This Is What Happy Looks Like(13)
“Yeah,” Ellie said, looking sideways at Mom. “It is.”
“Too bad I don’t want to be an actress. Or a reality-TV star or something,” Quinn said. “This would be such a great opportunity.”
“Yes,” Mom said, regaining herself. “It’s a terrible shame you only want to be a marine biologist. I suppose it would be much more useful to have been asked out to dinner by a whale.”
Quinn laughed. “They’re terrible conversationalists, though.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to make do with the movie star,” Mom said with a smile. “Just be careful of those photographers, okay?”
“I will,” Quinn said. “I’ve read enough gossip magazines to know not to wear my skirt too short.”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” Mom said. “But you’re right. Better go find something appropriate to wear. Your wardrobe specialist is officially free for the afternoon.”
“Thanks, Mrs. O,” Quinn said, grabbing Ellie’s wrist and pulling her toward the door, already rattling off all the things they’d need to do to get ready for the evening. But just before they stepped outside, Ellie broke away and trotted back over to the register.
“Thanks, Mom,” she said, giving her a quick hug.
“Sure thing,” Mom whispered as she pulled back. “I’m just glad it’s not you.”
Ellie thought once more of Graham Larkin’s eyes, so guarded and sad, and of the way he’d paused in front of the store, his shoulders hunched and the brim of his cap pulled low as the photographers crept up behind him, as patient and certain as snipers. She glanced over at Quinn, who was practically dancing from one foot to the other, and it struck her how complicated this was, all of it, not just the cameras and the movie trailers, but the way someone could look at you, how it could feel like a question without an answer. Suddenly, all she wanted to do was go home and write an e-mail, to send her thoughts across the country like a message in a bottle, like the poems in the frames.
She turned back to Mom with a little nod.
“I know,” she said. “Me too.”
From: [email protected]
Sent: Sunday, June 9, 2013 3:02 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: what happy looks like
Meeting new people.
Chapter 4
The light off the water was golden in the last hours of the day. Graham took the long way to dinner, cutting over to the beach, where he paused every now and then to pick up a stone, weighing it in his hand before letting it fall back to the ground. All day, the smell of the ocean had been calling to him.
A couple of sunburned tourists walked by with beach chairs under their arms, but neither of them bothered to look up at him as they passed, and Graham felt a little shiver of delight. After the first movie came out, it had been the opposite; each time someone recognized him in public, it was like a benediction, like in some strange way he was being knighted: Graham Larkin, Somebody. But now—now it was the lack of recognition that made his heart thump in his chest, that small thrill of anonymity, which had become such a rare thing these days.
He glanced at his watch, realizing he would soon be running late, but instead of heading back up to the road, he turned to face the ocean squarely, watching the light skip off the water. There were still a few boats on the horizon, silhouettes against the sun, and Graham had a sudden longing to be out there too.
He remembered a fishing trip he’d taken with his father when he was only eight, the two of them bobbing in the little rowboat, their necks lost in the orange lifejackets. For three days, they’d tied their bait and cast their lines and caught nothing. Dad kept apologizing, like it was his fault the lake refused to offer anything up, and as the last afternoon began to wear thin, he only looked more miserable. This had been his idea, the kind of bonding trip he’d taken with his own father, and he’d been telling Graham for months now about all the fish they’d surely catch.
“Salmon?” Graham had asked, and Dad shook his head.
“Probably not,” he said. “They’re tougher to find. But trout. Lots and lots of trout. You’ll see.”
They hadn’t brought anything else for dinner—he was that certain—and so the previous night, they’d eaten beef jerky and string cheese out on the cabin porch, swatting away the mosquitoes and listening to the thrum of the crickets. They were close to giving up that last afternoon when it occurred to Graham to tie some of the beef jerky to the end of the line. Dad had sat forward, the little boat rolling back and forth, and his eyes brightened.
“That’s not a bad idea,” he’d said, breaking off a piece.
Graham was the first one to get a bite, a rainbow trout that flopped and jerked on the line as Dad helped him reel it in. After that, it was easy. Dad pulled in three more trout, and then Graham caught a small carp. The light was fading and the water was getting dark all around them, but neither of them wanted to stop. It was like magic, like they’d conjured three days’ worth of fish, a whole weekend’s worth of memories, into that last hour of daylight.
When he felt one final tug on his line, Graham reeled it in to find a small salmon on the end, silvery and sleek in the dusky light.
“I guess you proved me wrong,” Dad said with a grin. He sat back in the rowboat, his face all lit up, and held up the empty package of beef jerky. “Looks like the wrong kind of bait can get you the right kind of fish.”