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“HELLO,” SAID THE man languishing behind the counter at a hardware store with the clever name of Nailed It. He had a straw fedora hat pushed back on his cropped hair and wore a Burning Man T-shirt. “What will it be today?”
“I need some interior paint,” Ivy said. “Quite a lot, probably.” Summer Beach didn’t have giant big-box stores or fast-food drive-throughs, or even chain restaurants, which added to the charm of the small coastal town. Every shop and restaurant in town was family owned and splashed in sunny shades that gave Summer Beach a sherbet-hued color palette that Ivy loved.
The color palette reminded Ivy of the Amalfi coast, where she’d once visited as a foreign exchange student. She imagined painting a village scene here, along with an expanse of beach and endless ocean in
