The Girl I Used to Be by Heidi Hostetter (that summer book .txt) 📕

“The very ones.” Brenda rolled her eyes. “Talk about cutting it close.”

“I’ll get to work on putting them together.” Ellie scooped up the box and eyed the contents. “Is this enough, do you think?”

“There’s another box in the back of my car,” Brenda said with a sigh. “I’ll bring it in. Lemme just catch my breath after the encounter with the printer.”

“That’s okay,” Ellie said as she headed inside. “I’ll take care of it.”

Brenda called her back. “Oh, wait. I almost forgot: Ryan said to tell you the website for the show is ready. He linked the page to Billy’s new retreat. Billy said he hates it.”

“Awesome,” Ellie replied, completely unflustered. She’d grown used to Billy’s mercurial nature and there was no one better at managing his moods. A moment later she called from the kitchen, “I’ll bring you out some coffee.”

Brenda called back, “Thanks, doll.”

Jill and Brenda sat in companionable silence for a while, listening to the comforting sounds of Ellie rummaging in the cabinet for a mug, pouring coffee and adding cream. She emerged a moment later with a sturdy mug glazed in shades of ocean blue, then retreated back to the house to finish her work.

“Is this one of mine?” Brenda cradled the mug in her hands. “Feels like it.”

“It is,” Jill said. “We get all our best stuff from your studio sales.”

Brenda sipped her coffee. “Speaking of…” She gestured to the building that sat on the second lot, next door to the cottage. “Big day for you. Are you excited?”

“Kind of,” Jill answered weakly. The truth was she’d had butterflies for weeks now and they were getting worse.

To her surprise, Brenda laughed. “I was a wreck before my first show.” She placed her coffee on the side table and rose from her seat. “Best solution is to meet it head-on. Let’s go over.”

They followed the sandy path from Jill’s yard to the gallery and pushed open the side door to enter. Work on the building had just been completed. It was a little smaller than Jill’s cottage—tiny by city standards, but perfect for Dewberry Beach. She and Brenda had sat on the committee to design the space and found that they worked well together. The floor was made from reclaimed wood, the walls white shiplap, and bright spotlights shone on the artists’ work. The space was open to everyone and the calendar was filling fast; tonight was opening night.

An exhibit of Jill’s photography would be the first showing.

Inside, Jill paused to breathe it in, to savor the moment.

They’d finished the display the night before, and even now it didn’t seem real. The walls were covered in her work. The collection was titled “The Off-Season” and all the pieces were from Dewberry Beach.

In the quiet, Jill padded barefoot around the gallery, remembering when she’d taken each one.

Rose hips from the vine Betty had trained to grow around the slats of her white picket fence. The dusting of beach sand on the grass and a tiny drop of dew on the rose hip, frozen overnight and reflecting the soft pink of sunrise.

The dog who loved to chase driftwood was there too. Emerging from the surf with a weathered gray stick in his mouth, his eyes bright with joy as he brought his treasure to his owner.

There was the tidepool too, and the fishing trawlers, the Fish Shack and the woman who wrapped overstuffed lobster rolls. A delivery driver pulling out a bundle of newspapers from his truck for the newsstand. A baker from Mueller’s prepping in the early morning, kneading dough in a cloud of flour. And fishermen setting the day’s catch on the dock, the fish stacked neatly on ice as the great trawlers idled in the background.

“You should be proud of yourself,” Brenda said softly.

“I kind of am,” Jill answered. It was better than she’d ever imagined.

The bell jangled above the front door, indicting someone had entered the gallery. Doors were rarely locked at Dewberry Beach.

“Hello?” an older woman’s voice called. “Is anyone here?”

Jill walked to the front of the gallery, intending to gently remind the woman that the show was scheduled to open later that afternoon.

But she stopped when she saw who it was.

“Mrs. Brockhurst?” The woman was dressed impeccably, in a cashmere overcoat, black leather gloves, and a bright silk scarf tucked into the collar.

At that moment, Jill realized what she herself was wearing and felt a flush of embarrassment. She tightened the tie of her bathrobe and hoped her bare feet would go unnoticed.

Mrs. Georgiana Brockhurst seemed to notice none of it. Instead, she just smiled.

“Please forgive me for showing up so early,” she said finally. “I know it’s shockingly bad form, but I wanted to make sure.” She pointed to a photograph on the far side of the gallery, the one image that had not been taken at Dewberry: the bridal portrait Jill had included in her portfolio so long ago. “Has that piece been sold?”

The image didn’t fit the theme of the exhibit, but Brenda had talked Jill into including it. She said it was the photograph that had started it all. Jill looked up in time to see Brenda leaving the gallery, the side door gently closing behind her.

“No,” Jill managed. “It hasn’t been sold. Nothing has.”

“I know the exhibit isn’t scheduled to open until this evening,” Mrs. Brockhurst finished smoothly. “I understand and I hope you’ll make an exception, because I’d like to buy it.”

“You would?”

“Yes.” The woman frowned. “I made a mistake not hiring you last year for Libby’s bridal portrait, and that decision has always bothered me. My reasons were valid, but it felt like a missed opportunity. I’m sorry not to have taken a chance when you came to see me that day. I wanted to tell you that.”

Not trusting her voice, Jill simply nodded. After a moment she was able to swallow past the lump in her throat. “I’d like to give it to you.”

Mrs. Brockhurst’s