Page 6 of One Happy Summer

“She’s a tiny thing. Dark hair under a baseball cap and sunglasses on. I just passed by her on the way here.” She inhales quickly. “Oh my . . . was she here? In our store?” She points out toward the main area of the bookshop, figurative stars in her eyes.

Presley James . . . Presley . . . James.

Oh no.

I slap myself on the forehead with my palm. That’s why she looked so familiar. Not because I’ve met her before, but because I’ve seen her on a movie screen.

Briggs, you idiot.

“She was in the store,” I tell my mom.

Her jaw drops. “She was in the store?” Her voice is so loud someone on the moon could probably hear her. “Scout is going to freak out! Did you at least get a picture, Briggsy?”

I narrow my eyes at her, not because of the nickname that she’s called me probably since birth—I don’t mind that—but because of her ridiculous assumption.

“Yes, because I make a habit of snapping pictures of all our patrons,” I tell her. I drop my chin and purse my lips to accentuate my sarcastic retort.

“We had someone famous in the shop and you didn’t even think to snap a picture?”

“Maybe it’s not Presley,” I say, hopeful that I’m right. I’m feeling waves of embarrassment work their way down my spine as I think about all the stupid things I said to her when she was here. Presley Freaking James.

“It has to be,” she says. “Word is she’s staying at the Belacourt Resort.”

Note to self: stay away from the Belacourt Resort. Not that I have any reason to be at the posh hotel.

I’ll just have to hope I never see her again.

Presley

What am I doing?

What am I doing, what am I doing, WHAT. AM. I. DOING?

Presley James, what the heck are you doing right now? You’re not supposed to be here; you’re supposed to be locked in your room, not off gallivanting around the town. Have you lost your mind?

“You’ll ruin your back sitting like that, young lady,” an older woman says to me. Well, I think it’s an older woman, at least if I’m going on her voice alone. It’s raspy with a slight quiver and full of condescension. So, basically exactly how my grandma—a.k.a. Mimi—sounds. Especially the condescending part.

I can’t see the woman standing in front of me because I’m currently sitting/slouching on a bench in the downtown square of Summer Harbor Island (oddly fitting since this place is currently my safe harbor) with my bag of newly purchased books beside me and my face buried in my hands.

I pull my hands away to see Birkenstocks and flamingo socks. My eyes travel up to white Bermuda shorts adorned with palm trees and then to a blue cotton T-shirt with the wordsI’m too old to care what you thinkprinted on it. Continuing my gaze upward, I notice oversized hot-pink-rimmed sunglasses and a wide-brimmed visor perched atop the woman’s short, dyed-brown, curly hair. I’d guess she’s in her late sixties, maybe early seventies. There is zero recognition in her eyes, something I’ve become accustomed to gauging.

“Yes,” I say. “That’s . . . excellent advice.” I’m not just saying this—it really is wise counsel. If I want to keep working as an actress until I’m Meryl Streep’s age, then I’d better work on my posture.

Of course, I don’t even know if I still have a job in the industry.

No one warns you when you make it in Hollywood that one day it might all come crashing down on you.

Oh no . . . yep. I’m tearing up again. I’d hoped I had finished with all that on the flight here. Thank goodness for these sunglasses to cover my shame. I’m so sick of crying. There’s been way too much of it lately. I feel a lot like the water fountain behind me, except instead of the melodic trickling sound it’s making, I tend to make not-so-pleasant noises when I cry—reallycry, not the acting kind. There’s lots of gasping, and hiccupping, and snorting.

I’m not blubbering like that right now, though. Not in front of Brash Betty standing in front of me, her hands on her hips. I’ll push these tears back to where they came from if it’s the last thing I ever do. And it just might be. This is hard.

I take a deep breath.

“Let’s see you sit up taller now,” the woman instructs, or rather demands, as a soft breeze ruffles the hair peeking out of the top of her visor.

“Right,” I say after a sniffle. I play along because, aside from the quick conversations with the resort staff and the man I just talked to at the bookstore, she’s the only other person I’ve talked to in days. Even if she is judging my posture—or lack thereof, as it were—I miss talking to people. I didn’t realize how much I like being around other humans until recently, when all the people I thought were my friends turned their backs on me. One person in particular literally gave me her back. I’ve never been so snubbed.

I sit up, lifting my chin a bit higher as I force my spine straight, pushing my shoulders back.

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