The Village by the Sea by Paula Fox

waves. Two grownups were opening a huge yellow beach umbrella.
    â€œThe summer has begun,” commented Bertie. “Pretty soon, the beach will be filled with people.”
    â€œHow long will our village last?” wondered Emma.
    â€œWho knows? The main thing is—we made it,” responded Bertie.
    They walked for a long time until they could no longer see the stairs that led up the cliff to their houses. The cliff fell away. A ridge of low-lying dunes took its place. On the other side of them was a large pond upon which three swans floated like meringues.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” Emma commented. “I’m glad I got to see this part of the beach.”
    â€œWe ought to name the village,” Bertie said. “Yeah, it is pretty here. Those swans come back to the pond every year, I’ve heard.”
    â€œHow about Swan Haven ?” Emma suggested.
    â€œWhy not Deer Haven ?” Bertie asked. “We really do have a deer in the forest—not a swan. It’s more true.”
    Emma hesitated. But after all, only she and Bertie would know the name of their village. “Okay,” she agreed.
    Before supper Emma packed her suitcase and her shopping bag. She glanced at her diary before she dropped it on top of the puzzles she hadn’t done, the books she hadn’t read. She ought to write something down, but it seemed impossible. How could she write about the eagerness with which she raced down the stairs to the beach every morning? How could she describe the moment when Bertie handed her the balsa wood sign? Perhaps there are no words for what is perfect, she thought. Even counting the summers with her father and mother at the place in upstate New York, she couldn’t think of anything in her life that had held such delight as those hours with Bertie. Nothing Aunt Bea had said had touched them.
    Aunt Bea was almost silent at supper. Uncle Crispin had broiled a steak and made rather lumpy mashed potatoes.
    â€œQuite like nursery potatoes,” he remarked. “We used to count the lumps. Whoever had the most got an extra share of pudding.”
    â€œWho is we ?” asked Aunt Bea gruffly.
    â€œOh—a friend who might be visiting. Bea, I do wish you’d look at what these children made. It is simply magical!”
    Aunt Bea stared down at her plate.
    â€œThey even built a library and a Greek temple!” he went on.
    Aunt Bea rose abruptly and padded out to the kitchen in her beaded white moccasins. Soon, Emma heard the kettle boiling, and Aunt Bea appeared a moment later with a cup of tea. As she sat down, she said, “Crispin, I think I should like to go to Provence in the fall. I’m tired of this meager beach, those hordes who come out here every year.”
    â€œIf we can manage it, Bea,” Uncle Crispin said. “Travel is so expensive.”
    â€œDon’t look to me for that problem,” Aunt Bea said angrily. “I have nothing … nothing.”
    She glared at Emma as though everything was her fault. She drank from her cup, her eyes still on Emma, but the glow of anger in her eyes died away. When she put down the cup, she muttered, “Oh I know we can’t go.… It was just a thought.”
    After supper and the dishes, Emma went to the living room. Aunt Bea was on the sofa in front of the television set.
    â€œShall I watch a movie with you?” Emma asked timidly. It was her last evening, after all.
    â€œWho said I was going to watch a movie?” asked her aunt. She suddenly snatched up the channel changer and hit the button so quickly, a blur of stations floated by.
    Emma sat down next to her.
    â€œAh,” sighed Aunt Bea, dropping the changer on the sofa between them. Emma watched as people speaking with English accents moved around a large kitchen. “That’s the cook, Mrs. Bridges,” announced Aunt Bea more to the room than to Emma. “This is the second time I’ve watched this