Page 42 of Since the Day We Left

She watched them work, leaning against Miles with his arm around her. “Everything I built ...” she started, but her words faltered. “Just lost everything.”

“Not everything.” Miles gently turned her toward him, still holding the shell. “We’ll figure it out,” he said. “Together.”

Wendi looked at Miles, at the honesty in his eyes, then at Max pressed against her leg, then at Arthur standing nearby.

The building burned behind them. But the panic she expected never came. Instead, she felt a quiet sadness, tempered by the warmth of Miles beside her. As his fingers intertwined with hers, Wendi realized—the shell in his hand had truly been magic after all. It had carried the sound of the cove to him until he found his way back to this place—back to her.

She squeezed his hand, feeling the lucky charm nestled between their palms.

Some things were lost, but others—more important things—were found.

Epilogue

One Year Later

Sunlightglowedagainstthevibrant sign of The Painted Shell as Wendi stood at the door, key in hand. The shop looked nothing like before—sleek modern lines with touches of beach charm, the building now popping with blues and oranges. After the investigators had confirmed the electrical fault that caused the fire and the insurance claim was processed, rebuilding had become possible. Alongside the insurance money, the auction had surely helped; but it was also because of the community’s response. After the fire, the townspeople had organized additional fundraisers—bake sales, benefit concerts at the town square, and an art walk—all under the bannerSave TheShell 2.0.These efforts had brought in a steady stream of donations, while volunteers showed up daily with tools and willing hands, ensuring that somehow, from ashes, something even better had emerged.

Heart swelling, she eased the door open. Inside, the transformation was even more striking. Light poured through the skylights and gone were the cramped corners and outdated fixtures. In their place: open, airy space, honey-toned hardwood floors, and handcrafted shelves. While the shop had a fresh new look, Wendi had made sure to preserve elements of its original character—the painted color wheel remained, though now mounted in a custom frame, and she’d recreated the spiral shell logo with subtle enhancements that spoke to both the past and future of The Painted Shell.

When she closed the door behind her, Max zipped around her ankles before flopping down in his usual sunny spot by the window. Her gaze landed on Arthur’s framed painting on the back wall—miraculously rescued from the fire when Miles had risked everything. Young Wendi and Miles at the cove, spiral shell between them, with those words along the bottom:It’s magic. From the ocean. It’ll help.

The bell chimed. Miles walked in with damp hair, wearing his faded Hadley Cove Fire Department shirt.

“How’d the morning shift go?” Wendi asked.

“Just breaking in the rookies.” Miles stretched, rolling his shoulder, revealing a scar on his arm—permanent proof of that night he’d run into the burning shop. The burns had healed but left their mark, joining that older scar Wendi always traced. He caught her staring and smiled.

“Ada’s cookie day at the station.” He pulled out a slightly squashed snickerdoodle. “Saved you the good one.”

Wendi took it and broke off a piece. “These are good, but her chocolate chip ones are better.”

“No way. Not even close.” Miles slid behind the counter and wrapped his arms around her. “Aren’t we supposed to be grateful for what we get?”

“That so?” She leaned into him, soaking in the moment.

The bell jangled again. Arthur walked in with his art supplies, and Max bolted from his cushion to greet him. “Bad timing?” Arthur asked, dropping his bag.

“Perfect timing.” Wendi stepped back. “Your students should be here any minute.”

“Great.” Arthur laid out brushes on the table. His senior art therapy class had become the shop’s hottest ticket. “Got something different planned for today.”

Wendi watched him set up with methodical care. The good days far outnumbered the bad ones now. Under Dr. Mendez’s adjusted treatment plan and the structure that came with teaching regular art classes, Arthur was experiencing longer periods of clarity and purpose.

“Need a hand?” Miles asked his dad.

“I’m good.” Arthur nodded toward the corner. “Though you could get those easels lined up for me.”

While Miles arranged easels, Wendi filled cups of water and set out palettes. The routine felt right, the three of them moving around each other like they’d been doing it forever.

Arthur began sorting reference photos, then glanced toward Wendi. “Mrs. Winters coming?”

“Yeah. Called earlier. Says she’s dragging her new friend along.”

Arthur laughed, shaking his head. “Woman never stops matchmaking.”

“Never,” Miles said. “Remember when she tried to set you up with that librarian’s daughter?”

“She told me my haircut made me look like a depressed porcupine.” Arthur smoothed down his now-neat silver hair. “Woman doesn’t hold back.”

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