“Briggs,” she says, sounding out of breath. It’s not a greeting, it’s the start of a sentence. She has something to tell me, and from the look of her wide eyes, it’s very important information. That, or not at all important. You never really know with my mom. It could be anything. A dolphin sighting on her morning beach stroll or seeing someone doing something out of the ordinary on her walk here. Not a lot of exciting things happen on this island.
“Carl was here earlier, and he thinks we should be carrying some refrigerator-repair manuals,” I start, purposely cutting off whatever story she was about to tell me, just to be annoying, and also so I wouldn’t forget. I told him I would say something, after all. I also want to tell her that he was fishing around about her relationship status, but I decide to keep that to myself.
She lets the bag she’s holding drop to her side, a punctuation to the irritated expression on her face: brows drawn low, lips pursed.
“He said it was good business practice.” I emphasize the last three words for added effect.
Her eyes move to the ceiling briefly. She shakes her head as she flings the tote she was carrying onto the only empty space on the front counter. The bag teeters before it sags to the side. The contents—which look to be books, go figure—surprisingly stay put. The flowers are next, but she’s gentler with those.
“Do you know who I just saw?” she asks, obviously done with talk of Carl and his refrigerator-repair-manual needs.
Marianne McMannus’s green eyes—the ones I inherited—stare me down, and her sandy-blonde hair, also the same as mine, looks a little bit frizzy, which means she definitely did her morning beach stroll.
“A dolphin?” I ask, taking an educated guess. It’s a common thing around here.
She scrunches her brow, looking at me like I’ve sprouted another head. “I said who,” she says.
I shrug a shoulder. “I don’t know, maybe you named the dolphins.”
She bobs her head from side to side. “That does sound like something I’d do. But that’s not what I’m talking about.” She leans in toward me, dipping her chin as she does, like she has the juiciest of gossip. “I think I just saw Presley James.”
I cock my head to the side, “The . . . actress?”
“No,” she says, scoffing. “The gardener. Yes, of course the actress.” She shakes her head like she can’t believe the cluelessness of her only son. “I heard a rumor she was here, but I didn’t believe it. And you know I’m not one to gossip.”
“Oh yeah, absolutely,” I deadpan. My mom is actually the opposite of someone who isn’t one to gossip. She might even be the town queen of it.
She blows air out of her nose, giving me a disappointed look. “I don’t gossip, Briggs,” she reiterates. “But I’m telling you, I think it was Presley James.”
“What did she look like?”
“She’s a tiny thing. Dark hair under a baseball cap and sunglasses on. I just passed by her on the way here.” She inhales quickly. “Oh my . . . was she here? In our store?” She points out toward the main area of the bookshop, figurative stars in her eyes.
Presley James . . . Presley . . . James.
Oh no.
I slap myself on the forehead with my palm. That’s why she looked so familiar. Not because I’ve met her before, but because I’ve seen her on a movie screen.
Briggs, you idiot.
“She was in the store,” I tell my mom.
Her jaw drops. “She was in the store?” Her voice is so loud someone on the moon could probably hear her. “Scout is going to freak out! Did you at least get a picture, Briggsy?”
I narrow my eyes at her, not because of the nickname that she’s called me probably since birth—I don’t mind that—but because of her ridiculous assumption.
“Yes, because I make a habit of snapping pictures of all our patrons,” I tell her. I drop my chin and purse my lips to accentuate my sarcastic retort.
“We had someone famous in the shop and you didn’t even think to snap a picture?”
“Maybe it’s not Presley,” I say, hopeful that I’m right. I’m feeling waves of embarrassment work their way down my spine as I think about all the stupid things I said to her when she was here. Presley Freaking James.
“It has to be,” she says. “Word is she’s staying at the Belacourt Resort.”
Note to self: stay away from the Belacourt Resort. Not that I have any reason to be at the posh hotel.
I’ll just have to hope I never see her again.
Presley
What am I doing?
What am I doing, what am I doing, WHAT. AM. I. DOING?
Presley James, what the heck are you doing right now? You’re not supposed to be here; you’re supposed to be locked in your room, not off gallivanting around the town. Have you lost your mind?
“You’ll ruin your back sitting like that, young lady,” an older woman says to me. Well, I think it’s an older woman, at least if I’m going on her voice alone. It’s raspy with a slight quiver and full of condescension. So, basically exactly how my grandma—a.k.a. Mimi—sounds. Especially the condescending part.
I can’t see the woman standing in front of me because I’m currently sitting/slouching on a bench in the downtown square of Summer Harbor Island (oddly fitting since this place is currently my safe harbor) with my bag of newly purchased books beside me and my face buried in my hands.
I pull my hands away to see Birkenstocks and flamingo socks. My eyes travel up to white Bermuda shorts adorned with palm trees and then to a blue cotton T-shirt with the words I’m too old to care what you think printed on it. Continuing my gaze upward, I notice oversized hot-pink-rimmed sunglasses and a wide-brimmed visor perched atop the woman’s short, dyed-brown, curly hair. I’d guess she’s in her late sixties, maybe early seventies. There is zero recognition in her eyes, something I’ve become accustomed to gauging.
“Yes,” I say. “That’s . . . excellent advice.” I’m not just saying this—it really is wise counsel. If I want to keep working as an actress until I’m Meryl Streep’s age, then I’d better work on my posture.
Of course, I don’t even know if I still have a job in the industry.
