Page 58 of Stony Point Summer
Love you,
Eva
Maris, well, she stuffs the last of her turkey wrap in her mouth and does something else. She slumps on her stool. And groans. Then she rolls that stool over to her desk to look at both her planner and large desk calendar. Flipping pages back and forth, it’s like she’s trying with all her might to find a way to squeeze in that East Coast visit.
She glances to her office door, too, which is partially open. A few coworkers just quickly walked past, their voices hushed. Maybe even a little tense. So Maris grabs her lunch container and rolls back to her large worktable. The midday sun shining through the long windows has her pause again, turning to the view outside. Skyscrapers filled with thousands of windows rise against the city horizon. Above them, a sweeping blue sky is brushed with wisps of white clouds. It looks like a perfect day out there.
Another groan and Maris looks to her worktable, as though gauging something. Her work schedule, maybe? A decision? A looming fashion campaign deadline? She moves aside a bolt of denim fabric. There are more denim samples strewn across her work area—the fabric in washes of every blue imaginable.
“Blue,” she whispers. “Blue, blue. My world of blue.” Then she looks to Eva’s email from Stony Point on her computer screen. “But no longer the world of the blue, blue sea.”
With that, she grabs a few almonds and pops them in her mouth while rolling her stool back to the computer screen. Lifting her hands over her keyboard, she quickly types her reply.
Oh, Eva. Your offer is really tempting. I miss you so much—it’s been forever. But there’s no way I can come East this year. I’m swamped here in Chicago with a campaign deadline for Saybrooks, and trade shows coming up. And actually, me and a few designers are headed to Amsterdam this September, for an inspiration trip. Right before Lauren and Kyle’s wedding date. The trip’s already booked. And then, if all goes well with results? Well, I’m up for promotion to senior denim designer.
But thinking of you always. Miss you, my old beach friend. And Matt, too. Give Taylor a hug for me.
Love you back,
Maris
Out in the hall, a passing designer gives only a one-two knock on Maris’ door then, which gets her to check her watch. And grab her portfolio. After downing the last of her sliced-up turkey wrap and a ranch-dipped carrot, she heads to her afternoon fitting.
From the looks of Maris now—her arms filled with that portfolio, and loose fabric swatches, all while she texts someone on her cell phone—Eva is already the furthest thing from her mind.
Actually, watching Maris rush out of her office to catch up with her assistant in the hallway—chatting and confirming a late-afternoon appointment—you would guess that she’ll never give Eva, or the Bradford wedding, another single thought that day.
twenty-one
— Now —
HOW CAN THIS DAY BE here?
For the past year, Elsa renovated the old Foley’s cottage, and prepped and furnished and planned for the Ocean Star Inn. As she did—as she worked side by side with her architect, Jason; as she checked off itineraries with her assistant innkeeper, Celia; as cameras filmed her for the pilot episode ofCastaway Cottage; as she turned the chock-full calendar pages—it felt like all that busy, busy work would never end. Life was too hectic to even imagine the finish line: the day everyone would finally gather to witness her inn officially opening. This event was so long in coming, it seemed like it would never arrive.
Yet here it is, the first minutes of that significant day.
“And oh, what a day it’ll be,” she murmurs to herself, lying in bed while Cliff takes a shower. Lingering beneath the sheets is a way to just stop time before the madness begins.
Lord knows the hands of the clock never stop spinning, though. How she’s wished to stop them at certain points in her life, to no avail. The best she can do is pause those clock hands. So she fluffs her pillow and turns her head toward the window, where a decorative white starfish leans in one of the panes. Outside, the rising sun’s pale light starts to shine. A few early birds chirrup. Through the open window, dawn’s gentle air floats in. Wisps of it touch her skin, lightly, like a feather. It’s a moment when Elsa could drift back to sleep, utterly at ease.
Instead, she opens her eyes, sits up and smoothes the cool fabric of her satin sleepshirt. Because, yes, she needs every single minute of this day. Everysecond. It’s the only way to manage what’s to come—all initiated by that one personally delivered letter a few days ago. So Elsa heads to her walk-in closet and brushes through the hangers of clothes. As she does, she hears Cliff return to the bedroom from his shower.
“Do you want something for breakfast?” Elsa calls out while lifting her turquoise chiffon caftan off a hanger. “Celia’s coming over too, but later this morning. I can dice up garden tomatoes and scramble some eggs for you now,” she says while slipping the caftan on over her pajamas. “If you want.”
“Another time, Mrs. DeLuca.”
That’s it. Nothing else. Except Elsa does hear Cliff unzipping his duffel on the bed. But when she walks out of the closet, another noise gets her attention—this one outside. So she veers to the window. Down below, Celia’s crossing the dewy lawn in her summer robe and flip-flops. She’s pulling a red wagon crammed end to end with vintage Mason jars. Each jar is filled with wildflowers and blades of marsh grasses. So she got them ready after all, for which Elsa is glad. As her assistant innkeeper, Celia’s been indispensable. Even today, she’s up at dawn to help with the inn’s opening. Elsa watches as Celia leads the wagon around back, to the inn’s terrace—the wagon wheels rumbling across the lawn.
But Elsa only watches until Cliff’s cell phone dings on the nightstand. He scoops it up, looks at it, drops it on the bed and slips on the short-sleeve shirt he’d pulled from his duffel.
“BOG’s already emailing me updates to the agenda,” he tells Elsa while squinting at his phone screen and buttoning at the same time. As he does, his phone dings again. “I’ll grab something to eat on the way to the meeting.”
Elsa still stands at the window. “At least grab a biscotti from the kitchen. They’re under the glass dome,” she says to Cliff as he puts on his shoes. “You can have it with a take-out coffee.”
“Okay.” He finishes with his shoes, drags a comb through his salt-and-pepper hair and zips his duffel closed. “It’s your big day, and I’ll be back here as early as possible.” Picking up his phone and duffel, he walks to Elsa at the window and brushes back a strand of her sleep-mussed hair. Kisses her, too, in between glances at his dinging cell phone. “I have to run. Need to stop at my trailer first. Open up some windows and print the new meeting agenda,” he says, his voice trailing off as he walks out to the hallway and heads to the inn’s front door.
Elsa gives one more glance outside to Celia returning to the guest cottage. The red wagon is empty behind her now. With a sigh, Elsa straightens that thin starfish propped in her window. The countdown has begun. The hours, minutes, seconds to tonight’s grand opening festivities are ticking past already.
