“Don’t apologize. I think she’s doing a great job.” Nathan lifts his chin, gesturing toward Cassie as she quizzes a gray-hairedwoman about the provenance of a particular cloud formation. “She’s got the crowd eating out of her hand.”
I try to hide my pride, but I know I fail. “She’s the only extrovert in our gene pool. It’s both terrifying and impressive.”
The conversation slides easily, surprisingly so, considering how little we know about each other. Nathan asks how we like the cottage, and whether Cassie enjoys the local school. I tell him about her growing shell collection and how she’s managed to charm half her class into trading fossils with her. He seems genuinely interested, occasionally weighing in with a question or comment, but mostly letting me steer.
The evening continues in much the same way, a steady ebb and flow of people and conversation. Every so often Nathan glances at Cassie, a softness in his gaze that speaks more than any words he could say. It's clear that he's taken a liking to her, and I can't help but feel grateful for this unexpected new ally. The blend of curiosity, respect, and genuine fondness that he shows Cassie strikes a chord within me. I find my gaze lingering on him more often than I'd anticipated, drawn to the way he carries himself with an easy grace.
Suddenly, I am acutely aware that he is looking at me, and when I meet his eyes, they hold steady for a breath longer than expected. There’s a softness there, but also a sharpness, like the edge of a wave before it breaks.
He shifts, sudden as a sandpiper. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.” I brace myself, though for what I’m not sure.
“Why did you move here?” He doesn’t ask it like a challenge, more like a fellow exile, curious about what wind blew me off course.
I swirl the wine, watching the legs crawl down the inside of the glass. “Honestly?” I shrug. “I came here to interview Sara. I had every intention of returning to Albemarle, but then… She asked us to stay, and so we did. That was two years ago. Now, Ifind myself unable to imagine a different life. This town…” I take in the crowd, the familiar faces and the comfort they bring. “This town has a way of crawling under your skin and staying there.”
“And what about this book you’re writing—Sara mentioned something about second chances?”
“Yeah,” I say, tasting the admission like salt on my tongue. “It’s about reinvention, I guess. About a woman trying to rewrite her story.” I expect a smirk, or at the very least a deflection, but Nathan listens, as though I’m not boring him or risking something by sharing. The unearned attention destabilizes me. I start to fidget, the wine glass an awkward appendage.
“Maybe that’s why people come to places like this. Not to disappear, but to see what happens if they let themselves be different.” His words are gentle, like he’s handling something delicate. Me, maybe.
“I think you’re onto something.”
When he smiles, a dimple appears at the edge of his mouth. I want to touch it, to see if it’s as deep as it looks.
“You mentioned the book progressing slowly. Is it safe to say you’re suffering from writer’s block?”
“That’s the polite term.” I take a sip, then lower my voice. “It’s more like a drought. Words used to flow so easily. Now they hide from me.”
He nods, as if this is the most logical thing in the world. “It happens in art, too,” he says. “Sometimes I stare at a blank canvas for days, and it’s like trying to will a boat to shore by sheer staring.”
“Does it help?”
“Not even a little.” He laughs, then sobers. “But sometimes if you just stand there long enough, the tide comes in anyway.”
I catch myself tracing the rim of my glass, a nervous tic that betrays my interest. “Were you always a painter?” I ask, eager to shift focus.
He shakes his head. “I started as a numbers guy. Accounting, of all things. But I liked the patterns more than the people. Painting was a hobby, until it wasn’t.”
“I love that.” There’s something reckless about quitting certainty for uncertainty, and I respect anyone who can manage it.
He shrugs, face red. “You say that now, but you haven’t seen my student loans.”
We both laugh, and the tension that’s lived in my neck for a year seems to dissolve by inches. I almost want to tell him everything—about the newspaper job, the accident, the improbability of being chosen to write Sara’s memoir and the cascade of events that happened as a result—but there’s a comfort in not laying it all out, in savoring the ambiguity.
Cassie returns, arms full of brochures and a plate of crackers. “Did you see the one with the pelican?” she asks, cheeks flushed with conquest. “It’s enormous, Mom. Like, scientifically implausible.”
I smile. “Let’s go look.”
Nathan follows as we thread the room, stopping in front of a canvas that’s all wing and shadow, the pelican perched atop a weathered piling. The bird’s eye is rendered in such detail that it seems to pierce through us.
Cassie points to the plaque. “It says it’s from your first month here.”
Nathan nods. “There was a storm. Lost power for three days. I started painting by candlelight.”
“It’s weird,” Cassie says, and I brace for rudeness, but she finishes: “The feathers look fuzzy but also sharp. Like, the edges are blurry but the shape isn’t?”