Holly
When she thinks back to the library’s grand opening night, she smiles to herself. The library and the night had exceeded her wildest hopes.
Linus was right—mostly women showed up. There were a handful of husbands and a couple of male neighbors and several of Linus’s friends. But mostly there were women. Book-loving, outgoing, curious, interesting women who filled the library with their warmth and their wit and their love for it.
At the end of the party, a young woman came up to introduce herself. She was rather pretty and a little shy, and she seemed to be alone. “My name is Amy,” she said, extending her hand.
She followed Amy’s gaze to the doorway, where Ezra hovered. He wore a suit. The only guest on a hot summer night in a formal suit; and how handsome he looked!
“I’ve heard a lot about you this summer,” Holly told her. “Your dad must be so happy you were able to make it home after all.”
“Well, I wasn’t planning to,” Amy admitted. “I came because I was so worried.”
“Worried?”
“He called the other day not sounding at all like himself. So I flew out to check on him.”
“Oh gosh.” Holly wondered if it had to do with her, with Francine’s outrage and his hasty departure. “Your father has become a good friend to us here. I want you to have my number if you’re ever worried again. I’m happy to look in on him.”
Amy smiled gratefully. “That’s very generous. He speaks of you all here like you’re family.”
Holly looked to where Ezra stood in the doorway again. “I guess we do have a strange little family here, you could say. May I show you what he’s been up to?”
Through the crowd, through the chatter and the banter and the clinking of glasses and books being passed, Holly led Amy to her father. “Ezra,” she said, pecking his cheek. “May I share the mural with your daughter?”
Ezra lifted his big shoulders, embarrassed, but followed them out. Holly led the way. With the remains of the sunset casting its rose glow through the bay window, the goldfinch glittered on the wall.
“Oh, Dad.” Amy pressed her finger to it and turned to her father. “This is what you’ve been busy with?”
Holly left them with the bird. There were gifts that evening she had never expected, and this one was still being unwrapped.
The last gift was the duo coming through the lobby, just as she left the parlor. Her mother, arm in arm with Francine. “Mom?”
Claire let go of Francine and opened her arms to Holly.
“What are you doing here?” Holly asked, stepping into them. Her mother smelled like rosewater and Ivory soap, scents of her childhood home, and she hugged her tight.
“What I should have done sooner.” She let go of Holly. “Look at this place,” she said turning around. “It’s more beautiful than I imagined.”
“Wait until you see the library, both of you.” But first, Holly needed Francine. “Ezra came back,” she said, nodding toward the parlor.
Her grandmother’s expression lit with understanding. “Ah.” She turned to Claire. “Why don’t you girls go ahead, and I’ll meet you in there. There’s someone I need to introduce myself to first. And amends I need to make.”
At the end of that night, Holly had fallen into bed, her heart full and limbs aching. All the people she loved most had been there. And those who could not, she’d felt. All except for one. Before she went to sleep, she performed the old ritual. A habit she wasn’t yet ready to break.
Just before sleep, she reached for the bedside table lamp and turned her light out. Then on and off once more. This time no one answered from across the bay. The windows of Ben’s house remained dark. But that was okay. And she was going to be okay, too.
Since then, for the bittersweet second half of summer, the library had been almost as busy as Harvest. They hosted two author signings, and tried their first literary luncheon with a panel of three beach-read authors.
The library had been so packed, Holly decided to start ticketing future events, for fear the fire department would come.
Wednesday nights officially belonged to their newly founded book club, The Sandy Page.
Their first selection was a summer title by Elin Hilderbrand, and the next would be Sarah Pekkanen’s latest thriller.
Sometimes they strayed off topic and there was more chitchat and beverage partaking than book banter, but that was just fine. Linus had been right about that, too.
There had been other developments, outside the library.
Dahlia Fisk had run her review. It had not come the first Monday after her surprise visit, as everyone had expected, and Holly feared Greta would die from waiting if Linus didn’t beat her to it.
But two Mondays after her dinner, there it was: “A Harvest by the Sea.” Dahlia had complimented the ambience, though Linus wasn’t thrilled she referred to his service as acceptable.
What she had called the food, however, was inimitable, and Harvest as a hidden coastal gem worth even the traffic on the Sagamore Bridge.
Paul had taped the review to the refrigerator and Greta cried.
For the fiftieth time that summer, Oliver asked her out to dinner. This time Greta said yes.
Holly’s partnership with Oyster Boys went on, even if Ben was no longer a part of it. They’d talked only once since he’d left, though she knew he’d been back to see his family. It was not easy, but it was easier this way, she told herself.
Now, an August moon was rising. Francine had come for dinner, to talk business. They’d taken their meal out on the patio for privacy.
“We are doing better than breaking even,” Holly was pleased to report. “Harvest has saved us, most of all. But with the added events at the library, and the holidays coming, I think we’ll have more foot traffic and rooms filled through the offseason to provide a cushion we didn’t have last year.”
Francine was pleased, but cautious. “A cushion?”
Holly nodded. “I think we’re going to be fine, Franny. I can honestly say that, for the first time since we opened.” The numbers were looking up and the inn was already booked through September, a first.
Holly had bitten the bullet and hired another sous-chef, with the restaurant at capacity each night.
It didn’t hurt that the inn had been featured in two travel magazines, and even mentioned on Boston’s local CBS affiliate as “a distinctive boutique hotel.” With the uptick in reservations that followed, Holly was hopeful.
Nothing would ever be certain in this industry, but they were finally moving in the right direction, and with the team at her side she felt confident. Now it was up to Francine.
“I want the Cranberry House to keep going,” Francine told her now. “And I want to officially turn it over to you.”
Holly’s breath caught in her chest. It was what she’d worked for, and all that she wanted. Still, she was afraid to believe it. She knew Francine could make so much more if she sold.
“You’re sure about this? No developer?”
Francine shook her head. “I told that Mr. Sullio to go pound sand before you arrived.” It was one of her grandmother’s oldest sayings. “And I stand by it now.”
Holly’s eyes filled, but her grandmother was too busy fiddling with her purse to notice. “I have something for you.” She watched Francine reach inside and withdraw a key. “Here.”
“What’s this?” The key was heavy and intricate, and made of brass. The scrollwork was beautiful, even with the metal yellowing with age.
“It’s the original key, to the front door.”
Holly gasped.
“Of course, the door is long gone and the locks changed many times since, but somehow that key has stayed with the house all these years later. Your grandfather asked me to keep it in my jewelry box as a reminder. We are not just keepers of an inn, we are keepers of history, here, too.”
Holly clasped the key to her chest. “Thank you, Franny. For everything.”
“Ha. Be careful what you’re thanking me for. It will not be easy, but I have a feeling you’ll make your own history here, too. It’s yours, dear girl.”
Tears now spilling down her cheek, Holly raised her glass. “To pounding sand!”
“Cheers!”
That night, as she was washing up for bed, Holly looked at her reflection. There was a smattering of freckles now, just across the bridge of her nose. And a handful of sun streaks in her hair. Days running the inn would always be long, but she couldn’t let summer pass her by entirely.
She slipped into bed and stretched between the cool sheets, thinking about this summer.
About the wins and the fails, about what her grandmother had decided and what now lay ahead for her.
About the trunk of historic treasures in the lobby, and the old-fashioned key now tucked in her own jewelry box.
Finally, her mind and limbs filled with a heavy peace she’d been waiting for all season.
When she reached to turn off her bedside lamp, this time she did not turn the light on and off again.
But someone else did.
Holly sat up in bed, staring across the cove. Sure enough, a light flicked on and off in the distance. Ben’s bedroom light.
Holly was torn. They’d said their goodbyes. But she hated not to reply. As she sat there fretting, the light across the cove flicked again. Once, twice, three times. And then it stopped.
“You’ve got to be kidding.” Holly knew this signal. It did not mean good night.
Heart quickening, she threw the covers back and leapt out of bed.
Still barefoot, she ran down the servants’ steps, across the lobby, which was thankfully empty at that hour, and through the French doors to the patio.
Moonlight spilled across the flagstone. Down the steep wood steps she ran, stumbling twice in her haste, to the beach.
When she reached the sand, Holly halted, listening.
The beach was quiet, the only sound being the gentle lap of water.
She turned right. Jogging along the sand, Holly traced the shore until she was midway up the beach.
Again, she stopped and listened. Just as she’d dared to hope, there came the rhythmic slap of paddle against water.
Splash, splash, splash. She laughed out loud.
Against the night sky, the bay was dark and mercurial, but on the surface a figure began to take shape in the moonlight. Sure enough, it was a boat, and the figure of a person at its center. Heading straight for her.
The paddles stopped and the boat slowed, drifting toward the shore.
“Holly?” he called. “You there?”
“Ben!” Holly raced headlong into the water to meet him, welcoming the bracing cold and spray of salt.
Up to her waist she waded, the bow of the boat edging closer.
Just as he’d done a hundred times before, Ben stood and tossed the rope to her.
It landed with a splash nearby and she grabbed it.
Wrapping the rope around her hand she pulled with all her might, tugging it in, drawing Ben closer.
When the boat drew up alongside her, Ben hopped down and into the water beside her. He grabbed her shoulders with both arms.
“What are you doing?” she cried, already laughing.
“I’m back.”
“You’re crazy.”
“No, Holls. I’m really back this time. To stay.”
Shivering, the taste of salt already on her lips, Holly couldn’t believe the words.
Face to face they stood in the water, the spray of stars overhead as wide as the bay and the inlet and Nantucket Sound beyond. Two small people, made smaller by the swell of sea and sky around them.
Holly’s teeth chattered. She wanted to kiss him. But she needed to know. “What changed your mind?”
Ben took her in his arms, pulling her tight. “Us.”