Page 5 of The Sandy Page Bookshop

When she couldn’t hold her breath a moment longer she burst to the surface.

The horizon stretched out before her like mercury.

She imagined the ocean tasting the sadness on her skin and laughing.

Here, she was so small. Just another small human taking up her small space in the water that parted to make room for her.

And yet it held her up and let her float until her limbs shivered with cold and the sunset turned dusky and she was ready to climb out.

On the way home, Leah rolled down the windows.

Her hair was sticky with salt, her skin tingled like she’d had a good scrub.

On a whim she drove past her turnoff on Old Queen Anne Road and continued to Main Street, taking in the bright storefronts and well-heeled summer people.

Young couples pushed strollers. Grandparents trailed, holding the hands of wiggly toddlers and melting ice-cream cones.

Clusters of kids congregated outside the pink awning of the Chatham Candy Manor.

At least some things did not change, she thought.

She passed the Ben Franklin five-and-dime that had been there forever, the historic Eldredge Library with its stately wooden doors, the Wayside Inn.

The famed Chatham Squire restaurant and tavern, a line already out the door.

So much of Main Street seemed frozen in time, a bygone era of summertime Americana preserved like a postcard.

The flower boxes, the shingled storefronts, the flags and awnings, all of it a coastal smorgasbord for the lucky vacationer’s senses.

At the end of Main the storefronts grew more staggered and the crowds thinned, as the street gave way to stately houses and private summer dwellings.

At the stop sign, Leah turned right toward Chatham Light.

It was a favorite scenic stretch along Chatham Bar with an overlook across from the lighthouse.

Leah slowed, to savor it. When she spied a coveted parking space along the street, she pulled in.

It was a beautiful night; she’d walk over and take in the view.

She did not make it to the lookout, however.

She was too distracted by the big white house she’d parked in front of.

Captain Harding , the placard by the front door said.

It was faded and peeling, not unlike the old house itself.

Both were wholly different from the other homes that bookended it.

Leah looked up at the large picture windows, the wavy glass panes that rippled like the harbor across the way.

It appeared old and empty. A gloominess came over her that anchored her there on the sidewalk.

When she was young, Leah recalled the historic house had been beautifully kept.

Over the years it had changed hands and uses, the last Leah remembered it had been a general store and later an art gallery.

Now, the old beauty appeared vacant and in need of upkeep.

The shingles were as weathered as its facade and the building looked tired.

A large sign in one of the front windows read: For Rent.

The steps creaked as she walked up. Leah peered in one of the front windows.

Despite the dim lighting, she could make out the large open space of the first floor.

Even from the outside Leah could sense the layers of dust. There was a folding table shoved against one wall.

An ornate old fireplace dominated another, an emblem of dignity amidst the decline.

An old bucket and a few paint cans littered the edges of the room.

The walls were heavily adorned with hooks, and a few holes, probably remnants of the long vanished art gallery.

Other than that the space was barren and Leah was hit by a wave of loneliness so visceral that she wondered if it were coming from the house itself.

Leah empathized. Everything she’d built her life on had just crumbled beneath her, leaving her adrift.

Her career at Morgan Press. Her relationship with Greg.

The future they’d mapped out in Boston, all of it gone.

After so many years filled with the noise of purpose and plans, the strange new silence that followed was deafening.

As she stood at the window, Leah’s heart ached, just as she imagined the house’s old chestnut floorboards creaked. Her nights back in Chatham were as forlorn as the empty bedrooms she imagined inside, wide open and waiting. In the old house she recognized a piece of herself.

Unable to help it, she tried the door handle.

Of course it was locked. Still curious, she peered again through the smudged windows, and as she did Leah felt an unexpected plume of hope rise within.

The ceilings were high and the windows large.

Even at that late hour, the remains of daylight spilled into the space, highlighting the detailed moldings and trim work.

It was a grand old house, and no amount of age or emptiness could diminish its elegant bones.

Something about the house was calling to her.

She knew it was ridiculous, and yet she stood at the window staring at the For Rent sign.

She could not begin to imagine what it would cost to rent a building of this size in this location.

Nor could she fathom the amount of work it needed.

Too much for one person. Too much for one person with a small severance and no job to speak of.

Knowing all of this did not change the quick pulse of hope through her veins. Leah took out her phone. Suddenly, she knew what she needed to do.