From: GDL824@yahoo.com
Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:07 PM
To: EONeill22@hotmail.com
Subject: not a chance
Or maybe they’re just really happy to be writing to that person…
Like I am: 
From: EONeill22@hotmail.com
Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:11 PM
To: GDL824@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: not a chance
Well, thank you. But that’s not what happy looks like.
From: GDL824@yahoo.com
Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:12 PM
To: EONeill22@hotmail.com
Subject: Re: not a chance
What does it look like, then?
From: EONeill22@hotmail.com
Sent: Saturday, June 8, 2013 1:18 PM
To: GDL824@yahoo.com
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.”
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?”