Beach Season by Lisa Jackson Page A

didn’t.”
    “I Googled you. I love your website, June, the photos of all the wedding dresses, bridesmaids’ dresses, you, Estelle, Leoni, your studio. Can I see it soon? I feel like I’ve been able to take a step into your mind through your studio, but I want to know more, how it works, how you think—”
    “Thank you, but—” I ran my hands through my hair. “You’re a country songwriter.”
    “Yes.”
    “Is that why you’re here? You came to write? I would think you would live in Nashville or L.A.”
    “I’m in and out of both cities, and I do go to my ranch. I came here for new scenery, but for the first time in my life I find myself distracted.” He leaned toward me and I caught my breath.
    “Want to hear my next song, June?”
    “Yes, of course.” I couldn’t quite believe this one, my mind all baffled up. He wrote country songs?
    Reece went into the house, came back with his guitar, and strummed.
    The song had an upbeat melody, a come and clap your hands to this one tune. It was about a woman with blond locks who wore lace and loved tide pools, sunsets, and watching the weather roll over the waves. She believed that getting up early in the morning should be illegal. She had a temper.
    His baritone voice rolled over and around me, snug and huggable, then burrowed deep, deep inside.
    “What do you think?” he asked, and I could tell he cared. He cared what I thought of his song.
    I was so touched, I could hardly get my throat to work. “I think that the woman with blond locks who wears lace and loves sunsets will love it.”
    He was silent for a second and we had one of those moments, close, raw, and romantic, where we were the only two people at the beach, the only two people anywhere.
    “Good. I want her to love it.”
    “She does.” I tried to catch my breath.
    “June.” He threaded his fingers between mine. “He loves it, too.”
    My soul did a heel-kicking dance, a rush of joy tripped around my body, and tears flooded my eyes.
    And there we sat, the sunset a grand artist’s display, our French toast covered in syrup and powdered sugar.
     
    “Are you almost ready, June?” Mr. Schone said, his voice crackling with age over the phone.
    I love Mr. Schone, Mrs. Schone, too, although I dreaded his calls. They own the blue cottage that I’ve been renting. They live up the street. I hike up once a week to check on them. I recently brought Mrs. Schone swatches of intricate lace for her tables because she loves them.
    “I am so sorry to press you on this one, my dear, but my begonia is not feeling well, and I do need to get her off the coast by winter ...”
    His “begonia” was his wife of sixty years. Mrs. Schone needed to move. Her health wasn’t good. She was one of the kindest people I have ever met, but she was weak and frail and they wanted to be near their two daughters who lived down south.
    “Mr. Schone, I am so sorry, but I don’t have enough money to buy this house.” Even saying the words aloud, which I’d said to him several times, hurt. I wanted my blue cottage. I loved the creaking staircase, huge windows, the deck outside, and the flat roof over the garage that I sat on underneath a red-and-white–striped umbrella. It was the home of my heart, but I didn’t have near enough money to buy it without the equity from my Portland house. “Please put it up for sale with a realtor. I’ll get it cleaned and organized so you can move.”
    “Keep trying, my dear, keep trying. We can wait a few months. You’re who we want to sell the house to. My begonia wants to know that you’ll be in our home, it makes her happy... .”
    I wanted to make the begonia happy, too.
    I so did. For her, and for me. We hung up after a few minutes.
    I hoped they called the realtor. I would lose the house to someone else, but they needed to move. I thought of Mrs. Schone. I would make her a lace wrap for her shoulders. She would feel pretty in that.
    “Hi, June,” Morgan said, her NASA helmet