"Come alone or bring people. Either way." A scrap of paper with an address and phone number. Marge handed it over with the bag. "Hope I see you out there."
Carrie made her way through the emptying market, produce in one hand, Marge's address in her pocket.
The farm. Twenty minutes inland, away from the beach and the house. A place where things grew because someone had planted and tended and waited.
Maybe she'd go.
Lori found the bookstore by accident.
She'd been walking without destination.
Tidewater Books sat between a fudge shop and a place selling beach chairs, easy to miss. The windows held summer reading displays: beaches and lighthouses and women in flowing dresses gazing at oceans.
Inside, it smelled like old paper and dried herbs. Shelves packed floor to ceiling, organized with what seemed either careful curation or cheerful chaos. A handwritten sign near the front said Fiction A-M and pointed left.
She started in fiction and lost track of time.
Books came off shelves, first pages got read, most went back. She wasn't searching for anything specific.
"Can I help you find anything?"
A man at the end of the aisle, watching her with genuine curiosity rather than retail obligation. Early fifties, thick hair in a ponytail that somehow worked. Faded Fleetwood Mac T-shirt. Glasses he pushed up his nose while waiting for her answer.
"Just browsing," Lori said.
"Best way to do it." He smiled and didn't leave. Instead, he stepped closer, scanning the spines near where she'd been browsing. "What have you been gravitating toward?"
"A little of everything." She held up the book in her hand, a woman on the cover walking into fog. "This one caught my eye."
He tilted his head to read the title. "Beautiful sentences in that one. Not much plot, takes its time. Some people find it slow."
"And you?"
"I loved it." He reached past her and slid another book from the shelf. "But if you want more momentum—this. Same depth, quicker pace. The ending stayed with me for weeks."
Lori looked at the cover. A house half-swallowed by ivy, a single lit window.
"I haven't heard of this."
"Small press, came out last year. The author did a reading here." He tapped the spine. "I try to stock things you won't find at the airport."
"Is that your niche?"
"One of them." He extended his hand. "John. I own the place."
"Lori."
"Take your time, Lori. I'll be up front if you need me."
He returned to the register, and Lori watched him go.
The usual retail exchange—forced cheer, the upsell, transaction dressed as conversation—she'd been ready for that. This hadn't been that. He'd been curious without agenda. Genuinely interested.
Another half hour of wandering, books accumulating in her arms. When she brought them to the register, John was finishing with another customer.
He turned to her. "Solid choices."
"You're persuasive."
