by Karis Walsh
Once Ari was alone, she explored her new rooms. The third-floor suite had spectacular views and good natural light. Mel had put her suitcase in the first and smallest room, with slate-gray walls and bright white trim. A large oil painting of a jellyfish hung on the wall behind the bed. Fascinated, Ari stood in front of the painting and watched a sunbeam dance across the mosaic of white and clear sea glass embedded in the oils. Somehow Pam had brought life and movement where others might expect only stagnant inertia. Ari wished she had the same ability.
She turned away and checked out her second room. This one was brighter in color and mood. Rosy walls and a teal quilt on the bed were offset by the antique mahogany furniture. Ari didn’t have much of an eye for design—she’d hired decorators for every room in her house except for her office—but she recognized style and class when she saw it. Dominating the room was another of Pam’s paintings, this one of a kite festival. The sky in the painting was filled with kites of different colors accented with primary-toned sea glass. The crowds of people were out of focus, but individualized and given depth with simple brushstrokes.
She couldn’t help but see symbolism in the paintings. She should assign the gray room as her bedroom, where she’d sleep in the presence of the slow-moving, land-bound jellyfish. The other room, with kites soaring in the breeze like she hoped her words and stories would do, was perfect for her office. She sat on the teal bed for a moment and tried to picture writing in there. Anywhere. She couldn’t. She got up and moved her suitcase from the gray room to the rose one. She unpacked her clothes and carefully arranged them in the dark wood dresser and the closet. She’d sleep with the kites and work with the jellyfish. She felt as if she was lumbering along anyway. She might as well keep company with the beautiful blob of goo.
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 Ks. 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.
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.