

“I’ve got it,” Jocelyn said as she walked to
the back corner of the store and chose a book off the top shelf. She grabbed
another tiny volume on her way back and handed them to Ari.

Ari held one book in each hand. A slender
paperback and the little hardcover. “I thought you might come back with the
most expensive coffee table books in the store and tell me the oracle whispered
that I’d particularly enjoy them.”

Jocelyn laughed. She sounded like music, just
like when she spoke. Ari wasn’t sure how she’d write that sound if she ever
made Jocelyn a character in a book. It was a subtle intonation, too fleeting to
pin down and identify. “I’ll have to remember that trick next time a gullible
tourist comes in,” she said.

Ari silently read the covers and then looked
at Jocelyn. “A memoir about a beekeeper and a book about a monastery? I’m
afraid to ask what your voodoo intuition told you about me to make you choose
these.”

“Someday I might tell you why,” Jocelyn said
with a shrug. “But not now. Are you going to read them, or are you backing out
of our deal?”

“I’ll take them,” Ari said. She needed
something to fill the hours while her creative mind was blank. She followed
Jocelyn to the counter and pulled out her wallet. The vase had eaten up most of
her cash, so she pulled out a credit card. She handed it over and was noticing
how slender and graceful Jocelyn’s fingers were when she saw her name clearly
imprinted on the card.
Shit.

“No way,” Jocelyn said, her gaze darting from
the card to Ari’s face. “Are you really
the
Ariana Knight?”

“I’m
this
Ariana Knight. I’m sure there are plenty of us in the world.”

“Are you the author Ariana Knight?” Jocelyn
asked again. When Ari hesitated, about to fib and say no, Jocelyn pulled a
tablet across the counter. “If you won’t tell me, I’ll just do a quick search
online. Photo, author, Ariana—”

“Fine, yes, I’m
that
one.” Ari used her finger to push the
tablet out of Jocelyn’s reach. “I’m here for a retreat, sort of. Finishing my
novel and in the throes of artistic passion. Can’t be disturbed.”

Jocelyn rang up her books and swiped the
tattletale credit card. “I wouldn’t dream of disturbing you while you’re
writing one of your wonderful books. I respect your need for privacy.” She
handed the bag to Ari and tapped the credit card on the counter. “But…”

“But…what?” Ari reached for her card and
reclaimed it forcefully out of Jocelyn’s hand.

Jocelyn laughed at their brief game of
tug-of-war. “But it wouldn’t take much of your time to do a quick book signing
and reading here at the store. Very intimate and small. No pressure.”

No pressure on
you
, maybe. “I appreciate the offer, but I
really don’t have the time. Maybe on my next trip to Cannon Beach.” Which would
be when? How about never?

“Just give it some thought,” Jocelyn called
as Ari was walking toward the door. “You’d be doing us both a favor. You get
publicity and sell books, while I get more people in my store. And sell books.”

Ari looked back at Jocelyn and shook her
head. Something in Jocelyn’s expression told her she hadn’t heard the last of
this scheme. Ari hurried back to the inn, desperate to be alone with her
troublesome but familiar writer’s block.

*

Jocelyn wheeled a cart full of metal folding
chairs out of her storeroom and began to unfold them and form a large circle
near the biography section. Once she was finished, she lugged a card table
across the store and set it up near an outlet. Coffee, creamer, tea, sugar…she
mentally checked off each item as she put it in place. A second table joined
the first, but this one was empty except for napkins and paper plates. Members
of her book club always provided the snacks, and soon the table would be full
of goodies. Helen would bring something scrumptious from her bakery, and Mel
usually contributed some variation of her famous scones. Jocelyn loved those
scones, but tonight she’d prefer if Mel only brought one thing with her—one
particular guest from her inn.