From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:10 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
But it’s not morning…
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:12 AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
It is in Maine.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:13 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
Ah, right. Then: Howdy!
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:14 AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
How very western of you. Greetings!
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:15 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
Are you an alien invader? Ni hao.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:17 AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
You definitely just looked that one up.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:19 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
You don’t think I’m proficient in Chinese?
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:20 AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
I do not.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:21 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
Fair enough. Then, salutations! (That one was from Wilbur, of course.)
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:24 AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
Of course. Until tomorrow…
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:25 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
Wait, is that your way of saying good-bye without really saying good-bye?
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:27 AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
No. Actually, I’m not sure I’m quite finished saying hello yet.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:30 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
Me neither. Hello.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:31 AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
Hi.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:33 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
Good morning.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:34 AM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: (no subject)
I already said that one.
From: [email protected] Sent: Friday, March 8, 2013 12:36 AM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: (no subject)
Yeah, but it really is.
From: [email protected] Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 12:42 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: hi
Don’t you hate it when people use smiley faces in their e-mails?
From: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 12:59 PM
To: [email protected] Subject: not really
From: [email protected] Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:04 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: not really
I’m going to ignore that.
I read once that in Russia, they usually end the salutation of a letter with an exclamation point. Isn’t that funny? It must always seem like they’re shouting at each other. Or that they’re really surprised to find themselves in touch.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:07 PM
To: [email protected] Subject: not a chance
Or maybe they’re just really happy to be writing to that person…
Like I am: !
From: [email protected] Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:11 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: not a chance
Well, thank you. But that’s not what happy looks like.
From: [email protected]
Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:12 PM
To: [email protected] Subject: Re: not a chance
What does it look like, then?
From: [email protected] Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:18 PM
To: [email protected]
Subject: what happy looks like Sunrises over the harbor. Ice cream on a hot day. The sound of the waves down the street. The way my dog curls up next to me on the couch. Evening strolls. Great movies. Thunderstorms. A good cheeseburger. Fridays. Saturdays. Wednesdays, even. Sticking your toes in the water. Pajama pants. Flip-flops. Swimming. Poetry. The absence of smiley faces in an e-mail.
What does it look like to you?
It was not all that different from the circus, and it came to town in much the same way. Only instead of elephants and giraffes, there were cameras and microphones. Instead of clowns and cages and tightropes, there were production assistants and trailers and yards upon yards of thick cables.
There was a sense of magic in the way it appeared as if from nowhere, cropping up so quickly that even those who had been expecting it were taken by surprise. And as the people of Henley showed up to watch, even the most jaded members of the film crew couldn’t help feeling a slight shiver of anticipation, a low current of electricity that seemed to pulse through the town. They were used to filming in locations like Los Angeles and New York, cities where the locals gave them a wide berth, grumbling about the traffic and the disappearance of parking spots, shaking their heads at the huge lights that snuffed out the darkness. There were places in the world where a movie shoot was nothing more than a nuisance, a bothersome interruption of real life.
But Henley, Maine, was not one of them.
It was June, so the crowds that had gathered to watch the men unload the trucks were fairly large. The size of the town rose and fell like the tides. Through the winter, the full-timers rattled around the empty shops, bundled against the frost coming off the water. But as soon as summer rolled around, the population swelled to four or five times its usual size, a stream of tourists once again filling the gift shops and cottages and B&Bs that lined the coast. Henley was like a great hibernating bear, dozing through the long winters before coming back to life again at the same time each year.
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.”