There was simply no rhyme or reason to it now. The whole store was no bigger than a large classroom, but it was so crammed with stuff that it tended to feel even smaller. They still sold place mats and pepper grinders, lamps and pillows and other assorted furnishings, but now there were also books and vintage toys and bins full of saltwater taffy. There were greeting cards and postcards, T-shirts and swimsuits, beach toys and board games.
And, of course, there were lobsters. Not real ones—though Ellie wouldn’t have been terribly shocked to stumble upon a fish tank in all the confusion—but lobster teacups and kettles, key chains and bookmarks and wind chimes. There was even a giant plush lobster that had been sitting in the back of the shop for years now. It was the size of a large ape, and with its black marble eyes and oversize antennae, it had, on more than one occasion, startled an unsuspecting kid who came wheeling around the corner a bit too fast.
Quinn was always itchy to organize the place, but Ellie loved its chaos. She’d basically grown up in this shop, and it felt almost like an extension of the house, a messy closet or treasure-filled basement. Mom had been hoping to expand for years now, lingering each morning at the dusty window of the adjacent storefront, a former real estate office that had been empty for ages. But there was never the money for it. At this point, there was hardly even enough to keep their house from falling to pieces all around them. And so the clutter in the shop only continued to grow. But the customers didn’t seem to mind, and neither did Ellie.
She’d spent countless afternoons here, doing her homework with lobster-shaped pencils, balancing on the old antique sea captain’s trunk while waiting for Mom to close up, sitting at the window and listening to the waves crash into the rocks just down the street. But her favorite part of the shop was the collection of picture frames lining the shelves in the far back corner. They came in all shapes and colors and sizes, some of them silver and some of them wood, while others were made of sea glass or had delicate designs along the edges. And in each and every frame, instead of a glossy photograph, there was a poem.
Years ago, on a winter day when the snow drifted high against the window and the shop was empty and quiet, Mom had left Ellie alone to trek down the street for some hot chocolate. While she was gone, Ellie found herself studying the framed photographs, black-and-white images of happy families smiling their toothy grins. There were couples gazing into each other’s eyes, parents holding the hands of their kids, families on picnics and boat rides and walks in the woods. As her eyes skipped over the display, Ellie realized there were exactly four pictures of fathers with their daughters perched on their shoulders, and exactly zero pictures of mothers and daughters.
She was eight that winter, old enough to understand that they weren’t ever going back to D.C., but too young to keep a firm grip on the memory of her father’s face, which slid in and out of her mind like a slippery fish. And so when she’d looked at all those happy faces tiling the wall of the shop, something inside of her split clean open.
By the time Mom returned, a steaming cup of cocoa in each hand, Ellie had systematically removed every single one of the photos, sliding them from their frames and ripping each one neatly before throwing it into the garbage. Mom stood in the doorway, her cheeks pink from the cold, a look of confusion in her eyes, and then she set down the cups and unwound her scarf. Without a word, she crossed the shop and grabbed a new pack of crayons from one of the hooks in the toy section, handing them over to Ellie.
“I have a feeling you can do better anyway,” she said.
For years after that, the frames housed Ellie’s construction-paper drawings, brightly colored sketches of trees and boats and lobsters. And when she was older, she switched to poetry, filling them with her favorite stanzas, each one scrawled in her tiny handwriting. Customers began to linger in that corner, perusing the shelves, lost in the words, and they became as much a draw as anything else in the shop. The ones with poems about Maine were scooped up by the tourists almost as soon as they were set out, and once, when Ellie went to a party hosted by one of her classmates, she saw that the frame his mom had bought months ago was still empty of a family photo. But it was there in the foyer anyway, featuring a poem by W. H. Auden, Ellie’s favorite.
As she walked into the shop this afternoon, Mom was opening a brand-new carton of frames, and when Ellie was close enough to get a look, she began to laugh.
“Those aren’t—”
“I know,” Mom said with a groan. “They sent us the wrong ones.”
“Maybe some gift shop in Maryland can use them.”
“Who’d want a picture frame with a crab on it?”
Ellie rolled her eyes. “Who’d want one with a lobster?”
“Hey,” Mom said with a grin. “Don’t knock the lobsters. They’re our bread and butter. So to speak.” She began to pack up the frames again, wrapping them in tissue paper. “How come you’re late? Were you busy gawking at movie stars like everyone else in this town?”
Ellie hesitated, then shook her head. “Quinn had a little milkshake mishap just as I was leaving, so I helped her clean up.”
“See,” Mom said, sweeping aside the box. “That’s why you should only be working here. We’re nothing if not tidy.”
Ellie raised her eyebrows pointedly at the mess of inventory, the random items strewn about so that the whole shop felt like a maze, and they both laughed. But it was clear she was only partially joking about the second job. When Ellie had started taking shifts at Sprinkles a few months earlier, Mom wasn’t thrilled about it.
For as long as Ellie could remember, money had been an issue. When she was younger, it had never seemed to matter. They had everything they needed, the two of them. But this fall, she’d be starting her last year of high school, which meant that college—and the staggering cost of tuition—was looming ever closer. Ellie didn’t want to go to a state school; she had her heart set on the Ivy League, and so they’d already started talking about loans, the paperwork piling up on Mom’s desk, columns of numbers and percentages, line after line of fine print. This, alone, was enough to make Ellie feel guilty, enough to set her heart beating fast with worry whenever the subject came up.
But a few months ago, she found out she was accepted into a summer poetry course at Harvard. The program was impossible to get into, and Ellie had only applied on a whim after seeing a flyer taped to the bulletin board of her English classroom, never thinking she might be chosen. There were only fifteen high school students from across the country who would get to spend the first three weeks of August studying poetry while staying in the Harvard dorms. But the program cost just over two thousand dollars, and there were no scholarships or financial aid.
The night she told Mom about it, she’d seen the hesitation in her eyes.
“It sounds like a great opportunity,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “And I’m so proud of you for getting in. But—”
Ellie didn’t let her finish. She couldn’t bear it. “And they gave me a scholarship too,” she found herself saying, relieved to see the light go back on behind Mom’s smile, the worry replaced by a look of pure pride.
“Of course they did,” she said, giving her a hug. “I’m so happy for you.”
Ellie had needed to let them know she was coming by the end of May. At that point, she had exactly $178.24 in her savings account, and no plan whatsoever for how to make up the balance by the time the course started and the payment was due. But she sent back the form anyway, a check mark in the box beside the words “Yes, I will attend!”
The job at Sprinkles helped. But even with that and her pay from Happy Thoughts, Ellie’s calculations showed that at the end of the summer she was still going to be short by half. Quinn had offered to lend her some of it, and as much as Ellie appreciated the gesture, she knew not to count on that. Money had a habit of slipping through Quinn’s fingers pretty quickly, her paychecks usually disappearing the same day she got them; a few hours of online shopping and poof, they wer
e gone.
But she dreaded having to give up her spot in the course to some trust-fund kid who’d spent her summer lying by the pool at a country club. There was no way she couldn’t go, and there was no way she could ask Mom to help make up the difference when they were just getting by as it was. It only made it worse that Ellie knew she’d say yes. It didn’t matter what she needed to do—sell the shop, donate a kidney, rob a bank—Mom would make it happen, which was precisely why Ellie could never, ever ask her.
Since school had let out, she’d started to become more desperate, working all day at one job or another, and then babysitting at night. She could see that Mom was worried about her new industrious streak, the way that work was taking over her summer.
“You’re sixteen,” she said. “You should be out getting into trouble.”
“I’m fine,” Ellie told her, again and again.
Now, as they stood there on opposite sides of the counter, the wind chimes tinkling in the breeze from the window, Ellie was sure they were about to stumble into the discussion once again, the same one that had lately been running on an endless loop like a bad recording. But there was a reluctance in Mom’s eyes that matched Ellie’s own. Neither of them wanted to talk about this; neither of them wanted to argue.
So when the door banged open, Ellie whirled around with a rush of relief. It took a moment for Quinn to emerge from between the T-shirts that were hanging near the register, and when she did, Ellie could see that her face was flushed.
“Okay,” she said, her hands held up as if she were about to perform a spell. “Okay, okay, okay.”
Mom leaned forward and turned to Ellie. “Is she having a nervous breakdown?”
“This is serious, Mrs. O,” Quinn said, sinking onto a blue beanbag chair. “This is, like, a dire emergency.”
“Is everything okay?” Mom asked, still looking relatively unconcerned. Ellie and Quinn had been best friends since they were five, and if the O’Neills had learned one thing in that time, it was that Quinn had a flair for the dramatic. Her definition of an emergency was a little more flexible than everyone else’s.
“Okay?” Quinn said, her eyes widening. “I have a date with Graham Larkin.”
There were a few beats of silence as this announcement settled over them. The moment Quinn said his name Ellie was surprised to be reminded of those eyes of his, and she blinked hard to shake loose the memory. Just behind her, Mom was shrugging her shoulders, mystified.
“Who’s Graham Larking?” she asked, and Quinn gave her a stern look.
“Graham Larkin,” she said, “is only one of the biggest stars in the world.”
Ellie laughed at the expression on Mom’s face, which was still utterly blank. “He’s in those magician movies,” she explained, “and now he’s the star of whatever they’re filming here.”
“And you’re going out with him?” Mom said to Quinn, who raised and then lowered her chin. “I haven’t been outside all day. Are there movie stars just wandering around town looking for dates?”
“He was in Sprinkles,” Ellie explained. “And he must have thought Quinn was at least as irresistible as the ice cream. By the way, who’s watching the shop?”
Quinn waved a hand in the air, as if this were a matter of little importance. “I left Devon there,” she told them. “He said he could handle it on his own. I need your help to get ready.”
Ellie couldn’t help feeling sorry for poor Devon Alexander, who’d been in love with Quinn for years now, and probably had no idea he was covering their busiest hours alone so she could get ready for her date with a movie star.
“Well,” Mom said, grabbing a red rubber ball from the jar beside the register and tossing it absently from one hand to the other, “you’ve come to the right place. I’m proud of my daughter for a great many things, but most particularly for her fashion sense…”
“Very funny,” Ellie said, glancing down at what she was wearing: a jean skirt, a plain white tank top, and black rubber flip-flops, which was pretty much her summer uniform.
“I really just need her for moral support,” Quinn said, hopping to her feet. “Is it okay if she knocks off early?”
“I just got here…” Ellie began, but Mom was nodding.
“It’s okay,” she said, still juggling the red ball. “Really. We can’t send Quinn off on a date with a major celebrity without a little help, can we?”
There was a teasing note in her voice, but Quinn was too distracted to pick up on it. “Exactly,” she said, rocking back on her heels. Everything about her was wound too tight, and she couldn’t stop fidgeting. “I mean, it’s a big deal. You should’ve seen all the cameras at the shop this afternoon. I can’t imagine what it’ll be like tonight…”
Mom fumbled the ball, which fell to the floor, glancing off a bin full of snorkeling gear and then rolling off into a corner. “Cameras, huh?”
“Yeah, tons of them,” Quinn was saying, while Ellie remained frozen, her gaze focused on the wooden floor in an attempt to avoid Mom’s eyes. “They’re all camped out by the set right now, but I’m sure they’ll be following him around later.” She paused, not noticing the strained look on the faces of her audience. “Paparazzi in Henley. Crazy, right?”
“Yeah,” Ellie said, looking sideways at Mom. “It is.”
“Too bad I don’t want to be an actress. Or a reality-TV star or something,” Quinn said. “This would be such a great opportunity.”
“Yes,” Mom said, regaining herself. “It’s a terrible shame you only want to be a marine biologist. I suppose it would be much more useful to have been asked out to dinner by a whale.”
Quinn laughed. “They’re terrible conversationalists, though.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to make do with the movie star,” Mom said with a smile. “Just be careful of those photographers, okay?”
“I will,” Quinn said. “I’ve read enough gossip magazines to know not to wear my skirt too short.”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” Mom said. “But you’re right. Better go find something appropriate to wear. Your wardrobe specialist is officially free for the afternoon.”
“Thanks, Mrs. O,” Quinn said, grabbing Ellie’s wrist and pulling her toward the door, already rattling off all the things they’d need to do to get ready for the evening. But just before they stepped outside, Ellie broke away and trotted back over to the register.
“Thanks, Mom,” she said, giving her a quick hug.
“Sure thing,” Mom whispered as she pulled back. “I’m just glad it’s not you.”
Ellie thought once more of Graham Larkin’s eyes, so guarded and sad, and of the way he’d paused in front of the store, his shoulders hunched and the brim of his cap pulled low as the photographers crept up behind him, as patient and certain as snipers. She glanced over at Quinn, who was practically dancing from one foot to the other, and it struck her how complicated this was, all of it, not just the cameras and the movie trailers, but the way someone could look at you, how it could feel like a question without an answer. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was go home and write an e-mail, to send her thoughts across the country like a message in a bottle, like the poems in the frames.
She turned back to Mom with a little nod.
“I know,” she said. “Me too.”
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sunday, June 9, 2013 3:02 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: what happy looks like
Meeting new people.
The light off the water was golden in the last hours of the day. Graham took the long way to dinner, cutting over to the beach, where he paused every now and then to pick up a stone, weighing it in his hand before letting it fall back to the ground. All day, the smell of the ocean had been calling to him.
A couple of sunburned tourists walked by with beach chairs under their arms, but neither of them bothered to look up at him as they passed, and Graham felt a little shiver of delight. After the first movie
came out, it had been the opposite; each time someone recognized him in public, it was like a benediction, like in some strange way he was being knighted: Graham Larkin, Somebody. But now—now it was the lack of recognition that made his heart thump in his chest, that small thrill of anonymity, which had become such a rare thing these days.
He glanced at his watch, realizing he would soon be running late, but instead of heading back up to the road, he turned to face the ocean squarely, watching the light skip off the water. There were still a few boats on the horizon, silhouettes against the sun, and Graham had a sudden longing to be out there too.
He remembered a fishing trip he’d taken with his father when he was only eight, the two of them bobbing in the little rowboat, their necks lost in the orange lifejackets. For three days, they’d tied their bait and cast their lines and caught nothing. Dad kept apologizing, like it was his fault the lake refused to offer anything up, and as the last afternoon began to wear thin, he only looked more miserable. This had been his idea, the kind of bonding trip he’d taken with his own father, and he’d been telling Graham for months now about all the fish they’d surely catch.
“Salmon?” Graham had asked, and Dad shook his head.
“Probably not,” he said. “They’re tougher to find. But trout. Lots and lots of trout. You’ll see.”
They hadn’t brought anything else for dinner—he was that certain—and so the previous night, they’d eaten beef jerky and string cheese out on the cabin porch, swatting away the mosquitoes and listening to the thrum of the crickets. They were close to giving up that last afternoon when it occurred to Graham to tie some of the beef jerky to the end of the line. Dad had sat forward, the little boat rolling back and forth, and his eyes brightened.
“That’s not a bad idea,” he’d said, breaking off a piece.
Graham was the first one to get a bite, a rainbow trout that flopped and jerked on the line as Dad helped him reel it in. After that, it was easy. Dad pulled in three more trout, and then Graham caught a small carp. The light was fading and the water was getting dark all around them, but neither of them wanted to stop. It was like magic, like they’d conjured three days’ worth of fish, a whole weekend’s worth of memories, into that last hour of daylight.
Jennifer E Smith Page 4