I don’t have to look up to know it isn’t Sara. It’s the unmistakable noise of a child, and she’s not alone. A chocolate colored Maltipoo trails behind her, his tail wagging enthusiastically and his nose buried in the sand. The girl sneaks up beside the bench, her mesh bag of shells slung like a satchel over her shoulder. Her sneakers are soaked through, a muddy camouflage to the white laces, and her hair, almost the same dark as the damp sand, sticks in wind-blown clumps to her forehead.
“Hi,” she says. Not a question, not even a greeting, just a flat announcement of presence.
I tip my chin in acknowledgment. “Morning. Who’s this?”
“This is Rolo,” she replies, beaming down at the little dog who has now taken to sniffing my art supplies. The girl glances at my sketchbook, then at the lighthouse and back again, rapid as a shorebird. “Are you drawing that?”
I flip the page so she can see the emerging contour of the tower, the rough scaffolding of where the lantern room will go. She makes a sound somewhere between a gasp and a snort. “That’s…really good. You got the little chips in the bricks and everything.”
“Those are called spalls. The lighthouse is covered in them.”
She leans in until her hair brushes the edge of my page, peering at the shading like she’s looking for a magic trick in the paper grain. “Did you bring paint, too?”
“Not today. I like to start with pencils.”
She considers this, then nods with a gravity far too old for her years. “I like pencils better, too. You can erase if you mess up.”
“That’s the hope,” I say and erase a smudge for effect.
She sets her shell bag at my feet, the mesh sagging with weight. “I’m Cassie,” she says, extending a hand with such solemnity that I actually wipe my palm on my jeans before shaking it.
“Nathan,” I say, and it feels unexpectedly important.
Cassie swings her legs over the bench and parks herself at my elbow, picking at the frayed seam of her jacket. The dog settles in beside her, curling up into a ball, his head resting on her worn sneakers. “I bet you could draw shells, too. I found a really weird one this morning.”
She digs into the bag, her whole arm vanishing as she reaches for the best specimen. When it emerges, she’s holding what looks like a perfect miniature conch, spiral intact, the aperture lined with a faint lavender.
I take it, turning it over in my hand. “Scotch bonnet. State shell of North Carolina.”
Her eyes go wide. “I’m surprised you know that. Most people don't.”
“Spent a lot of time looking at the ground,” I say, though that’s only half the truth. I did my homework, sure, but part of me is just eager to impress.
“Mom always says I should learn more names for things. She thinks if I know what something’s called, I won’t break it.”
“That’s smart,” I say and set the shell carefully on the bench beside us. “Want to see how to draw it?”
She nods, tucking both knees up to her chin. I open the sketchbook to a fresh page and, with a few deliberate lines, capture the long axis first, then the tight, mathematical spiral. Cassie leans in, absorbing every gesture, her own fingers twitching with the urge to try. I hand her the other pencil without saying a word.
She takes it, hesitates, then mimics my movement. Her eyes narrow in concentration, tongue peeks out from the corner ofher mouth. Her lines are hesitant at first, but then she goes over them, dark and decisive, filling in the shadow where the spiral tightens.
“Nice.”
She beams, then starts flipping through the remaining shells, setting aside a tiger-striped clam, then a shark tooth, then a broken piece of whelk. Each time, she asks the name, and I do my best to provide it. It becomes a kind of game, one I didn’t know I wanted to play.
“You’re not like other artists. You talk to people.”
I snort. “Sometimes I even listen.”
She cocks her head. “You don’t have to. I just like being around people who make things.”
I sketch another horizon, this one just for her, letting the pencil skate along the paper. Cassie reaches down to stroke behind Rolo’s ears, her eyes never leaving my sketch.
“Do you ever mess up?”
“All the time. Most of my drawings end up in the trash.”
“Do you ever try again?”