Page 11 of Since the Day We Left

“You make it look easy, Wendi-girl,” Old Pete said, his hand hovering over his canvas.

Wendi smiled and adjusted the angle of his brush. “There. That should help.”

At the end of class, Mrs. Winters held her painting at arm’s length, beaming. “My granddaughter’s birthday is next month. I think she might actually want this one.” She carefully set it on the drying rack. “And I’ll bring Susan next time. She’s been looking for something to do since her husband passed.”

Wendi nodded, watching them gather their things. She’d heard these promises before—well-intentioned, but often forgotten. Still, Mrs. Winters had improved over the three sessions she’d attended. That had to count for something, right?

Old Pete placed his painting on the drying rack, making sure it wouldn’t touch the others. “Same time next week, Wendi-girl? Keeps these old hands from rusting up.” He tipped an imaginary hat and gestured to his painting with a wink. “Might even frame that one for the hallway.”

“Your spot’s safe, Pete.” A familiar warmth bloomed in Wendi’s chest as he straightened his coat and shuffled toward the door. She still remembered him changing her flat tire in the rain when she was seventeen, soaked but refusing help, with a simple, “That’s how we do things in this town, Wendi-girl.”

These small connections—they didn’t pay the bills, but they mattered in ways she couldn’t quite articulate.

Amber light glowed along the path as Wendi and Max made their way to the secluded cove. The hidden spot required traversing a narrow path through dune grass and around rocks that discouraged tourists. Beyond the jagged rocks, the tide pools near the outcrop had been miniature universes to her younger self—ecosystems she’d study for countless hours, filling sketchbooks with drawings of waves, birds, starfish, and tiny crabs.

A breeze rolled in from the water, carrying the distinctive scent of low tide. Sea oats swayed, creating a rustling soundtrack that never failed to calm her. Plovers skittered along the wet sand, leaving tiny three-pronged tracks that disappeared with each wave.

“We’re here, boy.” Wendi kicked off her sandals, sinking her toes into the cool sand. Max explored nearby while she settled onto a flat rock. Opening her sketchbook, she began translating the ocean’s movements into lines and shadows on the paper. Her thoughts shifted to the treasure tin she had buried decades before.

It was long gone—she’d looked for it when she moved back last year. She’d half-expected to find it still there. Though the childhood beach treasures were gone, the spot remained the same.

Her pencil paused mid-stroke. The boy in the funeral clothes flickered in her mind—standing at the shore, thirty-six years ago, while the man—his dad, she’d assumed—scattered ashes into the waves. Over the years, she’d wondered about him. She hoped he was okay wherever he was now. Sometimes she imagined him grown, perhaps with children of his own, maybe even telling them about the girl who’d given him a “magic” shell on the worst day of his life.

The sketch beneath her hands had taken shape—not just waves now, but the precise spot where the sky met water, that liminal space where elements merged.

Two weeks to decide.

Memories of her Manhattan life surfaced—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a sliver of Central Park, the doorman who’d always greeted her by name, the espresso machine that had cost more than her first month’s rent in Hadley Cove, the wardrobe of tailored suits in neutral tones, the reservations at restaurants with month-long waiting lists, and the contacts who could get her into any event.

Going back to Pinnacle meant security—a steady paycheck and health insurance that actually covered things. The salary Laurel offered would not only erase her cash flow problems, but she could also keep the cottage and The Painted Shell open, even if it was only part time. No more anxiety when the electric bill arrived. No more mental musical chairs about which debt to tackle first. No more ramen dinners.

But it would mean returning to a world where colleagues had watched her hyperventilate during the brand relaunch, where her divorce from James had fueled months of gossip. Where her creativity had been limited to finding new ways to say “exclusive,” “luxurious,” and “world-class” without sounding repetitive, and spinning control for wealthy guests who thought their minor inconveniences were catastrophes.

Who had she been there? Just another face in the blur of a morning commute? Another overworked professional eating takeout alone at her desk? When had success started to feel so ... hollow?

Wendi stared out at the water. Here in Hadley Cove, she created art that spoke to her soul. She taught others to find their creative voice. She woke to the sound of waves instead of honking taxis. She had time to breathe, to heal.

It also meant the dwindling savings account despite her best efforts, credit card debt mounting each month, and the fear that another slow season would sink everything.

A year ago, the choice had been easy. Now? Not so much.

Wendi knew some decisions didn’t come with a right answer. Just a choice, and the hope that you could live with it.

Security or passion? Structure or freedom? The devil she knew or the dream she’d been fighting for? Safety had never felt like freedom. And freedom had never felt safe.

She closed her sketchbook with a sigh, brushed sand from her capris, and stood. The last of the daylight had faded, and the first stars emerged, dotting a sky washed in violet and gold. In the distance, a boat’s flickering lights cut through the darkening waters.

“Time to head home, boy.”

Silence.

“Max?” She turned in a slow circle, scanning the beach—empty sand, endless ocean. A flutter of unease rippled through her chest. “Max!”

She hurried toward the dunes where she’d last seen him sniffing a clump of sea grass. Nothing.

Further up the beach? Empty.

Back toward the path? Not there either.

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