Tales From Sea Glass Inn (13 page)

Jocelyn stood back and surveyed the room,
rechecking to make sure she hadn’t forgotten anything. She doubted Ariana
Knight would come to the meeting. She had seemed reluctant to do a reading at
the bookstore, and based on what Jocelyn had read online, she rarely made
appearances as an author. The last place she’d want to be would be a bookstore
full of readers and avid fans.

One more trip to the back room, this time for
a box of paperbacks, next month’s selection. She glanced at her file cabinets
and tugged on one of the handles to make sure it was locked. She stored her
information about all her customers in these wooden cabinets, and she treated
the data as carefully as if it was personal health information or the notes
from a therapy session. This afternoon, as soon as Ariana had left, Jocelyn had
created a new file for her and placed it in one of the drawers reserved for the
tourists she got to know by name. In the file, she’d written notes about
Ariana’s career and what little biographical details she’d gleaned from the
generic bios on Ariana’s website and the back covers of her books. She’d also
listed the two books she’d recommended. If Ariana gave her feedback on them,
Jocelyn would make note of her comments and be better able to hone her next
suggestions.

Jocelyn ran her hand across the
smooth-grained drawer containing Ariana’s file. She’d been drawn to her from
the moment she walked in the store. Ariana’d had the hungry look of a real book
person when she entered. She’d not so subtly tried to read the spines of the
books Jocelyn had chosen for Rosalie. Jocelyn would have done the same thing in
her place, because she’d have been curious about what someone else was reading
and hopeful about getting a good new title to add to her long to-read list.

But Ariana had been captivating for reasons
beyond her potential as a book buyer. She was stunning, but in a dreamy sort of
way. Jocelyn tended to date people like herself—driven, put-together
businesswomen. She’d never had any real luck with dating, but still, she had
her type and Ariana hadn’t fit it at all. She had worn soft, faded Levi’s and a
yellow waffle shirt with a hole in the sleeve. Her seal-brown hair fell to her
shoulders in what would be better called a cut than a style. Straight as a
blade and glossy as polished metal. Jocelyn had wanted her hands tangled in
that hair, and she had required a surprising amount of willpower to refrain from
touching it.

Crazy. Jocelyn needed to visualize Ariana as
an asset to the bookstore, not as someone to pursue romantically. First,
because she didn’t date tourists. And second, she repeated to herself, because
Ariana was definitely not her type.

Jocelyn gave in to one smidge of temptation
and pulled the cabinet key out of her pocket and opened the drawer. She reread
the reasons for recommending the books she had. The beekeeper memoir was
basically about family and home, and Ariana had somehow seemed like she was far
away from both right now. The book about the daily life in a monastery was
introspective and beautiful. A perfect fit for Ariana, who, when she talked to
Jocelyn, looked as if she was carrying on a second conversation in her mind.
One parallel to but much deeper than the one in the outer world.

Would the two books resonate with Ariana?
Jocelyn was pretty sure they would. She’d been recommending books for a long
time now, and her instincts were often undeniably accurate. Some of the locals
called her the Book Witch. In a completely flattering way. Probably.

The bells on the front door announced the
first arrivals. Jocelyn returned the file and locked the cabinet. She had
similar notes on acquaintances, and much more detailed ones on permanent Cannon
Beach residents. She recorded every interest, hobby, and idiosyncrasy she could
discover. If one of her customers was going through a career change, dealing
with a two-year-old, or adopting a dog from the humane society, Jocelyn put it
in her notes. Then she scoured other bookstores and catalogs from small
presses. She read like a fiend, too, wanting to really know the books she was
recommending to others. People had certain expectations about bookstore owners.
They thought she’d be retiring and shy, someone who wouldn’t mind an empty
store because she’d rather sit alone and read. Yes, Jocelyn was at heart all
those things, but she had to be as aggressive as a stock trader to keep her
business going. With big online stores and their discounts, independent bookstores
were a high-risk venture. And now, since the ripples of the oil spill had swept
through town and sent the tourists packing, times were even harder than normal.
Jocelyn was prepared to fight for her store. Whatever it took. She’d battled
for her life before this, from as early as she could remember, and she wasn’t
about to back down now.

She picked up the box of paperbacks again and
set it by the register before greeting Helen and Jenny. They were both fairly
new to Cannon Beach, but they’d quickly established themselves as locals during
the immediate aftermath of the spill. Jocelyn gave them each a hug and then
peered in the pastry boxes Helen had brought.

“Cream puffs and applesauce doughnuts,” Helen
said. She helped Jocelyn arrange the treats on serving plates.

“You’re an angel,” Jocelyn said. She hadn’t
stopped to eat lunch today, and the smells were very tempting. She’d wait until
everyone was here before eating, though. “How’s the Reynolds horse, Jenny?”

“Fifty-six stitches,” Jenny said with a shake
of her head. She had come to Cannon Beach to help organize the rescue efforts
and she had decided to stay and open a vet clinic in town. Well, she had stayed
for Helen. For the town as a whole, the vet clinic was a happy by-product of
her decision. “He’s going to be fine, but I have a feeling the equines in this
town are going to be paying my rent until next summer.”

Jocelyn shook her head. “Poor horse. What
happened?”

“They’re renting a pasture for him and the
fencing isn’t the safest. He stretched his head over it to reach some grass,
and when he pulled back, he cut the side of his neck on a loose wire end. This
is the third accident involving SeaHorse animals, and I’m thinking of holding a
series of seminars to educate these kids and their parents on basic horse care
and safety.”

“That’s a great idea,” Jocelyn said. After
the oil spill, the stable that organized beach rides had leased out its horses
for a cheap fee and shut its doors until the next summer. Jocelyn had ridden on
and off since she was a teenager, and she had splurged on herself for once and
had a scruffy Paint boarded a few minutes outside of town. She had the benefit
of the more experienced stable owner’s expertise, but a lot of the horses were
being leased by people who had no idea how to take care of them. She made a
mental note to stock up on horse books. Maybe she could start a book club for
kids with an equine focus. They’d learn valuable information, and she’d
possibly make some sales. Win-win.

“Can you recommend some good books I can have
on hand?” Jocelyn grabbed a pen and some paper off the counter and handed them
to her.

“Definitely,” Jenny said.

Jocelyn saw Mel enter the store—with a
plastic-wrap covered platter but no Ariana—and she excused herself to go say
hello to her. Jenny, furiously writing on the piece of scrap paper, waved her
off.

“I’m glad to see you here, Mel,” Jocelyn
said. She always was. Mel was one of her best customers. During her first year
running the inn, Mel had been in her shop buying books on electrical wiring and
small-appliance repair and decorating. She had practically supported the store
on her own. The best part of her buying sprees was the amount of time she’d
spent in the bookstore, though. Jocelyn had missed Mel’s company once the inn
was renovated and full of guests. One of the main reasons she’d started this
book club was to have a chance to see Mel and her other friends who were often
too busy to spend long afternoons browsing. She’d also started her book bundle
program for the same reason, and she spent the time her customers couldn’t
afford choosing books they could.

“Jocelyn, it’s great to be here.” Mel put her
platter of scones on the table and shrugged out of her coat. “Pam sends her
regrets, but she’s swamped with the gallery tours right now. There’ll be
another busload coming by your store on Thursday about ten, so be prepared.”

“Always,” Jocelyn said. She had charts from
every tour that had come by her store over the past months, and she was
beginning to see trends. She knew exactly what books she’d display and stock
before Thursday. “So…I met one of your guests today,” she said. She’d been
waiting for the chance to bring up Ariana, but she felt oddly tongue-tied and
awkward, like a teenager with a crush.

“Ah, you met Ari. She’s my only guest at the
moment. What’d you think of her?”

Mel asked the question casually, but her
expression changed as she watched Jocelyn try to think of a way to answer. What
did she think of Ariana? Ari? She thought she was sexy. She was in awe of her.
She had read every book Ari had written. They were heartfelt and intimate
explorations of pain and sorrow and happiness. They were emotions laid bare.
Jocelyn had kept her mind on the financial opportunity of having a famous
author in her store, but her body and heart had other ideas entirely. Jocelyn
felt her cheeks grow warm, and Mel laughed.

“All right, I have a good idea what you
thought of her.”

Jocelyn tried to compose herself. “I’m a big
fan. Of her
writing
,”
she added when Mel laughed harder. “I suggested she do a reading and signing
here, but she didn’t seem too receptive. Maybe you could put in a good word for
the Beachcomber?”

“I can try, but I get the feeling she wants
solitude. She seems…sad, I guess. When she made her reservation she said she
wanted a quiet place to work, and I think she has a project she needs to
finish. I won’t intrude on her space, but if the opportunity comes up, I’ll
talk you up. Oh, I mean talk up your store, of course.”

Jocelyn gave Mel a playful bump with her
elbow. She wouldn’t push the issue of Ari with Mel right now, but she was
determined to have a signing here before Ari packed up and left. She had to
keep fighting, keep putting every ounce of effort she had into her store. She
had projects in place to keep revenue flowing, and she was always on the
lookout for new ways to remain solvent. An appearance by Ari would fill her
store with readers and fans. It would also seriously disturb her equilibrium,
but that was a chance Jocelyn had to take in the name of survival.

*

Ari leaned back in her desk chair and watched
the clouds scuttling across a vibrant blue sky. After a week of staring out the
window of her upstairs room while pretending to write, she had moved the desk
to the wall next to the door. The only result was that now she had an ache in
her neck from twisting around to see outside. The tiny cursor on her laptop
screen continued to pulse like Poe’s telltale heart.

In her mind, she visualized the opening
scene. A woman, distraught with grief and guilt, stands alone on a bluff
overlooking the sea. Wind blows her light brown hair and she wraps her cardigan
tightly around herself to fend off the chill in her heart. Ari had written the
first sentence over a thousand times already, deleting each failed attempt, and
the image in her head seemed frightfully clichéd and stale now. She wasn’t sure
whether the scene was a good one and it felt old only because she had been
spending too much time trying to capture it in words, or whether it really did
suck. She would feel compassion for the character and her sorrow, but then a
critical part of her mind would sneer at the derivative symbolism and ask if
Heathcliff was about to come stomping across the moors toward the woman.

Ari righted herself before her chair tipped
over backward. She might as well go outside and experience the actuality of a
windy fall afternoon at the ocean instead of dwelling on the fictional one in
her imagination. She’d been sitting at the desk for three hours now. She hadn’t
typed anything worth saving, but the time spent at the desk should count for
something. She deserved a break after doing absolutely nothing. She sighed at
the sarcastic tone of her own thoughts and closed her laptop with a firm snap.
She left the room and went down the stairs, pulling a thick plaid shirt over
her sweatshirt. She slid her feet into a pair of low rubber boots Mel had
provided for her, as protection against oil stains on both Ari’s own shoes and
the inn’s floors, and went outside. The wind felt invigorating and bracing, and
the sun was warm whenever it broke free from sporadic cloud cover. The
sensations were welcome, especially after her forced confinement in the gray
room, but even her enjoyment of the weather made her feel a nudge of guilt. She
had always been able to transport herself away from the world and into her
stories. She’d felt sun and wind and snow along with her characters without
needing the medium of her own skin. Now, though, the story wouldn’t let her in.
She had to come out here to feel anything at all.

Ari went past the studio and waved at Pam,
who was sitting on a bench next to one of the large windows. She looked as if
she was sorting paint tubes by color, and a blank canvas was set on the easel
behind her. Pam waved back with a friendly smile, but the expression vanished
as soon as she returned her attention to the paints. Ari wondered if Pam would
be able to create today or if she’d give up and escape to the real world like
Ari had.

She climbed down the wooden staircase leading
to the beach, pushing aside overgrown grasses whose dry yellow fronds swished
across her face and arms. She jumped the last three steps and landed with a
satisfying thud on the soft sand. She walked a few yards along the retaining
wall before scrambling onto a huge driftwood trunk, almost half her height, and
leaping off it and over a narrow rivulet that flowed toward the ocean. The
physical effort felt good. She trudged across the thick sand and headed toward
the wet, packed area where walking would be easier.