Page 17 of The Shell Collector
He parked his truck at the curb and carried the packages inside. The interior boasted the original wooden counter, and vintage brass twin-letter-combination post-office-box units lined the walls.
“Hi there!” Maeve walked toward him with a stack of mail in her hands.
“Hello, Maeve. We meet again.”
“And so soon,” she responded. “How are you?”
“Doing great. Just mailing some packages.” Paul jostled the boxes in his arms.
Her eyebrows darted up. “You can’t tell me you don’t have someone who could do that for you.”
“I do, but I like to get out. With the tourist season in full swing, I haven’t been jogging on the beach like I usually do. I get a little stir-crazy, but it’s too crowded out there for me.”
“Oh gosh, I wouldn’t go to that end of the beach if you paid me. You should park at my place and access the beach from my house. I’m right up the street.”
“Really?”
“Of course.” She wrote down the address for him. “I walk from there to Tug’s Diner and back almost every morning. I’m the big blue stilt house in the curve. I don’t even have a car, so there’s always room to park.”
He thought for a moment. “I know which house you mean. That’s a hike. You walk that every day?”
“I do.”
“Good for you. My buddies and I used to surf that pier.”
Her mouth sprang into a smile. “Seriously, make yourself at home. It’s a great stretch of beach to run. Or walk, in my case. I’d love it if you would.”
“I’m going to take you up on that sometime,” Paul said. “I’ve been using the trails at Paws Town Square, and they’re nice—don’t get me wrong—but there’s really nothing like the ocean air and the sound of the waves crashing at your feet to get your head in the right place.”
“From your mouth to God’s ears. We both know that’s true.” She started out the door, then paused. “Is that your big blue truck?”
“It is.”
“Looks like you.” She waved a hand over her head. “See you around the beach soon, I hope.”
He watched her walk out, then took his packages to the counter, where a postal worker wearing a name tag—Ruthie—stood.
“I see you’ve met our resident beachcomber,” she said.
“Maeve? She’s great.”
“Yes. Everyone loves Maeve. She used to help decorate this place on all the holidays. She helped the Master Gardeners club with the planting, too, only she never was good with plants, so she’d just drop shells alongside all the flowers. Kind of her thing. She loves seashells.”
“Who doesn’t? Nice lady too. She was a real supporter with the city when I was trying to get all my plans approved.”
“She’s one you want to have on your side. She’s a pistol, that one. Rain or shine, she’s out and about. Walks everywhere. It could be raining buckets or a hundred and five in the shade and she’ll show up.”
“Doesn’t really surprise me.”
“Nothing she does surprises me.” Ruthie chuckled as she weighed and labeled Paul’s packages. “That all for you today? No stamps?”
“No, thank you. That’ll do it.” Paul took his receipt, then walked out to his truck. As he drove down the road, he saw Maeve walking. He slowed and pulled over to the curb. “Need a ride? It’s awfully hot out today.”
Maeve shook her head emphatically. “I’m fine. I like it this way.”
Sixty-six-degree air blew from the AC across his face as he rolled up the window. If Momma were alive, she’d beat him with her flip-flop for not insisting Maeve accept the ride, but he didn’t think Maeve would take too kindly to that.
In his rearview mirror, he could see her still plugging along.
