Page 177 of Beyond the Stroke

“Hadley Smith,” she says. “I’m the art curator at Shoreline Gallery in Southampton, and I’m a huge fan of yours.”

“Southampton?” My brows lift.

“New York,” she confirms.

“I know,” I smile, then glance sideways at Rory. “Why are you here?”

“She was one of the first people to find a Covey,” he says. “When I contacted her about tracking them down so you could see them all together, she wanted to help.”

Hadley beams. “I’ve been following the Covey artist since the beginning. It’s an honor to meet you.”

I glance around nervously, until I realize we’re the only ones here.

“Don’t worry,” Hadley says. “The show’s not open yet.”

“The show?” I echo.

“TheCovey Collection.” She gestures to a wall near the entrance where big black lettering reads,Covey: A Collection byand a blank space where the artist’s name would be.

My name.

“You told me once you’d love to see them all together,” Rory says, “I wanted to make that happen.”

“Rory…” I’m still absorbing it. The layout, the lighting, the precision. All my little soul-offerings, collected and honored. Rory’s pieces are here too. His beach house and the golden hour swimmer in the distance.

I look again at the wall.

“I wanted it to be your choice,” he says. “You can stay anonymous, or—" Hadley hands him a paintbrush and canister of black paint “—you can sign your name.”

“Either way,” she adds, “I have a list of clients who want commissions from you. Whether you’re anonymous or not, the world wants your art.”

My throat tightens. I glance at Rory, tears in my eyes.

“I’m overwhelmed,” I whisper. “And speechless.”

He sets down the brush and paint, then wraps me in his arms.

“I know I’ve said it before, but I’m going to keep saying it. The world needs your art. And if you’re not ready to reveal yourself, then you don’t have to.”

I nod, wiping furiously at a tear.

I’ve always believed I was an artist. Why else would I have kept going when it was easier not to? But Rory has helped me believe that my art deserves to be seen. To be celebrated.

“I wasn’t ready to retire,” Rory says, “because I couldn’t imagine my life without swimming. I didn’t know what I wanted. That’s changed.”

“Oh, yeah?” I smile. “What do you want, Flipper?”

“You and me. Married. For real.”

I swallow hard. “We are married.”

“We have a certificate,” he says, grinning. “But I want the kind that doesn’t come with conditions or convenience. Just love.”

I take a breath, and let it fill all the scared, uncertain spaces in me.

“Even if I come with baggage, and battery-powered backup?”

His grin widens. “Big Dill’s solid. Reliable. I respect that in a teammate.”

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