Page 34 of The Reason I Married Him
The buildings are a mixture of old Victorian style and Western. Instead of concrete sidewalks, they’re planks of wood.A sign for every business extends from the roof and hangs in front of the entry. Iron streetlights line the boardwalk while potted plants hang from them, brightening the walkways with an abundance of color. Not to mention, since it’s a coastal town, you have the subtle sound of waves in the background as well as the smell of the sea wafting through the air when the wind picks up.
It’s clean and brilliantly coordinated, offering the quaint feel any tourist looks for when visiting that cute little Gilmore Girl-esque town. I can only imagine what it looks like in the fall and the winter.
I hate to admit it, but I like it here.
“Hello,” a man says with a nod.
“Good evening,” I reply.
And the people are friendly. If I walked around my hometown, I doubt anyone would say hello. But here, it’s hello after hello.
Do you know what Almond Bay actually reminds me of?
Canoodle, California. It’s a small town in the San Jacinto mountains just outside Palm Springs, where the family cabin is. A cat runs the town at the moment—yes, you read that right, a cat—and it’s quirky and perfect with its diner decorated with trolls and its rustic cabins that blend in with the tall ponderosa pines and boulders that flank the mountain. But whereas Canoodle is in the mountains, Almond Bay is right next to the ocean, just tweaking the atmosphere ever so slightly.
Same vibe, though.
Same quirky characters.
Same cute shops.
And this is why small towns are the best.
You feel a sense of community.
A sense of belonging, even if you’re from out of town.
The streets aren’t bustling, the weather is a comfortable sixty-six, and a light breeze kicks up from the ocean. The sunsets along the horizon, and the streetlamps flicker as they turn on. From a few speakers strategically planted along the planked sidewalks, quiet instrumental music plays. It sets the mood but doesn’t block out conversation.
If this were a thriller, I’d mention the music but make it eerie. The kind of music that makes everyone believe that this scene is just a little too perfect—like something is about to happen.
Someone is about to pop out and?—
“Do you like trains?” an old man asks, coming out of nowhere and nearly making me whiz myself.
“Jesus fuck,” I mutter as I grip my chest and stare at the wrinkly old man.
With a horseshoe of gray hair around his head and a shiny dome on top, he’s sporting large brown tortoiseshell spectacles, a brown vest with a cream button-up short-sleeved shirt, and brown tweed pants. His shaky hand holds up a model train, and a quizzical pull props his brow up at an impossible height. Have you ever watched that Pixar short where the old man with the giant nose and huge eyes plays chess? That’s what this man looks like.
“Well, do you?” he asks again, leaning in closer.
And see, this is the quirkiness of the town. He’s not a threat, but I’m not sure you’d find an old man wandering the streets asking people if they like trains anywhere else.
“Uh, they’re pretty cool,” I say. “Why, do you like trains?”
He straightens up, giving us some space between each other now. “I love them.”
“Yeah?” I ask. “What’s your favorite train engine?”
He crosses his arms and frowns at me. “How could I possibly pick a favorite? That’s like picking your favorite child.”
“Very true, my mistake.” I hold up my hands. “Is that, uh . . . N gauge?” My grandpa used to build model train sets and work with N gauge. That’s as far as my knowledge goes.
“HO,” he replies. “Do you like N?”
“My grandpa used to have a large ten-by-ten model train setup, all N scale.”
“Really?” The man’s eyes light up.
