Page 130 of Here & There

I know this because Elizabeth told me about her at the patio opening. Elizabeth was a schoolteacher too, before she took over the inn, when her companion died. She taught Mac in third grade.

Stu’s grip has gone tight on his brush.

“I’d pay you, of course,” I say. “Say…two hundred and fifty dollars a painting?”

Stu looks like I’ve offered to pay him in bird droppings.

“More? Four hundred? Name your price, Stu. It would have to include licensing so we could use them on the menu too?—”

“I don’t need money!” he snaps. “How’d you know I could paint people, anyway?”

I smile. “Because I’ve seen you do it.”

It was only one time. But a little baby fell asleep in a stroller once, and the mom stopped near Stu’s easel to rest on the beach. The stroller was parked next to her, maybe twenty feet away, but Stu painted that baby like it was his own child. Like a sweet angel nestled in a little ducky blanket.

He stuffed the painting away when he saw me walking by, but it was too late. I’d seen it.

And he knew it.

“Anyway,” I say—I know better than to demand an answer right now—“I do need to know if you’d be up for it. It won’t be easy—my deadline is…well, yesterday. So I’d need as many paintings as I could as soon as possible. But it would be completely up to you who you decide to feature. I’m thinking about twenty in total, including the tourists. I’d only pick one or two to use on the website and menus for now; the rest of them I don’t need until Oysterfest. But I would need a list of names so we can figure out the menu items.

Stu’s looking at me so stone-faced I don’t know whether he’s going to tell me to get lost or just ignore me for the rest of time.

“I’d need to know by the end of the day today too,” I say. “Sorry it’s such short notice.” I move to go, polishing off my coffee. “It would mean so much to me to have a local artist, Stu. To Mac too.”

I haven’t told Mac my plan. He’d think I was crazy just for asking. But I have a feeling about Stu I can’t shake. If anything, at least he knows how valued he is to this community.

He doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his painting.

Maybe theoretical Mac is right. This was foolish. I have some other illustrators I know, so I could use them, but Stu would be the secret sauce.

I’m a few feet away, heading back home, when Stu speaks up. “She grew up on that island,” he says.

I turn around. It takes me a moment before I understand he must be talking about his wife.

“Marie?” I ask.

Stu grunts. “Her father sold it to that developer. Put that damn business center on there. They tore down her family home. It was a nice family home. They had a goat.”

Suddenly, I think of the other paintings he made—none of them had any glimpse of the business center on there—but some of them featured a little cottage. I just figured it was a part of the tiny island I hadn’t seen. Now my heart clenches. He paints them for her.

I smile, fighting tears. But I don’t let them show, because I have a feeling Stu wouldn’t know how to handle those.

I have another stop this morning, and this time I make it with Mac.

“You really think he’ll be up for this?”

“He loves getting up to a mic,” Mac says. “Unlike normal people. It’s just a question of how he’ll be that day.”

Thankfully, his father’s in a good mood when we arrive at the care home. Surprisingly, he remembers me from last time, though he doesn’t remember everything that happened.

“The famous Shelby,” Angus says.

“I don’t know about famous,” I say.

“You are in my son’s eyes. He hasn’t shut up about you every time he’s been here. For months now.”

“Dad!” Mac barks.

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