The Shell Collector

ground the mixture of herbs. There was an art to knowing how much to mix them. In the beginning she’d pulverized them, thinking they needed to almost dissolve into the mixture, but they lost their aroma and flavors that way. She closed her eyes, enjoying the sound of the tool against the mortar. She inhaled, adding a sprig of this, a leaf of that, until she stumbled upon just the right mix.
Working the herbs into the salt was her favorite part. She let the new combination rest while she neatened the house to prepare for another day tomorrow. After stacking the books on the coffee table, she picked up the small hardbound one that her friend Ginny had sent her after they’d buried Jack. She still hadn’t read it. She should, if for no other reason than that her friend spent her hard-earned money on it. Amanda opened the front cover and read the inscription written inside.
Amanda,
I have no idea what to say or possibly do to help make this okay for you. It’s heartbreaking. I’m grasping at straws here. I hope there is one tiny soothing moment amidst these pages somewhere that you can cling to. One breath of solace at a time.
I’m so sorry this happened to you.
I’m always just a phone call away. Any hour. Anytime.
Ginny
Amanda folded the cover against the inscription. She’d read that note countless times since Jack died, but it read differently tonight. It didn’t happen to me; it happened to Jack. I was just collateral damage. Broken, and she would never be the same.
“Be grateful,” Mom had said after reading an article about the healing powers of gratitude. Everyone had an answer, something to try. It was exhausting, really.
I have things to be thankful for. She wasn’t an idiot. She was just sad, and didn’t she have a right to be sad?
She had their children. She had shelter. She’d been provided for. Yes, perhaps modestly so, but she had enough. She was grateful for all of it, but that didn’t dissolve the grief and there were just as many opinions on that.
She’d read about the five stages of grief or DABDA. Three stages of grief: Coping. Grieving. Surviving. In the end, all the books said the same thing: it was hard, and everyone’s experience was different. And that was probably why she never bothered to read any of them to completion, because, really, all she wanted to know was that there was hope.
It was nice that Ginny had bought her a book with God’s worldview, although she wondered if she had read any of it before picking it out. Ginny had never been one to go to church unless it had been following a Saturday-night sleepover at Amanda’s house.
She flipped open the book to a random page and started reading.
Stop surviving each day, and thrive in your life.
That was sound advice. It was true she’d kept her focus on one day at a time, but some big-picture thinking would do her good. She might tape that quote to her mirror.
She flipped through a few more pages until the first line of the chapter caught her eye.
It’s okay to decline offers.
Now you’re talking, she thought.
You don’t owe anyone an explanation. “Thank you, but I’m busy” is a perfectly acceptable response. People don’t have to know that what you’re busy with is taking deeper breaths and silencing irrational thoughts. They might understand; they might not. Just thank them for the invitation and encourage them to ask again next time. I promise that you will feel like saying yes again one day. Only you can decide when that is, and that is okay.
She gave the book a nod of approval, and rather than tossing it back on the table as decor, she carried it to her bedroom. Maybe I’ll read a page a day, she thought as she stretched out on her bed.
Amanda flipped to the back cover. There an attractive dark-haired woman smiled back at her with a list of accolades five lines long.
Oh yeah, easy for you to say. If I can get through this and look even half as confident as you are, I’ll be doing good.

7
Maeve hadn’t slept a wink, and for the life of her, she didn’t know what was keeping her awake. She’d tossed and turned until she finally gave up trying.
She slid the bedroom patio door open and stepped out onto the deck. The humid air hung so thick she playfully grabbed for a handful of it. There was no breeze tonight. Earlier the sky had been dark beneath a heavy curtain of clouds. She couldn’t even see the waves crash against the shoreline then, but now the nearly full moon cast light over everything, almost sparkling as it danced on the moving water.
Her dog, Methuselah, tapped across the room, hopping over the threshold as if it were a hurdle. She needed to get his nails trimmed. Sometimes when they got long, as they were now, it sounded like he was marching through the house in flip-flops.
He sprawled out on the deck and let out a sigh.
She sighed too.
Sleepless nights frustrated her. Something was at the edge of her mind. Whatever it was, she wrestled with it, wishing it would become clear. But it remained just out of reach.
She glanced over her shoulder at the clock in her bedroom. There was still an hour and a half until sunrise. If she got dressed and walked up the beach to the diner, Tug would probably be there by the time she arrived.
Maeve put on an orange T-shirt and stepped into a flowered skirt. She felt graceful like a dancer when she wore it, enjoying the way it swished across her shins. The gauzy fabric made it a good option on hot days, plus the material dried quickly, which she considered to be perfect for beachwear. She picked up her sandals and walked outside.
Bugs hung around the front-porch light like stragglers at an after-hours party. She