Seeing Dawson triggers a memory: Dad and Dawson in heated discussion at our kitchen table, maps spread between them, my father’s voice rising. “It’s not about profit, Daws! It’s about preservation!” The argument ended with Dawson storming out. Their partnership dissolved soon after. Dad never spoke of it again, and Dawson maintained a cool politeness whenever our paths crossed.
The shop door jingles again. Finn rises and trots over to greet Bea Rourke from Seashell Books & Baubles. Her arms are laden with shopping bags.
“Don’t mind me,” she calls out. She’s slightly breathless. “Just dropping these off for you to look through when you have time.” Bea places the bags near my counter. “Some new craft books came in that might inspire you, and there’s a mystery novel with a driftwood artist protagonist that made me think of you immediately.”
Bea has wild curls and perpetually ink-stained fingers. She’s appointed herself my literary curator since I opened my shop. Her recommendations are typically spot-on.
“Thanks, Bea. I could use some bedtime reading that isn’t about coastal conservation grants or tax forms.” I wipe my hands on a cloth and move to peek into the bags.
“How’s the star coming along?” She asks and peers over at my workbench. When she spots it, she gasps dramatically. One hand flies to her chest. “Oh, Marnie! It’s absolutely magical!”
Pride warms my cheeks. “It’s nearly finished. Just a few more connections to strengthen and some final touches.”
Bea approaches the star with reverence. “The craftsmanship is exquisite. The way you’ve connected these pieces . . . it’s like they were always meant to be together.”
“That’s the thing about driftwood,” I say and run my fingers along one of the star’s arms. “The ocean knows what it’s doing. It smooths away the rough edges, reveals the true grain, and eventually delivers each piece exactly where it needs to be.”
“Samuel’s philosophy through and through,” Bea says softly.
“He collected every piece of this star,” I tell her. My voice is nearly a whisper. “I’ve had them stored in my workshop at home, waiting for the right project. This Christmas felt like the time.”
Bea nods. “Three years is often when grief shifts, changes form. The star feels like a perfect tribute.”
I swallow hard. Her words hit their mark. “I just want to do right by him, by what he stood for.”
“You already are, sweetie.” Bea gives my arm a gentle squeeze. “Now, I should let you get back to it. The whole town’s waiting to see this masterpiece completed.”
After she leaves, I return to the star and lose myself in the familiar rhythm. Securing driftwood pieces, adding tiny shells, and affixing sea glass accents. Finn returns to his cushion in the corner. He sighs contentedly through his wiry beard as he watches me work.
By mid-afternoon, the star is finally complete. I carefully move it to the front display window and position it, so the afternoon sun catches the sea glass. It sends prisms of blue light throughout the shop. The star will remain here until the market auction, allowing townspeople and tourists alike to admire it beforehand.
“What do you think, Finn?” I ask and step back to admire my handiwork.
Finn joins me at the window. His big frame stands tall beside me as he studies the star with his intelligent dark eyes. His tail sways gently, which I choose to interpret as canine approval.
“Yeah, I think Dad would have loved it too.”
The rest of the afternoon passes in a flurry of customers seeking last-minute Christmas gifts. I wrap driftwood ornaments, beach glass sun-catchers, and tide clock frames. Each sale is accompanied by the satisfying ring of my vintage cash register.
The winter sun begins its early descent and casts golden light across the harbor. I flip my sign to “Closed” and count the day’s earnings. The holiday rush is in full swing, and my sales reflect the seasonal boost that keeps small businesses like mine afloat during the quieter winter months.
Finn waits by the door. His leash is dropped at my feet. A not-so-subtle reminder that it’s time for our walk.
“Alright, beach boy. Let’s go check on the star’s relatives, shall we?”
Our evening ritual never varies: a walk along South Shore Beach, where Dad and I gathered most of our driftwood treasures. Finn strides ahead with purpose. His black coat is stark against the pale winter sand as I follow the worn path from the parking area down to the shore. The December air has a bite to it, and I pull my woolen scarf tighter around my neck.
The beach looks different in winter. Summer crowds have long since departed, leaving the shore to locals who understand the sea’s changeable moods. Today, the waves roll in, leaving fresh offerings along the tideline.
Finn moves methodically along the beach. He pauses occasionally to dig where something catches his interest. His large paws work with unexpected softness given his size. Mostdays he unearths broken shells or small crabs, but occasionally, he’ll discover a perfect piece of driftwood that seems to have washed ashore specifically for my collection.
I pause near a large piece of driftwood that has been embedded in the sand for as long as I can remember. Local legend claims it was once part of a ship’s hull. Dad used to sit here during our walks and tell me stories about shipwrecks and sea captains, treasures lost and found.
“I’ve finally done it, Dad,” I say quietly to the empty beach. “The star’s complete. Every piece tells part of our story, just like you taught me.”
The wind picks up, and I imagine it’s his response—proud, encouraging, pushing me forward as he always did.
Finn’s deep bark echoes across the beach and draws my attention. He’s digging at the tideline. His powerful front legs send sand behind him in what I would call a sand shower.
