She steps into the room and introduces herself. “I’m Sara Hastings. I live just down the coast. Where the lighthouse is.”
I remember the tall, white-and-black-striped beacon jutting out from the earth just a few miles away. “That’s a lovely area, Mrs. Hastings. Very scenic.”
“Please, it’s Sara,” she corrects, turning back to me. “So, do you actually paint here?”
“Yes, sometimes. I prefer being outdoors, but the weather doesn’t always cooperate.”
She moves past me to the easel and stops. I watch her take in the unfinished seascape, her gaze flitting between the brushwork and the actual shoreline visible through the windows.
“This is incredible.” She has the earnestness of a teacher or a nurse, someone whose compliments are a form of labor. “How do you do it? The way the light hits the water, the movement. It’s alive.”
I shrug. “Mostly it’s just staring at the real thing until I go cross-eyed.”
She laughs. “There are worse places to go blind.” She shifts her weight, favoring one leg, and sets her tote on a stool. “You’re new to the area, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I reply, scratching the back of my neck, a nervous gesture that has followed me from childhood. “Moved here over the winter. Finally getting settled in.”
“Ah, welcome then.” Her gaze is now steady on me, and there's a curiosity in her eyes that seems to peer into my very soul. "Do you mind if I take a look around?”
“Be my guest.” As she moves about the studio, I find myself watching her as much as she's examining my work. She's not like the patrons I was used to in Charlotte. There's an authenticity about her, a realness that is refreshing. “Sorry for the mess. I’m still in the process of getting everything ready for opening day.”
She waves off the apology without turning, her attention caught by a sketch pinned to the cork board. It's a rough study of a girl on a beach with her hair whipping about, her arms spread wide as if to embrace the oncoming wind. Sara pauses before it, her finger hovering mid-air as if tempted to trace the lines. “Who’s this?”
“My niece, Jordan. I sketched her last summer when we were at Kiawah Island.”
“Ah.” She lowers her hand from the sketch and continues perusing. “I suppose you can paint just about anything, can’t you? Figures, landscapes, seascapes.”
I shrug, a modesty reflex. “I guess. I paint whatever catches my interest, or whatever I’m commissioned to paint.”
Without turning away from the sketches and canvases leaning against the wall, Sara asks, "Have you ever painted a lighthouse?"
“I can’t say that I have,” I reply, upturned corners of my mouth betraying curiosity. “Why do you ask?”
Sara turns back to me, her eyes gleaming with an idea. “Our lighthouse,” she starts, "has been standing tall for over a century. It's an emblem of this town. Moreover, it holds a lot of personal significance for me. Believe it or not, I've lived in its shadowfor more than half my life, and each day, it gives me something new to admire. I think it would make a wonderful subject for a painting. You have an incredible talent, Nathan, capturing moments and emotions in your work. I’d love to see what you can do with our lighthouse.”
I'm stunned by her proposal. Remembering my manners, I manage to stammer out, "I’d be honored.”
"Wonderful," she exclaims, clapping her hands together in anticipation. "When can you start?"
I scratch my chin thoughtfully, casting a final glance at the gallery still in disarray. There is a sense of urgency in her request, as if time is of the essence. “Soon. I just need to finish getting the gallery ready for next week’s grand opening. But after that, I could start right away.”
“Of course. Take your time. I wouldn’t want to interfere with your big day. When you’re ready, why don’t you come by for tea? I’ll give you a tour of the property and you can get a feel of the place.” She hands me a card with her address and phone number written in neat, elegant script.
“Sounds good. I’ll give you a call in a few days.”
"Excellent." She gathers her tote bag from the stool, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. "I'm looking forward to it.”
As she starts toward the door, I find myself watching her go. There’s a grace to her movements, a steady undercurrent that speaks of a life deeply interwoven with this place. “Sara,” I call out, prompting her to turn. “Thank you. For dropping by and for sharing the idea. It’s… well, it’s been a while since someone appreciated my work like this.”
“It’s my pleasure. And thank you for accepting. You don’t know how much this means to me.”
5
Nathan
After spending the weekend unpacking and getting the gallery ready for opening day, I call Sara first thing Monday morning. I tell her I’m ready to visit whenever she is. Her voice sounds airy, her mood light as she accepts the invitation.
“Can you be at my place by ten? Bring your sketchbook. We’ll do a tour, maybe get some ideas in your head.”