I try not to sound overeager. “Of course. Ten is perfect. Just let me take care of a couple of things here, and I’ll be on my way.”
The drive is shorter than I think. Sara’s house sits at the far edge of the island, a quarter-mile of sand path winding through beach plum and thistle, the air glittering with the salt haze of evaporating surf. I follow the directions she texted, right at the wind-scoured mailbox, left at the dilapidated fence with its collection of seashells and driftwood. The house is visible from a distance, a hulking block of green and gray against the dun-colored hill, the lighthouse looming in the background like a silent sentinel.
Sara is waiting for me on the porch as I pull to a stop, a mug balanced on her knee. She’s swapped the windbreaker fora cashmere sweater and is wearing a pair of faded jeans. She waves me up, then disappears inside, leaving the door ajar.
“I brought muffins,” I say, following her into the foyer.
“Bribery. Smart man.” She sets the basket of muffins down on the side table, then says, “Let’s give you the grand tour.”
The house is a tangle of cozy rooms and vaulted hallways, each wall packed with paintings, sketches, and multicolored mosaics. A library is crammed with volumes of literature, from Shakespeare to Huxley. There’s even an entire section dedicated to art history.
“Wow. So, you’re an enthusiast of both art and literature,” I say, taking in the enormity of her collection. “Quite impressive.”
“Actually, my late husband was the art aficionado. I, on the other hand, am the book worm.”
“I see. Well, you know what they say—’art and literature often go hand in hand.’”
“Indeed they do.”
Sara moves with a practiced efficiency, sliding between the narrow spaces like she’s memorized the obstacles.
“This is the main house. My husband and I designed this together. This part”—she gestures around—“this is where we lived and loved. Our little sanctuary.”
She leads me past the kitchen to the sunroom, where the entire eastern wall is glass. Beyond it, you can see the dunes tumbling down toward the water, the lighthouse steady on its outcrop.
“There it is,” she says, setting her mug on the windowsill and gesturing to the lighthouse.
“It’s stunning.”
She leans against the counter, studying me. “There’s a tenant in the guest cottage,” she says. “Her name’s Diane. Writer, former journalist. Keeps to herself.”
I nod, not sure what response is appropriate.
“She’s nice…and quiet. She’s working on a novel, something about second chances and reinvention. You’ll probably cross paths if you’re here long enough.” Sara says it with a deliberate casualness, like she’s laying down a chess piece and then glancing away.
I follow her to the back porch, where the world opens to a ragged sweep of wind-torn grasses, the blue-white concussion of the ocean, the sky already bruising with the promise of afternoon storms. Sara points toward the lighthouse.
“Want to walk up? Or do you want to sketch from here?”
I hesitate, tempted by the idea of staying in her sunroom and just watching the water mutate by the minute. But the horizon tugs at me. “Let’s go see it up close.”
The path to the lighthouse is not a path so much as a succession of trampled grass and soft sand, interrupted by splintered driftwood, and the occasional skeletal remains of a crab. The wind batters us from the south, smelling of salt and tar. Sara walks slower than before, careful and deliberate, but never complains.
“You’re probably wondering about the gait,” she says. “It’s called chorea. Latin for ‘dance.’ My brain thinks I should be dancing all the time, so my legs don’t always listen. It’s supposed to get worse, but the experts keep revising that timeline, so I just live in the here and now.”
I feel a prickle of embarrassment for noticing, but she waves it away. “If I didn’t mention it, you’d be staring anyway. This way, you can just watch the lighthouse instead.”
Passing by the cottage, I catch a glimpse of a woman on one of the Adirondack chairs, her fingers dancing over the keys of a laptop. Diane, I presume. She doesn’t look up from her work, completely engrossed in her own world.
We continue our walk in silence. The sand becomes finer as we approach the lighthouse, each step sinking into the grainysurface. We reach the base, a squat cylinder striped in black and white. Sara touches the worn brick, then tilts her head up to the windows at the top. “My husband used to bring me here on storm days. Said the building was luckier than most. It never even lost a shingle.” She looks over at me, her eyes sharp and amused. “He was wrong, by the way. It lost plenty. But sometimes it’s better to let the legend win.”
I get out my sketchbook, trying to keep my lines loose, fluid. The light keeps shifting, cloud and sun dueling in the high air. Sara watches, occasionally pointing out the way the doorframe tilts, the green stain where moss creeps up the foundation. She tells stories as I draw, about the volunteer who once camped here for a week during hurricane season, about the teenagers who spray-painted a proposal on the seaward face.
We circle the building, then start the slow walk back. The conversation slides from local gossip to the history of the island, to Sara’s own biography in fragments. She tells me about her time in law school, her years in Tennessee, and her marriage to Andrew. She edits her life as she narrates, making the worst parts sound either funnier or less important.
We pass the cottage once more. Diane has abandoned her laptop and is now standing on the porch with a raised hand in greeting.
"Sara," she calls out, her tone warm and familiar.