Page 64 of The Summer We Started Over

Paul laughed. “It’s yours. But I brought another one for you to sell in your shop, if you want to. You wouldn’t have to pay me. I don’t know how much they would go for.”

“But how did you do this? You’re a carpenter!”

“I have a woodworking shop set up in a garage I rent. This is what I prefer doing, but carpentry pays a lot better.”

He lifted a box out of the carton. It was large enough to hold some jewelry or mementoes. It was turquoise, its lid embellished with silver arabesques.

Barrett ran her fingers over the box. It was as smooth as silk.

“Open it,” Paul said.

Barrett gently opened the box. “Oh, Paul.”

The entire interior of the box was gleaming silver. While Barrett gazed at it, Paul brought out another box, this one deep azure, its inside gold.

“Wow,” Barrett said softly. “These are gorgeous, Paul.” She turned the box over. A tiny star was stamped in the corner. “Is this your signature?”

“It is.”

Barrett looked at Paul with renewed admiration. “I thought you did such a great job with my shop quarterboard, but I had no idea you could do this kind of work.”

“That sign isn’t really a quarterboard,” Paul reminded her. “The real quarterboards are works of art, and they take patience and skill.”

“These took patience and skill.” She turned them around, wondering how much to price them. “Paul, this is beautiful.”

Paul shrugged. “I like carving. I never got hooked on video games, and I don’t find television relaxing or even interesting after a hard day’s work. Plus, don’t hate me, but I’m not much of a reader. So, I do this in the evening.”

Barrett turned the little box this way and that. It called to her likean icon, a magic charm. She studied Paul as he stood there near her, with sawdust in his hair. He wore shorts, a dark T-shirt, and work boots, with a tool belt around his hips. Paul was sexy, and fascinating, with his macho exterior and his artistic secret side.

“Do you think I could ever watch you carve?”

He seemed surprised by her question. “I don’t know. I mean, I’ve never thought of having anyone watch me carve. It’s kind of personal.”

“I understand. Can you make any more of these? Does it take you a long time? Could you do, I don’t know, a fawn or a rabbit or whales, island animals?”

Paul ducked his head, as if embarrassed. “I’ll bring you some other things.” He quickly changed the subject. “Have you heard about the new head of Safe Harbor?”

“No. Tell me.”

She leaned on her counter, talking about the town with Paul. He knew everyone—he’d been born on the island—and working with a crew of carpenters, he heard everything. He was kind with his gossip, and she liked that. She liked his smile, his big shoulders, his—what was the word? Was there a word? His openness, honesty, and willingness to bring her his carvings, obviously the work of his heart, and if these small and beautiful objects were what he produced, she knew somehow that she could trust him.

—

Eddie decided she’d had enough with the lugging books from the house in boxes or bags or baskets or her arms. She dragged one of the family’s old wheelie suitcases, filled it with books, and bumped it out of the house, down the steps, over the drive, and into the Book Barn. In the past few weeks, she’d learned what hours and days brought the most customers and what kinds of books people bought. Of course, anything by Dinah Lavender went fast, and Dinah was having a few cartons of her books sent from her storage unit. It was fun to watchpeople getting excited over a book, and as the house emptied out, it was opening up like a flower in the summer.

For most of the day, Eddie was alone in the barn, and she’d developed a very enjoyable habit.

She read. She read for hours, as if each book was a passport and opening the book meant entering another country.

Some were duplicates of her father’s. Some had been her mother’s.Summerby Edith Wharton.A Mother and Two Daughtersby Gail Godwin.Septemberby Rosamunde Pilcher. Eddie kept a cooler by the counter, filled it with ice each morning, and set a pitcher of iced tea inside, along with an egg salad sandwich or a few bars of chocolate. During the heat of the day, when most people were at the beach, Eddie curled up in the old leather chair, opened a book, and read while shadows slowly moved across the room. When anyone drove up the driveway, the shells crackled beneath the tires, and Eddie would lift her head and be slightly surprised to see what was around her: the old barn, cases of books, her cellphone. The world she inhabited while she read the book would quickly vanish, not all at once, but slowly, like the pupil of an eye shrinking shut, like a door slowly closing.

Jeff often stopped by during his lunch break. He’d bring takeout from Faregrounds or a food truck, and Eddie would make a cold pitcher of iced tea with sprigs of mint. It was always good to sit in the barn with him, casually talking about their day as they ate and relaxed, but it was magical when it rained. Eddie would have pulled the barn door mostly closed. No one would come out in the rain to look at used books. Jeff would run from his truck to Eddie, the rain soaking his shirt and arms so that when he entered the barn and pressed Eddie against the wooden wall and kissed her, the cold made her shiver and she would cling to him until they were both warm.

They didn’t make love in the barn. They didn’t want a customer, or worse, Eddie’s father, to rush in out of the rain and catch them wrapped around each other. But those moments together led to a different kind of making love. As they talked, an intimacy grew aroundthem, so powerful that often, after sharing a secret, they sat in silence for a long time, giving each secret its worth.

Eddie was the one with the saddest confidences. One day she talked truthfully about her mother, and as she described her to Jeff, she felt the sadness lighten.

“No families are perfect.” Jeff smiled ruefully. “Jared, my older, perfect brother, the Army Ranger, was crazy mean when he grew up. If something made him angry, he’d slam his fist into the wall. Broke several walls that way. He’s four years older than I am, and about seventy pounds heavier. We fought all the time. He was bigger, but I was slippery. Our parents called us the Gorilla and the Eel. The thing is, even though our parents told him to leave me alone,Icouldn’t leavehimalone. I wanted to win just one fight. So, I started fights all the time.” He grinned at a memory. “We broke the coffee table.”

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