Tales From Sea Glass Inn

by Karis Walsh

  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, sh
e 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.

  The beach was nearly empty. She saw a couple far ahead of her, walking like one person with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. A man stood near Haystack Rock, taking pictures with his cell phone. A woman on a small spotted horse was cantering along the packed sand, and Ari stood still to let them pass before she crossed to the water’s edge. She frowned as the centaur pair got closer. Something about the rider was familiar to her…

  “What a surprise to see you here,” Jocelyn said in a breathless voice as she pulled her horse to a halt near Ari.

  “I’m sure it is a surprise,” Ari said, gesturing over her shoulder at the Sea Glass Inn. “Who’d have thought I’d be right outside the place where I’m staying?”

  Jocelyn grinned, seemingly undeterred by Ari’s sarcasm. “Right? Mariner and I just got to the beach and started our ride, and there you were.”

  Ari couldn’t keep from smiling in return. Jocelyn’s cheeks were red from the wind and her fast ride, and she spoke with a tone of shocked innocence. She looked stunning on horseback, connected to the beach and the creature she rode. She was full of shit, obviously, but stunning. Jocelyn seemed like someone who wouldn’t relent until she got her way, and Ari needed to stay strong and resist. She made herself look away from Jocelyn and pointed again, this time at the masses of hoofprints in the sand wet from the ebbing tide.

  “Looks like a whole herd of horses has been through here,” she said. “Or maybe just one, back and forth a whole bunch of times.”

  “Hmm, I do seem to remember a van full of horses leaving the parking lot just as we drove in. Must have been them out here.”

  “Oh, okay. So…I’m new around here. Maybe you can tell me where I go to get a restraining order against a stalker?”

  Jocelyn laughed out loud. “We take care of our own around here. No one will issue one against a poor business owner who is simply trying to make a living by offering to host a reading for a visiting author who will benefit from the evening and sell a bunch of books.”

  Ari shook her head at the breathlessly delivered rambling sentence. Every time Jocelyn mentioned the idea, she managed to make it sound as if she was doing Ari a favor. She couldn’t help but admire Jocelyn’s persistence—how the hell long had she been riding out here?—but admiration and attraction weren’t going to be enough to make Ari relent. She got anxious enough at publicity events. It’d be even worse when she wasn’t writing and felt like a fraud dressed up in author’s clothes.

  She started to walk along the beach, searching for a way to distract Jocelyn from her mission. The horse fell into step beside her and Ari reached out to stroke his neck. He was already getting his thick winter coat, and his mane sprouted every which way like a too-long mohawk. Ari used him as a diversion.

  “He’s cute. Have you had him long?”

  “Only since the beginning of summer,” Jocelyn said, giving the horse a pat. “There’s a livery stable called the SeaHorse Ranch that offers beach rides for tourists. After the spill, the beach was shut down indefinitely, so they leased out as many horses as they could. I couldn’t resist a chance to ride again, and I knew I’d be helping the ranch owners by feeding and boarding him for a year, so here we are.”

  “Out a-stalking on horseback,” Ari said. “Poor horse, unwittingly leased into a life of crime.”

  “We’re not stalking you. We were just out for a nice ride on the beach and we happened to bump into you and I happened to mention an amazing marketing opportunity.”

  Jocelyn was definitely tenacious about this favor. Luckily, Ari could be equally persistent in her determination to change the subject. “What do you mean about getting to ride again? You look natural up there, like you spend a lot of time in the saddle.” Ari made a concerted effort not to look where parts of Jocelyn met the saddle. She didn’t need to go there—her willpower might not be strong enough to resist.

  Jocelyn looked straight ahead, suddenly appearing as uncomfortable as Ari had been when the book signing was mentioned. “I rode a few times when I was a kid. At camps and stuff.”

  “Were you a Girl Scout?”

  “Um, no.”

  Ari couldn’t help herself. Whenever she wrote a character that was as evasive as Jocelyn was acting, there was some hidden reason behind her caginess. Ari tried to convince herself she was merely gleaning information she’d use in a future book—she loved collecting snippets of scenes or character motivation—but she was too aware of her growing interest in Jocelyn as a person. She was an enigma. At once vulnerable and hard as nails, gentle and pushy.

  “What kind of camp?”

  Jocelyn shrugged, as if answering the question was no big deal to her. “A camp for kids with cancer. I got a wish granted, and I had such a wonderful time with the horses that my parents sent me back each summer.”

  Ari stopped walking. “Cancer? I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m fine now,” Jocelyn said. She pulled Mariner to a halt. “I had AML. Acute myelogenous leukemia. I’m better now,” she repeated.

  Ari nodded, not sure what to say given Jocelyn’s defensive tone. She rejected all the platitudes that came to
mind and went with the first honest question that popped into her mind. “How much of your childhood was spent in hospitals?”

  Jocelyn paused as if considering the question. “Between ages three and six, I’d say I was in hospitals and clinics far more than out of them. I had surgery and chemo, and once the cancer was in remission I had more intense chemo, and then a stem cell transplant from Maggie, my sister. She’s my fraternal twin. After age six, I went back for regular screenings for over five years. I didn’t go to a regular school until I was ten, but the doctors hadn’t been convinced I’d even make it to that age, so I can’t complain about having more nurses and doctors as friends than kids my age, or about watching other kids play from the sidelines.”

  Ari was silent. She’d learned a lot in a few sentences. She felt she understood the force of Jocelyn’s determination a little better now. She probably saw challenges as life-or-death situations after facing such a huge one at a young age. And a twin? Ari was curious and wanted to ask more, but she sensed Jocelyn had shared enough for the moment. She had been hesitant to tell her story at first, and then had spit out the words as if trying to get their bitterness out of her mouth in a hurry. Ari started walking again, and Jocelyn and Mariner continued, too.

  “You said you’re working on a project while you’re here,” Jocelyn said. “What are you writing now?”

  She didn’t seem to have any doubt Ari would answer, and Ari couldn’t find a good enough reason not to repay Jocelyn’s confidences with at least one of her own. Trapped by reciprocity. Damn.

  “It’s a book about a woman who loses her mother,” she said, pretending she was actually writing the novel and not merely staring at a computer screen and thinking about it. “They were estranged, and the main character is remembering their relationship and coming to terms with her residual anger and the guilt she feels because she’s angry.”

  “I knew it,” Jocelyn said with a triumphant grin.