Page 79 of Stony Point Summer
“And what about you?” Shane points to her tote. “Your work?”
“It is. Part of Neil’s manuscript I told you about. I have a few chapters with me.”
Shane hoists himself up on the half-wall. In a second, he asks, “Can I take a look?”
Maris glances from him, to the tote, then back to him. “Well, sure. Sure. One chapter here could use a fresh pair of eyes on it.” She pulls out her folder, thumbs through the pages, and brings them to him. “The book’s calledDriftline.”
“Shit. Are you serious?” Shane drops his hand holding the pages in his lap.
“Yeah. You seem spooked.”
“Because I know that term. Used to see it in a book at the cottage my old man rented. Me and Kyle read that little beach handbook every summer, growing up. Learned about tide pools, and shore crabs. Seaweed, shells.” He glances at her printed pages. “The driftline.”
“So you know what it means.”
“Driftline? Do I ever. It’s the high tide line on the beach, and all those pieces of the sea tangled up in it. Shells and stones and sea glass. All connected in the seaweed,” he says, looking to Maris sitting now on an old whitewashed bench. There’s a rusted milk can filled with dried beach grasses beside it.
“Interesting, no?” she asks. “How Neil’s take on it connects the driftline to people?”
“I’m not surprised. A driftline’s pretty much the story of the gang here. The way we all drift in and out of each other’s lives. The waywe’reall connected,” he says, shaking his head—okay, in slight disbelief—at the truth of that.
* * *
So she hit a nerve. Maris sees it in the way Shane suddenly quiets after talking about their own driftline at Stony Point. And she gets it. The tangled connections among all of them are complex and intricate. Emotional and sometimes volatile. Loving and loyal. Looking at Shane sitting on the porch half-wall, she wonders if he has those connections where he lives in Maine. Or on the lobster boats. She’s not sure he does.
Still quiet, he’s now reading the first page of the few she gave him. Wearing a sleeveless tee and jeans, he just sits there. His head is bent. His hands, strong working hands, hold the printed pages. He drags a finger across the lines and whispers a few words before looking up at her.
“Give me some background to what I’m reading.”
“Okay.” Maris shifts on the white bench and toys with the dried beach grass in the vintage milk can beside it. “There’s this group of old beach friends, and they get together for a summer reunion after not seeing each other for years. Problem is, a hurricane is coming up the coast and they all end up stranded in the cottage on the beach—which is where they’re staying.”
“The one your husband’s renovating?”
Maris props her sunglasses on top of her head, then whispers, “Everything’s connected.”
In a moment, he lowers his eyes and reads on. She knows just what passage it is. The main character is deliberating getting the hell out of that cottage during the eye of the storm, before more’s to come—more hurricane, more turmoil.
“So this story is both yoursandNeil’s.” Shane says it while still reading.
“Yes. Butthatpassage is mine,” she admits. “I wrote it this morning. When I saw your truck, I was on my way to the beach at Back Bay to review it there.”
“This is really good, Mare,” Shane tells her after finishing the few pages.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t nod. Doesn’t thank him. All she does is explain some of her craft to Shane. “I tend to write best when my life’s falling apart.”
Now? Now he looks up at her with a small laugh. “Have a publisher for this?”
Maris shakes her head. “I have to finish the book first. But I won’t be going the traditional route.”
“You say that with some conviction.”
She squints over at him. “Do you know what a traditional publisher will do with it?”
“Not really.”
“Listen. I worked in New York City for years and knew a few literary agents. I heard their stories. Here’s how it works. On a beach book like that?” she says, nodding to her manuscript. “A traditional publisher would plaster dippy girls in bathing suits on its cover. Withpinkfont, mind you.”
“Sounds degrading.”
