Judy stands beside me, hands in her pockets, shoulders hunched like she’s expecting to be called on in class. Her face is hard to read—thoughtful, stoic, the lines of her mouth arranged in a way that suggests both resignation and relief.
We watch the cars drift by for a while, neither of us speaking.
“Do you think she knew?” I say, finally.
Judy glances at me, then at the keys in my hand. “She always knew,” she says, not unkind. “Maybe not the timing, but…Sara was the kind of person who read you three moves ahead.”
The words land, gentle but sure. I turn the keys over in my palm, the metal cold and bright. “It just feels—” I start, but the end of the sentence slips away.
“Big?”
“Like a life sentence, but in a good way.”
She laughs, a single breath, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You get to keep a house by the ocean. There are worse punishments.”
I smile, but it feels like someone else’s mouth. “You know, when I was a kid, I used to dream about running away to a lighthouse. Guess I finally made good on that threat.”
“You could always turn the place into a writing retreat,” Judy says. “Paint the rooms weird colors. Grow herbs in the kitchen. Wear ridiculous hats and become the town eccentric.”
“I think Sara would approve,” I say, imagining her laughing at the idea.
We fall quiet again. I think about Sara’s letter, the way she wrote about courage and home and refusing to be moved. I think about all the mornings I watched the light climb the wall in her kitchen, the taste of her coffee, the way her laugh seemed to ricochet off every surface in the house.
“I’m scared,” I admit, the confession tiny in the big empty office. “I don’t know if I’m brave enough to do this.”
Judy’s hand finds my shoulder, the weight of it as familiar as the wind. “You are,” she says. “Even if you don’t believe it yet.”
I look at her, at the years of wisdom and experience etched into her face. “What about you?” I ask. “What are you going to do with your half?”
She shrugs. “I might take a room in the house, or I might never set foot in it again. Regardless, as far as I’m concerned, it’s yours now. Sara knew that. I think she wanted it this way, wanted you to have something that kept you here.” She smiles, and there’s a little bit of Sara in her when she does. “You know, I see a lot of your mother in you, the way you look at the world, always half-ready to be disappointed by it, but never willing to give up the hope that something beautiful might break through if you just keep watching. Sara saw that in you, too.”
There’s a shudder in the air that might be the weather, or it might be me. “I don’t deserve any of this,” I say as fresh tears sting my eyes. “Any of you.”
Judy tilts her head. “Deserve has nothing to do with it. You take what’s given, and then you make it mean something. And you, my dear, are overdue.”
We stand in the golden hush, the world still spinning but not as fast as before. I grip the keys a little tighter, the metal imprinting tiny crescents in my palm. The afternoon is slipping away, the light already angling toward blue, but for once, I don’t feel like I’m chasing it.
Eventually, Judy turns toward me, her eyes steady. “You ready?”
“Not even close,” I say, but this time it makes me laugh.
We gather the forms, the keys to the house, and the letter. When we step outside, the sun is low over the water. The world is still spinning, but I feel like I know where I am.
“Let’s go home,” I say, and Judy nods. We walk out together, two survivors in the wake of someone else’s perfect storm, ready to figure out what comes next.
36
Nathan
Night falls fast on the sound. In my studio, the light changes from amber to blue to the flat black of river mud, each shift making the paint on my easel look like a different idea altogether. The windows are open, and the air is thick with salt and the far-off song of tree frogs starting their shift. I don’t turn on the overheads; I work in the hush, lit only by the small desk lamp and the glint of pigment on palette.
The painting in front of me is a mess—layers built up, scraped down, rebuilt. It’s supposed to be a horizon, but the line between sea and sky keeps drifting, refusing to settle. Maybe that’s what I like about it. Most of my life, I’ve craved sharp lines and clean endings, but out here, everything blurs. Edges dissolve. Even grief gets softer if you leave it out in the brine long enough.
I rinse my brush, wipe my hands on a rag, and stare at the canvas like it might offer a verdict. In the background, the old dock clock ticks, the one Sara found at a flea market the month I moved in. It’s twenty minutes slow, always will be, but I keep it anyway, a small rebellion against my own need for precision.
The phone rings. I expect it to be Diane, maybe Cassie, calling to check on me the way I check on them, as if any of us could drown without warning.
I pick up, already half-smiling. “Hello?”