Fifteenth Summer - By Michelle Dalton Page 0,73

men’s watch with a satiny ivory face and gold Roman numerals.

“It’s Grandpa’s watch,” he said, immediately buckling the worn leather band onto his wrist.

Abbie pulled two framed works of art out of her box. They were two of the red Conté nudes that Granly had loved to collect. Both female figures were in motion—their muscular bodies leaping through the air, their hair flying out behind them.

“I remember these!” Abbie said, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I always loved them.”

“She gave me Grandpa’s passport holder,” Hannah cried, holding up a brown leather wallet embossed with Grandpa’s name in gold.

Mom was the only one who wasn’t surprised by her gift.

“I always told her I wanted this,” she said, lifting a string of pearls out of her box. The clasp looked like a blossom—a cluster of gold petals. “She used to wear these pearls every Saturday night when she’d go on dates with Grandpa.”

I was the last one to open my box. Inside I found a thin stack of familiar leather-bound notebooks. Granly’s journals. Flipping one open, I saw more of Granly’s handwriting—some of it in ink, some of it in smudgy pencil—pages and pages of it.

Two more of the journals were filled up, but the fourth was blank.

I opened the card that Granly had written to me.

For my Chelsea, who’s a writer (too). Enough with those scraps of paper! With all my love, Granly.

I opened my mouth to speak, then closed it again. I was speechless.

Chelsea, who’s a writer?

Where had Granly gotten that idea? I was a reader. And yeah, I wrote stuff down on those scraps of paper. But that didn’t count.

Did it?

Timidly I opened the first of Granly’s notebooks again.

Daddy and Mother want to go to the South Shore for all of June, and I think I’ll just die if I have to go with.

My eyebrows shot upward. That was a pretty good beginning.

And a familiar one.

I couldn’t wait to read more.

For the rest of the morning our cottage was very quiet. We all drifted apart, each of us deep in thought, each of us saying our own thank-yous to Granly’s ghost.

But eventually I stopped reading Granly’s journals—which were part diary, part very funny short-story collection. I didn’t want to tear through them. I wanted to make them last.

Besides, I was starving.

When I wandered into the kitchen, I found Abbie peering into the fridge.

“I think I’m officially sick of blueberries,” she said, closing the door with a curled lip.

“Better not be,” I said. “The blueberry festival’s next week, you know.”

“Oh, yeah,” Abbie said. “I almost forgot about that crazy festival.”

“You wouldn’t have if you worked on Main Street,” I said. “Every electrical pole is plastered with flyers. Mel’s got three different kinds of blueberry pie on the menu. And at Dog Ear—”

I’d been about to tell Abbie about the cute blueberry-themed window display Stella had made for the bookshop. But I decided to just let that one go.

“Were you and Josh going to go together,” Abbie asked quietly. “To the festival?”

I shrugged.

“We hadn’t talked about it yet,” I said.

But I was sure we would have gone to the festival together. Ever since the DFJ, Josh and I had just known—without having to say it—that we’d share all the summer’s big events. All its little ones too.

Before I could explain that to Abbie, I heard a knock at the front door. A loud, urgent knock.

“Who is that?” I said in alarm.

Abbie and I jumped up and headed to the door. Nobody ever knocked on Granly’s door. Sparrow Road was too remote for salesmen, and anybody who knew us would have just opened the unlocked door and called, “Anybody home?”

Abbie opened the door a crack and peeked outside. Then she turned toward me, flashed me a huge grin, and opened the door wide.

Standing on the screened porch, looking red-cheeked, breathless, and pretty terrified (but also really, really cute) was Josh. His bike lay on its side in the drive behind him, its front wheel still spinning. I watched that wheel twirl around and around and wondered if my eyes were doing the exact same thing.

“Chelsea,” Josh huffed, “can I talk to you?”

I couldn’t quite form words, so I just nodded and stepped outside. The moment Abbie closed the door, Josh spoke in a rush.

“I did it,” he announced. He flopped triumphantly onto the smushy couch. I sat—way more tentatively—next to him.

“You did . . . what?”

“I did what you told me to do,” Josh said, breaking into