The sounds of the coast fill in. Wind rattles the window panes, and I can smell the first notes of coming rain, that sharp mineral edge that always precedes a change in weather.
“You could write about him,” Sara says. “That’s what you do, right? Convert the messiness into something permanent.”
I flip open the notebook, exposing a page so white it aches. “Lately, I just stare at the blank page. Or worse, fill it with things I can’t use.”
Sara studies me, and I know she’s assembling some great theory, the kind that only ever emerges in late-night kitchens or sunlit porches. “Maybe you need to stop trying to write about the future and just be in the damn present.”
“That’s the thing,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever been good at that. Even as a kid, I was always jumping three steps ahead.”
Sara laughs, and this time it’s all throat, no hesitation. “Then you need practice. Start small. Write about the next ten seconds.” She raps the table for emphasis, causing the spoons in the chime above to jostle in sympathy.
“Ten seconds?”
“Yes.”
I fumble for a pen, find one tucked into the spiral of the notebook, and touch nib to page.
Sara’s smile is wicked. “No metaphors, no cleverness. Just what happens.”
I want to argue. My whole brain is a tangle of cleverness and metaphor, but I force myself to follow the rules.
I write:Sara blinks. Her left eye goes first, then the right. She sips tea, then sets the cup down, missing the saucer by half an inch. The tablecloth is blue, with anchors.
I read it aloud, and Sara beams, as if I’ve just solved a particularly difficult math problem.
“See? That’s all it is. Watch. Record. React. If you do that enough, the future will take care of itself.”
I chew on this, then try again. This time, I write:I’m on a porch with a woman I admire. My hands are shaking, and I pretend they aren’t. All around us, the wind keeps changing its mind. Somewhere, someone is hammering nails into something that will outlast both of us.
I don’t read this one out loud, but Sara must sense the difference in me, because she reaches across and, with a touch so light it’s almost imaginary, pats my wrist.
“Better,” she says. “Now eat a cookie before I make you write a poem.”
For the next hour, we talk about everything but Nathan. She gives me the lowdown on Judy and her book club, about her late husband’s stubbornness, about the battle she’s fighting with her own body and the bargains she makes each morning to just keep going. She tells me about the time a hurricane turned this whole stretch of coast into a saltwater lake, and how she can’t sleep if the house is too quiet.
Eventually, when the cookies are half gone and the tea is mostly ice, she leans back and folds her arms, satisfied.
“I’m glad you came,” she says.
“Me too. This has been…enlightening.”
When I leave, she insists on walking me to the edge of the yard, her arm looped through mine. At the end of the shell path, she pauses and faces me, her expression serious.
“Diane,” she says, “all jokes aside, don’t let fear keep you from the things you want. Not for one more day. You deserve to live out loud. To draw attention, make noise. To love fiercely, without apology.”
I want to promise her, but the words stick. All I can do is nod and hope it’s enough.
I walk back to the cottage, notebook heavier now with a few honest sentences. Above me, the clouds have thickened, dark and threatening, but I can still see the faintest line of blue, stubborn and bright, waiting for its moment to break through.
10
Diane
APRIL
The wind is strongest in the evening. It combs the dunes into long animal spines and tugs the hem of my skirt with insistent, invisible hands. I’ve taken to walking the shoreline before dinner, telling myself it’s to “clear the head,” but really I’m hoping the ocean will drop a sentence or two at my feet, the way it coughs up blue crabs and sand dollars after a storm.
The sky over Kitty Hawk is in a mood, the clouds gathering and thinning in lopsided armies. Far out, the horizon is a smudged charcoal line, and every so often, the sun slices through and throws a shimmer over the tidal pools. I walk with my head half-cocked, alert for the next cracked clam, starfish, or a gull with the audacity to scream in my direction.