Page 4 of Since the Day We Left

During those dark months after her breakdown—when she couldn’t sleep, create, or even remember why she’d once loved her PR job—Max had been her constant. The reason she got out of bed.

“Ready to check out the shop, boy?” His ears perked up at the sound of the familiar phrase.

The morning sun created a patchwork of gold and blue that changed with each drifting cloud as they headed toward Main Street, passing familiar landmarks—Mrs. Winters watering geraniums outside the candle shop, Old Pete setting up his newspaper stand, the scent of fresh coffee floating from Phil’s Diner. These were the details she once would’ve missed back in the city, too busy sipping her venti latte and scrolling through emails on her phone.

“Morning, Pete.”

“Another beautiful November day, Wendi-girl,” he called back. “Good weather for selling some art supplies, huh?”

She stretched her lips into what she hoped passed for optimism. The week before, she’d gone a whole four days without a single customer.

Walking on, she couldn’t help but notice how Hadley Cove had changed since her childhood. A high-end seafood restaurant had replaced the antique shop where she’d gotten her first job. The old record store where she’d spent hours browsing vinyl records with friends had been replaced by a boutique selling overpriced beach decor to tourists. And the old barn, where she’d had her first kiss, had been converted into an event venue for weddings and retreats.

Some changes hurt more than others though—like driving past her parents’ empty house on Sycamore Street, sold after her mother’s funeral five years ago. The shutters, once a cheerful yellow, were now a dull beige. The oak tree in the front yard—the one she used to climb while her dad pretended not to see—stood untouched. But the porch swing was gone, and the flower beds her mother had once tended to were nothing but weeds now, creeping toward the cracked walkway. When her mother had passed, she’d come back only for the funeral—a twelve-hour visit, a handful of obligatory condolences, and then straight to the airport. And for her father’s funeral three years before that? She hadn’t come at all.

She told herself he wouldn’t have expected her to. That he understood why she’d stayed away.But sometimes, late at night, she wasn’t so sure.

Still, the heart of the town—the soul—remained. The boardwalk was lined with vendors selling saltwater taffy and trinkets. In the nearby park, the old Wishing Tree stood as tall as ever, its branches filled with faded ribbons tied by generations of hopeful souls. From the town square, the clock still chimed on the hour—except between 6:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. And through it all, Old Pete remembered exactly how she liked her ice cream—strawberry with rainbow sprinkles.

Hadley Cove had always been the place she’d left and never the place she returned to. That teenage Wendi Parker had sworn she’d never move back to. But when everything in Manhattan had crumbled—her marriage, her career, her sense of self—where else was there to go? Thirty-seven years of running had brought her straight back here. She knew better than anyone that sometimes, the places we ran from were the ones that knew us best.

Two teenagers zipped past on skateboards, calling out to someone across the street. Their carefree energy reminded her of summers with her childhood friend, Emma, racing bikes down these same streets, hair flying behind them, making plans for futures that seemed impossibly distant and perfectly certain at the same time.

Just ahead, The Painted Shell sat on the corner of Maple and Main, its blue exterior standing out against the surrounding buildings. Wendi had painted the sign herself—a spiral shell with swirls of color emerging from its center. Max waited patiently as she unlocked the door, the brass bell chiming softly.

She flipped on the lights, illuminating her creation. Art supplies lined the walls—watercolors, acrylics, brushes, canvases, and specialty papers. A small gallery area displayed local artists’ work, including a few of her own. The teaching space in the back held four tables for classes.

The shop had been a bakery, and a lingering scent of yeast and sugar was still detectable on humid days. She’d chosen it for the large windows that flooded the space with natural light and the wooden floors—it was also all she could afford.

Next week’s calendar hung by the register. More empty squares than filled ones. Tuesday’s beginner class had one name penciled in. Wednesday—the art auction fundraiser ... Her eyes paused on it.

Future Wendi will handle that. Hopefully.

And her pride and joy: Friday’s “Art Therapy” session for the local community center. The last class never made money. She offered it for free to whoever needed it—but more often than not, she found herself rearranging chairs in the empty room. But when the class filled, even if just for a few hours, it felt like a small victory.

Every corner reflected her touch, from the hand-painted color wheel and shelves she’d stained herself, to the way she arranged drawing pencils by hardness rather than brand, from 9B to 9H.

This was hers—created from nothing but a dream and a divorce settlement.

For betterorworse, right?

Max settled into his plush bed by the window as Wendi opened the ledger. The numbers stared back with brutal honesty.

Another month of scraping by.

She closed the book with a decisive snap, refusing to spiral so early in the morning. Instead, she arranged a display of sketchbooks.

But the numbers haunted her anyway.

Rent: $1,500.

Utilities: $320.

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