Page 38 of Since the Day We Left

Miles glanced at him, then moved forward and raised his voice. “Save the Shell!”

And just like that, he was part of it.

The auction kicked off—ceramic bowls, carved figures, and paintings. People bid more than they should’ve and paid more than what made sense.

“And now,” Wendi said, “paintings by our very own Arthur Dalton.”

She unveiled the first one: the cove at dawn. The sky was layered with oranges and pinks that exuded the feeling of early morning. Wisps of lavender clouds hovered above and, in the distance, a single seagull soared, while the dark silhouette of the rocky outcroppings framed the scene.

Miles tensed as the bidding started.

His dad’s paintings were good—reallygood—but auction-worthy good?

“Two hundred,” a voice called out.

“Two-fifty.”

“Three hundred.”

With each bid, Arthur stood a little taller. When it sold for five hundred, his face shone with something brighter than the sun.

The next painting: the cove in a storm. Dark clouds swirled above churning water. Waves crashed and foamed as wind whipped across the surface. Arthur had painted it on one of his better days, telling Miles about riding out a storm as a young man.

Bidding grew more heated for this one, the storm in the cove fetching six hundred. Miles added the running total in his head.

The third painting depicted the cove at sunset. The sun was going down, turning the water purple and gold. Jagged rocks framed a lone boat bobbing toward the shore.

Sold for nine hundred.

Wild!

Then, Wendi’s painting was revealed—a spiral shell with bands of cream and caramel, shimmering under the blue sky, and tilted at a slight angle, giving it a dreamlike feel. The crowd hummed in admiration.

That spiral shell looked a lot like ...

No—couldn’t be. There are probably thousands just like it.

The bidding started low—

“Two hundred.”

“Two-fifty.”

—but climbed quickly.

“One thousand.”

“Fifteen hundred.”

“Two thousand,” someone shouted, and the room went quiet for a moment before erupting into applause.

Across the room, Wendi’s eyes found his. Her smile hit him like a physical thing—relief and hope mixed together. For a moment, Miles let himself imagine being part of this place for good—standing in rooms like this not as the guy passing through, but as someone who belonged, someone who was there to stay.

“Break time,” Wendi called after the seventh painting sold. “Phil’s got food outside. Stretch your legs. We’ll be back for our final piece—a special painting Arthur made just for tonight.”

The crowd spilled outside, riding the high of the night’s success. Laughter and chatter carried into the cool air as the first stars dotted the deepening blue above them. Across the street, Phil’s tables filled up. String lights cast an amber glow between the buildings while the scent of sweet potato fries and salt air wafted through the night.

As Miles glanced upward, he noticed how the stars were much brighter here than in Atlanta. “Congrats, old man.” He clapped his dad’s shoulder. “Your paintings might be the reason this place makes it.”

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