Page 4 of The Seven Miracles of Beatrix Holland

What we fear seldom comes to pass. Of course, what actually comes to pass would have scared the heelie-bejeezees out of us had we known it was on its way.

—Evie Oxby, in conversation with Terry Gross on Fresh Air

Once off the ferry, Beatrice took a deep breath and pulled up Google Maps on her phone.

No signal. She held it into the air.

“You won’t get cell service most places here,” said the woman who’d been reading the Oxby book. “Skerry is Scottish for ‘island,’ but around here we say it’s Scottish for ‘stuck in the eighties.’ You’ll have Wi-Fi at your hotel, though. Are you at Skerry Cove Lodge?”

Beatrice nodded.

“It’s that way, two blocks, then right on Third.”

“Thanks.” She waved as the woman and her daughter trundled off.

Not a big deal. Seriously, not being able to open Google Maps was not a big deal. But Beatrice’s heart hammered in her chest.

Of course I’m not dying.

Obviously, Beatrice wasn’t about to expire. Real life was run by making good, sturdy plans that were backed up by numbers, and then executing those plans well. Real life was not run by hysterical hunches and random pieces of colorful cardstock wielded by a stressed-out blonde on a boat.

Walk. Move your legs.

It was still a bit too early yet to check in at Skerry Cove Lodge, but her carry-on bag was light. A stroll would do her good.

Skerry Cove appeared to be the kind of adorable that TV producers made whole series about, filled with people bustling about like they were in a Richard Scarry book.

Over here a baker, carrying a tray of still-steaming muffins, over there a woman leading a parade of toddlers holding hands.

Sunlight streamed through the old trees that lined the sidewalks, and the air smelled like brown sugar and salt.

The whole downtown area didn’t look to be more than seven blocks long, if that.

A hand-lettered sign in the window of a general store proclaimed it was the General Store, and the pharmacy was called Your Pharmacy.

Maybe you didn’t need a catchy name or a great marketing plan when you were the only game in town?

Beatrice passed the Skerry Cove Bookshop, but she wouldn’t stop yet—book shopping in a new town was a pleasure she never missed, even though she loved her Kindle, too.

She’d want time and energy for a good bookstore plunge, not to mention the mental bandwidth to work out how many new books would fit in her carry-on to go home.

Home. Where was that? Not Dad’s. Not the place she’d shared with Grant. Living with him for six years had never made his house her home.

Later. She’d figure it all out soon.

Later, bookstore therapy might help. But she couldn’t help slowing down just enough to eye the new releases in the window.

The bookshop’s door stood open invitingly. “Hey, there,” the bookseller called from the counter just inside. She was maybe a year or two younger than Beatrice, and wearing a red jumpsuit that complemented the scarlet beads at the ends of her dark twists.

“We got it!” the woman said.

Beatrice scrunched her face into a squint. “Pardon?”

“That new knitting memoir you wanted. It’s in. I just have to pull it from the box; give me a sec?”

“Sorry, you must have me confused for someone else, I think?”

“Oh, my god, you’re a riot. Be right back, don’t move.” Laughing, the woman turned and walked toward the rear of the store.

Weird. Beatrice didn’t have to wait, did she?

Of course she didn’t. A weird hard sell, that’s all it was.

She strolled another block, passing a violet-scented soap-making shop and a pet-grooming place, which had not one but two short black dogs lazing in front.

Both leaped up and wagged their tails when they saw her, as if she was an old friend.

Because she wasn’t a psychopath, Beatrice complied with their requests to be petted before continuing down the street.

There must be a café nearby—she could smell coffee beans roasting in the air.

It was totally going to be called something like Java Jive or Espresso Express.

And yep, there it was on the corner, Java Express (she was so close!), and the extra-hot cappuccino she got from the incredibly friendly barista was excellent.

But it was hard to tell him so, because he hadn’t really stopped talking to her since she walked in.

He was one of those people who assume you know exactly what they’re talking about all the time, which Beatrice didn’t mind in the slightest. People like him made being an introvert like her easier.

He was medium-height with pale skin, and his big bushy eyebrows danced as he put the finishing touches on the story she hadn’t followed even a tiny bit of.

As he slid her coffee to her, he said, “So I told her that returning all those shopping bags to the store wasn’t going to be an insult, you know?

Not like when she mooned the mayor on Christmas Eve, remember?

And bonus, she’s helping mother earth!” He bent to the mirrored side of the silver espresso machine to peer at his perfectly groomed eighties mustache (it had to be ironic, right?). “You think?”

The name tag on his chest gleamed gold. Fritz, they/them.

Beatrice recalibrated her brain and said to them, “Sure. This capp is delicious, by the way. The foam is perfect.”

They grinned. “Glad you like it. I thought the doc took you off caffeine, though?”

Ah. She must have a doppelg?nger in town—that would explain both the bookseller and this person.

Beatrice just gave a half nod and let them interpret it whatever way they wanted.

Maybe someone would point out this look-alike to her while she was here, and she’d have an unspoken moment of thinking, Really?

I look like her? Once, while visiting London, a British couple came up to her in a restaurant, convinced she was their cousin pretending to put on an American accent because they’d forgotten to send her a Christmas card.

Even after she’d showed them her passport with amusement, they’d insisted on showing her the picture of their cousin.

Yes, they’d shared pasty white skin and brown hair (without the silver stripe she had now) and brown eyes, but that was it.

The couple had whirled off, offended by her insistence on maintaining the lie.

She thanked Fritz, and carried her coffee outside, where the air was warm and the sun danced in and out of bright cloud cover. She slung her carry-on onto a chair in front of the café, and sat, trying to resist the urge to pull out her phone.

Wasn’t this what people did with coffee, just sat around drinking it, as if that was enough of a Thing to Do?

In Los Angeles, people usually got their iced lattes to go, and slugged them down while listening to podcasts at double speed and changing lanes without signaling.

But in a small island town on an early summer day, when the breeze was scented with sunshine and line-dried laundry, wasn’t there some sort of law that you had to sit down with your coffee and enjoy it leisurely? Sure there was. Even if you were dying.

She snorted and took another sip of the excellent cappuccino.

Two miracles coming today? Oh, yeah, she’d be on the lookout for those .

Maybe she’d learn that Grant and Dulcina had both been carried away by two giant hawks and dropped into the mouth of an erupting volcano.

Count ’em: one, two miracles, right there.

I love Dulcina , Grant had said that terrible night after his party.

Through tears, he’d admitted he’d always loved Dulcina, ever since law school.

Ten years ago, before Beatrice had even met him, Grant had missed Dulcina’s wedding to Emmett, claiming he’d been unable to get back from a trip to Cabo in time, but apparently, he’d been in the hospital getting his stomach pumped after trying to kill himself.

The reason—the reason , he said, like it was something to be proud of—that he’d fallen for Beatrice was that she was so different from Dulcina, so quiet and self-contained.

“Dulcy is loud, wears everything right out there, says whatever she’s thinking.

Not like you. You’re strong. Dulcy can’t even take care of a houseplant, but you take care of everything—you take care of me and the boys, and you were there for Naya when she was dying, and I’ve never regretted a minute of being with you. ”

It was one thing for him to bring up himself and his boys, but bringing up Naya, as if the time Beatrice had spent caring for her was a big deal, was infuriating .

Of course she’d been there for Naya. She’d loved her stepmother more than anyone in the world besides her father.

That’s what you did for people you loved.

You studied the problem, you figured out the best solutions, and you never gave up.

Even at the very end, when Naya had been panting in the hospital bed set up in the living room, Beatrice had been searching for a cure. That’s what you did .

You took care of those you loved.

You didn’t break your marriage vows.

You didn’t love someone else. Not like that.

Beatrice clutched her coffee cup. No, nope.

She wouldn’t think of him now. Not in this sunshine-filled village.

She forced herself to relax into the peaceful, small-town afternoon.

Groups of kids tromped past in various formations, little ones and big ones, visibly high on early summer vacation joy.

Two women walked by, hand in hand, both laughing in a way that made Beatrice’s jaw ache.

Skerry Cove was so Stars Hollow that she felt almost no surprise as a busker wandered past strumming a guitar, singing about lost love. He walked past the picture-perfect gazebo and leaned against the ladder of a gigantic tree house set high in a maple tree.

She texted Iris. This town is apparently made for the Hallmark Channel, so fucking adorable I can’t stand it. Look at this. I swear I’m going to climb into that tree house behind that guy.

She turned on the video—maybe she could capture the voices of the kids laughing in front of the toy store (Ye Olde Toy Shoppe, for real) and the sound of the guy singing—but as she panned the camera, a tooth-rattling whine rose from a wood chipper parked across the street.

Two burly woodsman types tossed in branches and logs from a pile behind them.

So instead of the video, she snapped a photo of the busker, his bright hair lit by the sun, and pressed Send.

Then she stood, stretching her back with a groan.

Forty-five might not be young young anymore—perhaps it was at the (very early) edge of middle age—but she could admit her body didn’t travel quite the way it did twenty years before.

The hotel suite had a hot tub—maybe the front desk’s amenities would stretch to a foam roller so she could work out some of the kinks?

Or maybe there was a yoga studio in town?

Who was she kidding—of course there was, and she’d give her own damn self a high five if it was called Om Sweet Om.

The message she’d sent to Iris made a bonk. Of course, the crappy cell service.

Beatrice stood. She put her purse over her shoulder and tossed her empty cup into the trash can with a satisfying swish.

From behind, someone pushed her hard , right between the shoulder blades.

Crashing to the sidewalk, she landed painfully on one knee and one elbow.

And then all hell broke loose.