Page 137 of Here & There

“Sorry,” Mac apologizes. He kisses me on the temple and strides away through the crowd where he’s needed.

Stu has painted the Widow in profile, her face tipped down, hair almost like a mourning veil.Abigail suffered from the curse of the house on the mountain, Lana wrote. I haven’t had the chance to read this one yet.She?—

“It’s a striking portrait,” a woman says, interrupting my read.

I look up, ready to plaster on my professional-event smile, but I relax when I see it’s Elizabeth.

“It really is,” I say. I hesitate, then say, “Is it strange that I identify with the tragedy of a widow who lost her husband at sea?” She lived a life with a shadow at her side—her missing half.

Elizabeth smiles sadly, and suddenly I feel terrible—I just erased her.

“It’s fine,” Elizabeth says, reading my mind. “I knew I was never first in her heart.”

An ache pulses in my chest for her. At least she seems to have gotten a second chance at love with the rekindling of her relationship with Bea.

“Plus I got a house out of the deal.”

I laugh. “Elizabeth!”

Her grin is bigger this time. More mirthful. “She wasn’t always like this, you know,” Elizabeth says. “She did laugh on occasion.”

“I’m sure you made her happy.”

“For a little while,” Elizabeth says. The smile fades. “But she made choices about her life she regretted. Died of a broken heart, under the weight of those choices.”

It had to have been hard having a relationship like theirs at a time when the world was less accepting. “I doubt she regretted you, Elizabeth,” I say softly.

Elizabeth glances over at me, giving me a look I can’t interpret. It looks almost like regret. She looks like she wants to say something, but a sudden burst of microphone feedback cuts through the din of voices.

Elizabeth pats my shoulder and slips away through the crowd as Angus takes the stage.

Angus is at the top of his game. Michelle, the receptionist from the care home who insisted on bringing him here so Mac and I could stay at the Dinghy, has tears in her eyes as she listens tothe ex-mayor wax on about his son and how this place is the focal point of this community.

I’ve heard the speech already—Angus practiced it for me, Mac, and Nate about three times last week.

“Now if you all have loved the paintings on the wall as much as we have, please take a moment to say hello to the artist, Stu Williams.” Angus peers out into the crowd.

Mac makes a thumb to neck sign and says something to his father.

“Oh. I’m told he’s not here. He’s outside painting.”

The crowd bursts into laughter at that. I really did try to convince Stu to be here, but he flat-out refused. Said he’d deface the paintings if I made him.

Angus moves on smoothly, talking about how every person on the walls forms a thread in this town’s fabric and how we love to keep our arms—clad in the shirt of that fabric—open, both for visitors and for each other. It’s a little treacly, but I find myself tearing up anyway.

“Now this wouldn’t have happened,” Angus says, “if it weren’t for one person.”

I look to Mac, smiling. He got stuck over by the kitchen when the speech started.

He smiles when he sees me looking at him.

But Angus searches the crowd, saying, “Where is she?”

It’s only then I realize he’s talking about me.

“Shelby Jones!” he exclaims when he spots me.

The crowd cheers.

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