Page 5 of One Happy Summer

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she says.

“You just look so familiar.”

“I have one of those faces.”

“I don’t think that’s it,” I say, shaking my head. “Do you live here? On the island?”

“No, just visiting.” She slides a hand through the handles of the bag of books, looking like she’s about to make a run for it, her demeanor changing to something more anxious, which makes me even more curious. I may lack a lot of things in life, but reading a room has always been a talent of mine, and this room says,Stop asking stupid questions.

“Thank you for these,” she says, with a head bob toward the books.

“Of course,” I tell her.

She turns and leaves the store, the bells jingling as she exits.

I stare at the door after she leaves, still trying to work out how I might know her. After a minute, I give up and busy myself with organizing a stack of notebooks on the counter.

It doesn’t matter anyway; I’m not trying to see people on this island besides my mom and Scout. I can’t get around running into people when they come into the shop, but other than that I’ve been hiding in the apartment above the store that my mom kindly offered when I told her I was coming back. It’s a small, one-bedroom place, and it’s got some interesting decor. But I’m grateful for it.

It’s not that I’m avoiding particular people—I just don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to have to answer questions about why I’m back, what happened, what I plan to do with my life, how I’m going to get back on my feet . . . I don’t even know the answers to the last two questions. I’m giving myself the summer to figure it all out. And hopefully I will.

The bells on the door ring as it opens, and I can instantly feel the warm, humid air that’s slipped in, fighting for dominance with the air-conditioning. My eyes dart toward the entrance, hoping she—the mysterious, yet familiar, woman—might come through the door, back to tell me who she is and put this unsolved mystery to rest. Instead, my mom enters the bookshop, carrying a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a canvas tote full of who-knows-what in the other.

“Hello, Mom,” I say before giving her a faint smile.

“Briggs,” she says, sounding out of breath. It’s not a greeting, it’s the start of a sentence. She has something to tell me, and from the look of her wide eyes, it’s very important information. That, or not at all important. You never really know with my mom. It could be anything. A dolphin sighting on her morning beach stroll or seeing someone doing something out of the ordinary on her walk here. Not a lot of exciting things happen on this island.

“Carl was here earlier, and he thinks we should be carrying some refrigerator-repair manuals,” I start, purposely cutting off whatever story she was about to tell me, just to be annoying, and also so I wouldn’t forget. I told him I would say something, after all. I also want to tell her that he was fishing around about her relationship status, but I decide to keep that to myself.

She lets the bag she’s holding drop to her side, a punctuation to the irritated expression on her face: brows drawn low, lips pursed.

“He said it wasgood business practice.” I emphasize the last three words for added effect.

Her eyes move to the ceiling briefly. She shakes her head as she flings the tote she was carrying onto the only empty space on the front counter. The bag teeters before it sags to the side. The contents—which look to be books, go figure—surprisingly stay put. The flowers are next, but she’s gentler with those.

“Do you know who I just saw?” she asks, obviously done with talk of Carl and his refrigerator-repair-manual needs.

Marianne McMannus’s green eyes—the ones I inherited—stare me down, and her sandy-blonde hair, also the same as mine, looks a little bit frizzy, which means she definitely did her morning beach stroll.

“A dolphin?” I ask, taking an educated guess. It’s a common thing around here.

She scrunches her brow, looking at me like I’ve sprouted another head. “I saidwho,” she says.

I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe you named the dolphins.”

She bobs her head from side to side. “That does sound like something I’d do. But that’s not what I’m talking about.” She leans in toward me, dipping her chin as she does, like she has the juiciest of gossip. “I think I just saw Presley James.”

I cock my head to the side, “The . . . actress?”

“No,” she says, scoffing. “The gardener. Yes, of course the actress.” She shakes her head like she can’t believe the cluelessness of her only son. “I heard a rumor she was here, but I didn’t believe it. And you know I’m not one to gossip.”

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” I deadpan. My mom is actually the opposite of someone whoisn’t one to gossip. She might even be the town queen of it.

She blows air out of her nose, giving me a disappointed look. “I don’t gossip, Briggs,” she reiterates. “But I’m telling you, I think it was Presley James.”

“What did she look like?”

---