Free Stranger on the Shore (Mirabelle Harbor, Book 4) by Marilyn Brant

were picture frames made of shells, wind chimes, hall mirrors, lampshades, nightlights, an array of shell-encrusted furniture and, oh, jewelry. So much jewelry. Earrings, bracelets, necklaces, even belts. They were so imaginatively designed and well-crafted that I was mesmerized.
    Hanging from a tall spinning case were a hundred pairs of shell-and-bead earrings of various styles, shapes, lengths, and colors. The ones that caught my eye first were made of six calico scallops—three on each side—with the smallest shell on the top, followed by the medium, and then the largest. When jostled, they jingled like angels’ bells. But it wasn’t just the sound and shape that grabbed my attention. It was the starbursts of soft pink, rose, and lavender that zigzagged across each shell. The expertly fastened sterling fishhook gave the dangles the finished sheen of a professional piece. The natural symmetry of the ridges and ripples. How gorgeous.
    “You should try ‘em on,” a petite dynamo of a woman in her mid-thirties said, a hint of Texas lingering in her voice. “You’ll find a mirror just over there.” She crooked her thumb at the shell-framed oval mirror hanging on the wall behind me.
    I pulled out my small, mother-of-pearl teardrop earrings, and I slipped on the scallop-shell ones. Staring at my reflection, I couldn’t help but think that, until yesterday, it had been a long, long time since I’d purchased anything for myself that wasn’t a dire necessity. I realized another thing, too. That even a change in my appearance this small could make me look and feel like someone else.
    And I happened to quite like this new someone.
    “They are really lovely,” I told the woman.
    “So thrilled to hear you like ‘em,” the shop lady replied. The delight in her voice and the hawk-like gaze of the woman snagged my attention, and I immediately suspected the other woman’s heightened awareness might be more than just interest in a potential sale. There was more at stake here.
    “By chance, did you make these?” I asked, motioning toward the earrings I was wearing and then toward the entire twirling jewelry stand.
    The shop woman grinned and nodded. “I make everything in here.” Her focus strayed to a small table in the far corner where two other women were sitting and poring over some shells, decorative beads, nylon strings, and various metal hooks. They were so absorbed in their task, neither seemed to see or hear anyone else. “Well, almost everything,” she clarified with a laugh. “My friends over there are helping me with a special project.”
    When I raised my eyebrows in curiosity, the energetic jewelry lady motioned me closer. “C’mon. I’ll show you,” she said.
    The two new ladies, one about my age and one a decade younger, glanced up and smiled as the jewelry lady and I approached them.
    “Hi, there,” the tall brunette said, her Southern origins evident in just the softness of these two syllables.
    “This is Lorelei,” the jewelry lady told me, pointing toward the brunette, who had a very intelligent expression and had to be in her early forties. Then to the blonde, who was shorter, rounder, younger, and very sweet-looking, “And this is Abby. My best friends.” She beamed at them. “They’re also my rescuers. I don’t know what I’d do without them this week.” She turned back to me and stuck out her palm. “I’m Joy Canton, owner of this shop and—”
    “A recovering Texan,” Lorelei interjected, with an arch of her thin, dark eyebrow.
    “Someone who hasn’t yet learned to say no,” Abby added, her amused tone not remotely Southern.
    “Oh, put a sock in it, y’all. I was gonna say I’m always glad to meet visitors. Maybe I should say I’ll be glad to get some new best friends.” She mock glared at the other two women.
    “Nope, you’re stuck with us,” Lorelei said to her, then she winked at me.
    Abby picked up a long nylon string and snapped it in Joy’s direction. The