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Main Street Initiative Underway with Historical Mural

By Emery Quinn Editor-in-Chief

“The East End is the original site for Sea Blue Beach,” said Mayor Caster. “The mural will depict our history from when Prince Blue landed on our stormy shore.”

Lulu Chan had been commissioned for the work. Chan is internationally recognized as a premier muralist.

“She one of the best in the world,” said Caster. “We’re lucky to get her. But our window to get it done is small. Still, we’re really proud to get rolling on improvements for the East End.”

Members of the Main Street initiative will determine the mural’s focus.

“We want a historical portrayal,” said architect Caleb Ransom. “But also something that shows the heart of Sea Blue Beach, what our town is really all about.”

Chan, born and raised in Seattle, has painted murals from California to Maine, and across the Atlantic in France and Italy. Her pastoral scene of the French countryside won the Horizon Muralist Award.

“We’ll be looking for volunteers to help Lulu get started,” said Mayor Caster.

Sea Blue Beach was founded in 1882 by Prince Rein Titus Alexander Blue of Lauchtenland and freed slave Malachi Nickle. The two men developed a lifelong friendship, overseeing the town’s growth and development into the gem of the north Florida coast.

Prince Rein, also known as Prince Blue, died on the Somme during World WarOne. He was sixty-two. Malachi Nickle died in 1950, just shy of his one hundredth birthday.

“My great-great-grandfather and Prince Blue wanted a town where men and woman of all nationalities lived in harmony,” said attorney Bodie Nickle of New Orleans, a descendant of Nickle’s.

“A freed slave and a prince? Who’d have ever thought they’d meet, let alone be best friends.

I’m happy to see measures being taken to preserve the history of the East End.

Sea Blue Beach is a special town. Let’s not forget. ”

From: [email protected]

To: editorial @ SBBGazette .co m

Subject: Main Street Thing

Love the idea of a mural. Why haven’t we done it already? When is the next meeting? My grandmother was good friends with the Nickle family.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Move on!

You can spin it any way you want, but SBB needs to move into the twenty-first century.

A mural isn’t going to make a lot of difference.

We can’t afford to preserve the part of town that’s falling apart.

We’ve got the Starlight and the old Sands Motor Motel, what else do we need?

Move on. I like the idea of a golf course.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: I missed it!

I missed the Main Street meeting but I’m all for preserving the East End. Why shouldn’t we? Didn’t we all grow up skating at the Starlight? Famous mobsters slept at the Sands. Even Frank Sinatra, if the rumors are true. (Which I believe. My great-grandmother saw him there.)

The mural is a great start. Let’s band together, SBB, to love our town. All of it. Not just the West End.

EMERY

Her third edition was in the can. So far, so good.

She’d spent last Thursday and Friday courting advertisers.

Her pitch went something like, “Do you want to advertise in the Gazette ? We have amazing rates.” Yet potential clients stared at her as if to say, “And?” So she blathered on about the value of a print paper, then ended with “Please, please, please buy an ad. I promise it won’t go missing. ”

Okay, maybe she didn’t say the last part, but that’s how she sounded to herself.

When she returned to the office Friday afternoon, she emailed Elliot. “Please hire an ad salesperson. Even part- time.”

Nevertheless, she’d landed a couple of accounts—small Mom-and-Pop businesses—and on Saturday morning, she sent over the contracts.

Now it was Sunday afternoon, and she was alone in the office, reading the paper. She reread her piece on the Main Street initiative. Every time she heard or read about the prince and Malachi, she was moved.

Sea Blue Beach , remember who you are.

Reaching for the banana left over from her Friday lunch, Emery made her way to Rachel Kirby’s digital morgue. What if she created a “From the Archives” section and ran old stories about the town? It would add interest to the initiative. And it fit the brand she wanted to establish for the Gazette .

Taking a bite of banana, she began clicking on folders, looking for a place to start. The morgue had only a few issues from the first year the paper was in production, but she found with a photo of Malachi Nickle and Prince Blue roller-skating at the Starlight.

Emery downloaded the archive and emailed it to Junie. “Do you think this will print well if we create an archives section in the paper?”

She emailed back almost instantly. “Yes.”

The afternoon sun sat in short blades across her office floor by the time she emerged from the world of the morgue. Fascinating. She’d found emails between Rachel Kirby and members of the House of Blue’s Chamber Office, even the queen herself.

But more than anything, the stories and history made her fall in love with this special town. And she almost felt called to remind everyone.

Night was falling when she gathered her things. She was about to shut off her office light when an idea hit and started to sink in. Nooooo . It was crazy, right? Even if it wasn’t crazy—which it was—she couldn’t possibly...

She paced around the newsroom desks, once occupied by a half dozen reporters but now sat empty. She’d have to think about this. Pros and cons. Even the best idea had a few cons. Crazy ideas had even more. Think. And talk to Caleb. Even Simon. Or maybe she should just do it, then wait and see.

But first, think. Sleep on it, as Mom used to say.

She walked down Rachel Kirby Lane to Avenue C, considering her idea. What were the cons? They’d say no. What were the pros? They’d say yes. Then, of course, that would start a whole other list of pros and cons, but her idea was worth a try.

She arrived home—already the Sands Motor Motel felt like home—to find Delilah by the fire, wrapped in a blanket, head back, eyes closed. The guests from Cottage 4 sat across from her, playing guitars and singing.

“Michael, row your boat ashore . . .”

Emery took the chair next to Delilah.

“There’s nothing like folk music,” Delilah said. “It’s got heart.”

“You should know, since you were one of the queens of the genre.” Emery sat forward to see Delilah’s face.

“So they say, but I don’t live in the past, Emery. Music is something I love, but it wasn’t my calling. Not for my whole life, anyway.”

“That’s a gutsy declaration. Most people find their calling or passion and cling to it.”

“It crushes some of them too. They have no sense of who they are outside of their so-called calling.”

“Are you about to tell me why you walked away from an amazing career?”

Delilah reached over and patted Emery’s arm. “No. Just enjoy the music.”

Emery sank down in the Adirondack and closed her eyes, drifting away on the melodies intertwined with the crackling fire. Then Delilah was shaking her awake. The fire had died, and the guitar players were gone.

“It’s too cold to sleep outside, darling.” Delilah offered her a hand. “See you tomorrow.”

“Yes, see you tomorrow.” Emery stumbled to Cottage 7, feeling cold and out of sorts. She’d been sleeping so sweetly.

She’d was ready to tumble into bed when Joanna texted.

Emery, so sorry, I should’ve texted or called early.

But we’re so busy between the three cafés.

Elianna and I really need a home office, so we’re taking your old room.

I hope you don’t mind.

We’re installing a Murphy bed.

I slept on one at a hotel once and it was comfy!

So, when you come home, you’ll have your room and privacy. Just our desks along the wall.

They’re built-ins. Very nice. You would still have plenty of space in the room.

Guess that’s all for now.

We love and miss you. XOXO

Any thoughts on coming to the shower?

Emery slipped into bed, wishing for the peace and warmth of the music and fire.

CALEB

Monday afternoon, Caleb ducked out of his under-the-staircase office into the living room, seeing it as if for the first time. The clutter of moving boxes marked Kitchen or Bathroom remained against the living room wall, waiting to be unpacked. Or maybe moved to another place altogether.

Also, there was evidence of Bentley—two pairs of sneakers plus socks on the floor and three before-bed cereal bowls growing fuzzy things on the coffee table.

Come on , Bent. You can do better.

Caleb could do better too. He’d not set much of an example with his unpacked boxes. He carried the dishes to the kitchen, gave them a good rinse, and set them in the dishwasher. He 409’d the counters and started a load of laundry, giving himself a bit of a pep talk.

“Come on, Ransom, you can do this. Build a business in your hometown and take care of your nephew. And unpack. What’s your hesitation?”

However, the morning had been slow. He’d finished the plans for Alderman’s refurbishment and met with Jenny’s contractor.

No word from Simon on the Org. Homestead project, and the client looking to build in Preserve on the Bay had ghosted him.

The Swansons weren’t ready to pull the plug on the Lake Lorraine home, and the Tallahassee project he’d bid on had emailed Friday afternoon. “ Budget cuts. On hold.”

But what did he think would happen when he returned to Sea Blue Beach? Doors would fling open? He knew what he was up against with JIL and the West End. Yet he’d thought things through, considered his options, even tossed a prayer to God for guidance.