This bookstore—Calvin’s bookstore—was like something out of my wildest dreams. When I was little, before modeling became my life, all I wanted was for my parents to drop me off at a bookstore like this one, where I could lose myself in words for hours.  

If they’d taken me here, I would have never left.

It wasn’t huge. Calvin was right when he said it was intimate. Except every room had giant windows that made you distinctly aware of the wilderness outside, pressing in. A fire crackled in the fireplace. None of the chairs matched. My mug was chipped and faded and I pressed it to my chest.

I loved Virginia Woolf. How did Cal guess? And why did I feel the need to impress him with my knowledge of her works? I usually kept the bookworm side of myself locked away.

Not that I’d read much these past years.

I avoided the poetry room, but I wandered towards the far wall. Half of it was taken up with framed posters advertising readings: Maya Angelou, Allen Ginsberg, Henry Miller, Amiri Baraka. It went on and on, writers I recognized and writers I didn’t, but their presence on the wall telegraphed something special: a night of words. A night of communion.

Scattered throughout were tiny half-pages of poems and selections from literature, slid haphazardly into frames or taped onto old photos. From the look of them, Calvin’s grandfather must have typed them on an old typewriter.

I closed my eyes, imagining him sitting here, reading. Falling in love with something he’d read and needing to share it with the world.

The one closest to me was Pablo Neruda:

No one else, Love, will sleep in my dreams.

You will go, we will go, together over the waters of time.

I tapped my finger against the paper, feeling an electric buzz. It was thrilling and scary and I hadn’t felt it in a long time.

At the far end of the room was an old cash register and a long desk similarly covered with stacks of books.

I was sensing a theme.

Behind the table sat Cal, engrossed in a slim novel. I walked closer, still semi-interested in the walls, but sizing Cal up at the same time. People didn’t usually do things like read around me. I expected his ardent adoration: some cartoonish, jaw-drop-to-the-floor, eyes-bulge situation. I would play it cool, of course, treat him like just another fan.

You need the attention.

I shook that thought away and slid a little closer. He turned the page, head in hand, totally absorbed in whatever was on that page. Not on me: the 5-foot-10 blonde bombshell standing in front of him.

I sighed loudly, but he didn’t look up. I was half-tempted to take my top off but decided against it.

“Reputation,” Lu.

 Cal had thick, dark brown hair. A five o’clock shadow that was almost a beard. Those big glasses which he could have pulled off as “hipster” if he had more confidence. Instead, he just looked like a nerd, one step away from using a finger to push his glasses up his nose.

“This place is perfect, Lu,” Ray said, walking up behind me.

I turned, nodding, because he was absolutely right. “Where are we shooting?” I asked.

“This is our first and main location, so I want you and Taylor here a lot. There’s tons to work with—the details, the fireplace, the color of the books, the feel of the walls. The camera’s going to love it and you’re going to look gorgeous together.”

“And when does the rest of the crew get here?” I asked.

“Should be tomorrow morning. You can start meeting with wardrobe, see what looks good. We’ll work our way through the other locations during the three days that we’re here. Tomorrow morning, we can start talking hair and makeup.”

I nodded along, half-listening. I’d been doing these shoots since I was 15 years old. And they were all the same. Hair. Big makeup. Some ridiculous piece of clothing literally taped to my body. Glitter. Five-inch heels. At this point, I’d perfected all kinds of looks: pouty yet serious; irritated yet turned-on; carefree yet grounded.

Modeling was a study in contrasts. The viewer wanted you to be everything and nothing—a body to project their own feelings onto; a face to worship or hate—sometimes both at the same time.

I pulled out my phone automatically to scroll through my social media accounts.

No Service.

I sighed in frustration. I wouldn’t be able to win back lost followers if I couldn’t post sexy photos from Big Sur.

So I sighed again, extra loudly, and strode right up to Calvin’s cash register. He was still reading, completely absorbed. I remembered the feeling—except that I was annoyed at his lack of attention.

I looked up at the framed photographs over his head. More authors, some of his grandparents. And then I saw it—I sucked in an actual gasp, fingertips to my lips.

“Are you okay?” Calvin asked, finally looking up. Except my surprise was real, not feigned.

“Oh…yeah,” I said, debating if I should share, but before I could stop myself I said, “Is that your grandfather with Mary Oliver?”

Calvin looked up to where I was pointing, smiled and nodded. “It is. He adored her. She did readings here several times. She and her wife would stay in the cabins where you’re staying.”

I want to stay in her cabin.

“Can I stay in her cabin?” I asked out loud, trying to keep the desperation out of my voice.

Cal looked astonished. “Um…yeah, I can look back in the records and see if I can find out where she stayed. Not a problem, Ms. Bell.”

“Lucia,” I said automatically. “Or Lu…or really, you can call me whatever.”

He broke eye contact, looking away. “Oh, okay. Sorry…just, how do you…?

“She’s my favorite poet. Ever. Like ever, ever.” I said and for a moment I was 13 years old again and having a very grown-up conversation about poetry with fellow readers I’d bump into at bookstores.

Calvin’s smile was tentative, head tilted. He put his book down (I could finally see the cover. Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. I knew that book. A sexy romp through Paris.).

“I spent my summers up here with my grandfather for years and Mary Oliver was one of the poets we’d read together. Her words blend perfectly with Big Sur. There’s so much nature here, it’s almost…” He thought for a second, “forceful. She captured that so well.”

I nodded eagerly, in love with this feeling again. I had missed it. “That’s so true. I always read her in the concrete jungle that is Los Angeles. Doesn’t have the same effect. Reading her here though?” I said, twirling my finger towards the big open windows, “Would be fucking fantastic.”

He laughed, softly, almost nervously and managed to hold my gaze for five whole seconds this time before blushing and breaking it. His eyes were a dark, dark green, like the forest outside.

On an index card taped to the cash register, someone had written, “Word of the Day: Lilting.” I stilled, looking at it.

That word again.

“What’s this?” I asked.

Cal looked where I was pointing. “My grandfather would choose a word completely at random every day and write it on an index card. I have a cardboard box in storage with all of them, dating back to the late fifties when he first opened the store. Sometimes when poets would come by and he’d ask them to write something on the spot, he’d give them the Word of the Day for inspiration.”

“Did you choose this one?” I asked.

“No. He chose it on the day that he died. It was his last one. I just keep it up there for…” he trailed off, clearing his throat. I looked up at him. “Well, I just think he’d like it. It’s one of my favorite words, actually.”

“Me too,” I said, and Calvin’s smile was a lot less timid.

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