Page 34 of Where We Stay

It’s unusually warm for an autumn day, and I’m already regretting my tight long-sleeved top. I consider stripping down to the sports bra underneath, but after Mary learned half my life story within one shift, I don’t need to become known as the new girl who wanders around Hartwell half-naked.

I’ll tolerate the heat.

For now.

* * *

Two miles later, the trees begin to thin, and Northern Beach comes into view.

The ocean is just as beautiful as it was the day I arrived, but this time, I’m not looking at it through the haze of exhaustion and desperate optimism.

I can actually take it in.

The water stretches toward the horizon in shifting shades of blue and gray, while waves break against the rocky edges of the shoreline. The air smells like salt, fried food and something sweet drifting from one of the shops.

Families wander along the boardwalk carrying paper cups and bags of food. Children lean over the railing to watch the boats, their parents holding tightly to the backs of their shirts.

The whole place feels alive without being overwhelming.

I remove my earbud and slow my steps.

To my left, a long winding road climbs toward the white lighthouse I saw from yesterday’s lookout. It stands on the headland above the water, its narrow tower bright against the pale blue sky.

One day, I’m going up there.

To my right, an enormous house sits at the top of a hill overlooking Hartwell. Even from down here, I can make out white walls, dark shutters and a porch that seems to wrap around the entire building.

Wow.

Imagine waking up to that view every morning.

I continue along the boardwalk, passing a small café and a restaurant with wide windows facing the water. A few stores have their doors propped open to let in the breeze, including a gift shop with postcards and colorful shirts displayed outside.

A bell chimes above me when I step inside.

Every available surface is covered in Hartwell merchandise. T-shirts, mugs, postcards and enough hats to outfit the entire town. One wall is filled with magnets, most featuring the marina, Northern Beach or the lighthouse.

I pick up a small wooden one shaped like the lighthouse. Tiny blue waves are painted around its base, with HARTWELL, MAINE written across the top.

“Good choice,” the older woman behind the counter says, smiling at me. “Best view in Hartwell.”

“The lighthouse?” I ask.

She nods. “You can see the whole harbor from up there.”

“That settles it, then.” I place the magnet on the counter. “I’ll have to visit.”

“You should,” she replies as she rings it up. “Just wear sensible shoes. That hill humbles people.”

I laugh and hand her the cash.

The magnet is a ridiculous purchase considering I’ve lived here for three days, but I don’t care. It feels like proof that I’m allowed to enjoy this place.

That I can collect something without immediately wondering how difficult it will be to pack when I leave.

I slip it safely into my pocket and step back onto the boardwalk.

* * *