Read Online The Last Beach Bungalow by Jennie Nash - Free Book Online Page B

every conceivable size and shape. All of it was gorgeous, ready to be wrapped, opened and used to whip up something that would no doubt be delectable.
    I selected a pumpkin-colored spatula and took my place in the line.
    “Quite a scene,” I said to the woman in front of me. She was holding a bright red silicone muffin tray.
    “But worth it,” she said. “I buy all my gifts here.”
    “Always muffin trays?” I asked.
    “Oh, no, this is for me,” she said. “I like to give vinegars and olive oils. The bottles are so pretty.”
    When it was my turn to pay, I asked the cashier if it had been this hectic all week.
    “It’s been very busy,” she said. “We can hardly keep most of the items stocked.” She looked roughly my age, and I guessed that she had taken this job because her kids no longer needed her and this was the place where she felt most comfortable. Her kids had, perhaps, embarked on a new life on a college campus somewhere and she had embarked on a new life at Williams-Sonoma.
    “What do you think makes it so compelling?” I asked, as if the question had just popped into my head.
    She answered as if she were reading from the annual report. “We sell quality kitchen products displayed like fine jewelry. I mean, every pot has its place on the shelf, with its handle turned just so. It lets women behave like kids in a candy store.”
    She wrapped my spatula in tissue paper and tucked it into a green paper bag with twined handles. “Enjoy!” she said.
    I took my bag and made my way to the second floor, to Borders, where I could buy a copy of This Old House. Near the top of the escalator, I passed by a shop I swore I had never seen before. It was called Soothe Your Soul. There were giant gongs in the window, and wind chimes and a banner announcing that there were great holiday gifts inside. Soothe Your Soul . It sounded, in that moment, exactly like what I needed. I walked in.
    The small store was filled with the sound of falling water. There were fountains plugged in against three walls. Stones were laid on the ground near the fountains, carved with words like BREATHE , ABUNDANCE and TRUST. There was a musty smell, and as I walked through the store I could discern lavender, sage and something sweet, like ginger. I scanned the bookshelves, wanting to buy each title for its breezy promise of peace, and when I got to the end, I was near the cash register.
    “Can I help you?” the woman behind the counter asked. She had long gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and not a lick of makeup on her face. Was she at peace? Did she feel the harmony of the universe? Was the God of her childhood something she still believed in? She didn’t look like a woman whose body was patched together, constantly on the verge of flying apart.
    I turned toward her to answer—“ I’m just looking ”— and saw a gathering of small, carved Buddhas. They were jade, only about a half inch tall. Some of them seemed to hold things in their hands or over their heads. I picked one up. He was holding a kind of cup or platter overhead. I could see veins running through the stone. His round belly made him look jolly. I realized that I had no idea who Buddha really was or what he represented. I knew the story of Jesus inside out: Jesus’s conception, Jesus’s birth, Jesus’s parables, Jesus’s miracles, Jesus’s death. I knew Jesus’s story better than I knew my own.
    “What does this one mean?” I asked the woman.
    “That’s the Buddha of long life,” she said.
    “I’ll take it.”
    “Is it a gift?” she asked. It was testimony to my state of mind that I thought— What business is it of yours? — before realizing that she was probably seeking simple information on a box, a bag, a bow, and then realizing, further, that the only Christmas gift I’d purchased was a digital camera for my mother.
    “No,” I said, trying hard to make sure I sounded pleasant. “It’s for me.”
    "Would you like a book on Buddhism?” she