Every summer the stores are full of them.  We recognize them by their book jackets.

Gauzy, beguiling, images of best friends, strolling arm in arm, by the sea.

Long-legged beauties, dangling their feet in the refreshingly cool waters.

Promises of clandestine affairs.  (Is there another kind?)

Tow-headed children, tanned a nut-brown by the sun, romping in the surf with their dogs.

Families gathered at dusk, dining on old farm tables surrounded by mis-matched chairs and adorned with wild flowers in Mason jars.

So, I’m tempted.  Always.  But I’m too smart to fall for that stuff.  I’m above all that.  I wouldn’t be caught dead with one of those books in my hand, a brown paper wrapping notwithstanding.

Blame it on the rain, or lack thereof.  Blame it on the backed up septic system.  Blame it on anything you want but the fact is I succumbed.  And did I ever have fun.  Couldn’t be pried from my couch.  Just leave me alone and let me ride this beach-read to its inevitable happy ending.

I figure I’ve earned more than one happy-ending book.

I hadn’t planned on admitting my weakness but, last time I looked, having fun wasn’t  a weakness.