The Salty Page
Hiding out in a sleepy, salty town
Hard no, I tell Harper.
Come on. I’m great with an Instagram filter?
Her upward inflection makes me cringe.
I have no doubt, I tell her without looking up from my inventory list.
The teenager is not sweetening her request by offering to alter my appearance. I trust that she could make me look younger or prettier or whatever it is she feels I need more or less of. She wants to plaster my face on our social media channels and on a new website section she’s named, “Meet Our Book Detectives.”
I never expected that our rustic little bookstore would need an “online presence.” I never thought that anyone would need more from me than book recommendations, event updates, and to wield my ribbon curling skills for the occasional gift wrap - all routine requests from the locals. Most of the tourists – and there’s an abundance of them in Sausalito - usually ask for directions or the location of the nearest public restroom – no, we don’t offer one at The Salty Page. Each of us has to take turns cleaning it, so keeping bathroom traffic to a minimum - I’m proud to say - was my idea.
I didn’t take Harper for much of a book lover when she first arrived three months ago. Her shiny blond ponytail, consistent optimism, and relentless energy said more cheerleader than book nerd. Turns out – she’s both. Kids these days, they just refuse to commit to a stereotype. Christ, I miss the 80’s.
Ok Melanie, but you’re on deck to be next month’s featured detective!
I nod in faux agreement as she bounces away.
Thirty days to come up with a solid excuse of why I don’t want my picture out there. I can’t have my picture out there.
It’s been two years. Nadine, my best friend from college, vouched for me to get this job without all the usual paperwork and background checks. She’s a local with a lot of money and a bit of pull in this town. One who took an assignment in Japan with her tech company and is kind enough to pretend to need a house sitter. She told Harry, the store owner, that I’m her cousin from New Hampshire. A retired English professor. How I love the sound of that.
Nadine’s home is modest, as many of the homes in Sausalito are, yet deceptively expensive. Location, location, location, as the local realtor’s tagline reads. Candace stops into the store at least once a week to leave more fliers in our promo rack. She doesn’t fit in here in a different way than I don’t fit in. She grew up in adjacent Mill Valley, where the homes are not deceptively expensive, but blatantly so.
It’s not easy keeping my blonde hair brown, the brightness always begging to shine through. I could have tried a wig, but at the time dyeing my hair seemed like a better option. And now it’s too late for that unless on top of all of my other lies, I manufacture an illness. My blue eyes are easier to conceal with dark brown contacts. But I still don’t feel like the woman I invented. Will I ever? Or will I always be this person, hiding somewhat in plain sight? And most importantly, will it ever be safe to go home?