Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26793 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 134(@200wpm)___ 107(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
“Let him try,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “This isn’t about competition. It’s about Dad’s legacy.”
Finn’s deep bark pulls our attention to the front window. Outside, a group of volunteers hang garlands along the streetlamps. They’re preparing for tomorrow’s official holiday lighting ceremony.
“The market setup begins tomorrow morning,” Klara reminds me and finishes her coffee. “Ned’s already baking those gingerbread lighthouses that sold out in an hour last year, and Bea’s ordered special edition coastal Christmas mysteries for her booth. This year’s going to break records, mark my words.”
“I hope so. The conservation fund could use the boost.” I rise from my workbench and stretch. My lower back is tight. “Dad always said December was make-or-break for fundraising.”
Klara gathers her empty cup and heads toward the door. “Don’t work too hard, Marnie. Come by for lunch later—I’m testing a new clam chowder recipe.”
“We’ll be there,” I promise. I glance at Finn, who perks up at what he correctly interprets as the prospect of food.
After Klara leaves, I return to my star. I carefully attach small pieces of cobalt blue sea glass to the points where the driftwood sections meet. The glass catches the morning light streaming through my window and sends tiny blue reflections dancing across the shop walls. Finn settles on his cushion in the corner. Sometimes I still can’t believe I ended up with a Giant Schnauzer - not exactly your typical beach dog - but his alert, watchful eyes miss nothing. Perfect for a beachcomber’s companion.
Outside, Seacliff Haven continues its holiday transformation. Monica from the Beachcomber’s Boutique arranges a window display with mannequins dressed in holiday sweaters adorned with sequined seahorses. Tommy Fields, the curator of our lighthouse museum, directs a small team hanging a massive wreath on the town hall façade. Even Dawson Morrow, Dad’s former business partner and owner of Shoreline Antiques & Curiosities, has emerged from his typically cluttered shop to hang a modest string of lights around his door.
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.