This Is What Happy Looks Like(4)
Author: Jennifer E. Smith

Most everyone in town waited eagerly for Memorial Day, when the seasons clicked forward and the usual three-month frenzy of boaters and fishermen and honeymooners and vacationers invaded. But Ellie O’Neill had always dreaded it, and now, as she tried to pick her way through the thick knots of people in the village square, she was reminded of why. In the off-season, the town was hers. But on this blisteringly hot day at the start of June, it belonged to strangers again.

And this summer would be worse than ever.

Because this summer, there would be a movie too.

A few seagulls wheeled overheard, and from some distant boat a bell began to clang. Ellie hurried past the gawking tourists and away from the trailers, which now lined the harbor road like a gypsy caravan. There was a sharp tang of salt in the air, and the smell of frying fish was already drifting out of the town’s oldest restaurant, the Lobster Pot. Its owner, Joe Gabriele, was leaning against the doorframe, his eyes trained on the flurry of activity down the street.

“Kind of crazy, huh?” he said, and Ellie paused to follow his gaze. As they watched, a long black limo glided up to the main production tent, followed by a van and two motorcycles. “And now photographers too,” he muttered.

Ellie couldn’t help frowning as she watched the explosion of flashes that accompanied the opening of the limo door.

Joe sighed. “All I can say is, they better eat a lot of lobster.”

“And ice cream,” Ellie added.

“Right,” he said, nodding at the blue T-shirt with her name stitched to the pocket. “And ice cream too.”

By the time she reached the little yellow shop with the green awning that read SPRINKLES in faded letters, Ellie was already ten minutes late. But she didn’t have to worry; the only person inside was Quinn—her very best friend and the world’s very worst employee—who was hunched over the ice-cream counter, flipping through the pages of a magazine.

“Can you believe we’re stuck in here today?” she asked as Ellie walked in, the bell above the door jangling.

The inside of the shop was wonderfully cool and smelled like spun sugar, and as always, there was something about it that made the years recede for Ellie, peeling them back one at a time like the layers of an onion. She had been only four when she and her mom moved here, and after the long drive up from Washington, D.C.—the car heavy because of all they’d taken with them and silent because of all they had not—they’d stopped in town to ask for directions to the cottage they’d rented for the summer. Mom had been in a rush, eager to finish the journey that had started well before the ten-hour drive. But Ellie had walked right through the front door and pushed her freckled nose against the domed glass, and so her first memory of their new life would always be the black-and-white tiles, the cool air on her face, and the sweet taste of orange sherbet.

Now she ducked beneath the counter and grabbed an apron from the hook. “Trust me,” she said to Quinn, “you don’t want to be out there right now. It’s a total zoo.”

“Of course it is,” she said, twisting around and then hoisting herself up so that she was sitting beside the cash register, her feet dangling well above the floor. Quinn had always been tiny, and even when they were younger, Ellie used to feel like a giant beside her, tall and gawky and entirely too noticeable with her red hair. The Bean and the Beanpole, Mom used to call them, and Ellie always wondered how it was fair that the only thing she’d inherited from her father was his ridiculous height, especially when her only goal in life was to stay under the radar.

“This is probably the biggest thing that’s ever happened here,” Quinn was saying, her eyes bright. “It would be like something out of the movies if it wasn’t literally a movie.” She grabbed the magazine and held it up. “And it isn’t some little dinky art-house film either. I mean, there are huge stars in this thing. Olivia Brooks and Graham Larkin. Graham Larkin. Here for a whole month.”

Ellie squinted at the photo being dangled in front of her, which showed a face she’d seen a thousand times before, a dark-haired guy with even darker sunglasses, scowling as he muscled his way through a group of photographers. She knew he was right around their age, but there was something about him that made him seem older. Ellie tried to picture him here in Henley, dodging paparazzi, signing autographs, chatting with his beautiful costar between takes, but she couldn’t seem to make her imagination cooperate in that way.

“Everyone thinks he and Olivia are dating, or will be soon,” Quinn said. “But you never know. Maybe small-town girls are more his type. Do you think he’ll come in here at all?”

“There are only like twelve shops in the whole town,” Ellie said. “So the odds are probably in your favor.”

Quinn watched as she began rinsing the ice-cream scoops in the sink. “How can you not care about this stuff at all?” she asked. “It’s exciting.”

“It’s a pain,” Ellie said without looking up.

“It’s good for business.”

“It’s like a carnival.”

“Exactly,” Quinn said, looking triumphant. “And carnivals are fun.”

“Not if you hate roller coasters.”

“Well, you’re stuck on this one whether you like it or not,” Quinn said with a laugh. “So you better buckle up.”

Mornings were always quiet at the shop; the real rush didn’t start until after lunchtime, but because the town was so busy today, a few people trickled in to buy bags of penny candy from the jars on the shelves, or to cool off with an early cone. Just before the end of her shift, Ellie was helping a little boy pick out a flavor while Quinn made a chocolate milkshake for his mother, who was busy on her cell phone.

“What about mint chip?” Ellie suggested, leaning over the cool glass as the boy—probably no more than three years old—stood on his tiptoes in an effort to survey the various flavors. “Or cookie dough?”

He shook his head, his hair falling across his eyes. “I want pig.”

“Pink?”

“Pig,” he said again, but less certainly.

“Strawberry?” Ellie asked, pointing at the pink container, and the boy nodded.

“Pigs are pink,” he explained to her as she scooped some into a small cup for him.

“That’s true,” she said, handing him the cup. But her mind was already elsewhere; she was thinking about an e-mail she’d gotten a couple weeks ago from—well, she didn’t quite know who it was from; not really, anyway. But it had been about his pig, Wilbur, who had apparently, to his horror, gotten hold of a hot dog during a barbeque.