Page 157 of Here & There

A term of endearment. My heart clenches. There’s a first time for everything.

A few hours later, after Nate takes Tink out for a run on the beach, the three of us walk across the boardwalk to the Dinghy, where we’re meeting Mac for lunch. “I thought we’d sit on the patio,” I say. There are vinyl coverings on it so it can be used year-round, plus heat lamps and blankets. “It’s got a beautiful view of the water.”

There’s also, from the far side of the patio, the perfect view of Widow’s Walk. But I leave that part out for now.

When we pass through the doors, Chris rushes over. She hip-checks Nate, telling him to grab a seat on the patio wherever we want. While he blushes and then escapes outside, Chris gushes over my mom and how alike we look. “Shelby’s just about my favorite person in Redbeard Cove,” she says, “mainly because she makes my boss happy.”

“Is that all?” Mom asks.

It takes me grinning for Chris to realize she’s made a joke. She laughs. “No, Mrs. Jones. She’s also a beautiful person, inside and out.”

“I agree with that,” Mom says. “And it’s Miss Brightley, please.”

Chris smiles. “Miss Brightley. Have a look around, then please grab a seat anywhere you like on the patio.”

Mom pauses to look at the portraits all around the room. “These are stunning,” she says.

“Stu painted them.”

“Who?”

“That man we passed on the boardwalk who couldn’t stop staring at you.”

Mom clears her throat. Is she blushing?

“Well. He’s quite talented.”

Her eyes take in the room, searching.

“You sure you’re ready to see her, Mom?”

Mom nods. “It’s why I wanted to come here tonight, Shelby. Not just to crowd you and Mac.”

I laugh softly. “We love having you.” But I’m already bringing her over to the portrait on the far wall, the one I spent so long staring at that day.

When we reach it, Mom sucks in a shaky breath. “It’s really her,” she whispers, staring up at the portrait of the Widow.

“Abigail Brightley,” Mom reads.

I already told her it wouldn’t saymotheramong her titles. That she made Elizabeth vow to never speak to anyone of her daughter, not even to any of her grandchildren she might meet.

“She got old. But I suppose I did too.”

“Mom, you’re only sixty.”

She stares at the portrait, a muscle in her jaw flickering. Then she turns to me.

“We can get you a print if you like. Or you can always cut through the back and never look at it again.”

Mom turns to me, her eyes wet. “That would be lovely, actually. I could hang her next to the blueberries.”

She’s not just talking about a blueberry bush. Mom sent me a photo of a painting she made years ago. It’s hanging in her living room amongst a whole wall of family photos. In it, Mom’s got her arms around me and Jessica. We’re toddlers, and our fingers and faces are blue. Jessica and I are both laughing, and Mom’s smiling the same way Grandma was in that photo I found; her eyes on us and full of love for her children.

“I’m sorry you never got to meet her, Shelby,” Mom says now, her eyes wet with tears. Mom cries a lot these days. She says it’s good, that she’s making up for lost time.

“It’s okay,” I say. “She wasn’t kind to you.”

“I wasn’t kind at times either. But she was your grandmother.”

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