31. Shelby
As it turns out, we weren’t able to go home right away, since the ferries stop running at a certain time—rude. But it gave me time to stay up half the night brainstorming how my new idea would work. Really, it was ridiculous that I didn’t come up with this sooner. I always say people are what we live for—the people we love, the people we observe, the people we come across once and never see again who still manage to make an indelible mark on our souls.
I finally crawl into bed at four in the morning. Mac immediately envelops me in his arms, and I fall asleep feeling pretty close to elated.
When we get back to town, I immediately get to work. I’m on the phone and emailing all my vendors, pulling in every favor I can to get this idea off the ground before Oysterfest. Mac says he doesn’t mind if it isn’t done in time for the festival, but I tell him I never break my promises.
“We agreed on Oysterfest that day. R2D2 will be completed by Oysterfest.”
Plus I love a serious challenge, and unlike people like Deanie, I thrive on insane deadlines.
Thinking about Deanie makes me so glad I decided to shift things over to her, especially since I’ll now be leaving the company I built altogether. The thought of that still makes my chest ache, but I don’t have time to stop and think about that right now. I’m too busy.
The centerpiece of my plan is the most challenging. But I know I need to tackle it right away. If I can’t get who I want on board, then this whole thing sort of falls apart.
That’s why I wake up at the crack of dawn the first full morning we’re back. Nate and Tink are still staying at Cal’s—that’s another hurdle we’ll jump once Nate’s home. I know Mac’s nervous about telling his son about us, but he’s decidedly less so now that I’ve committed to staying.
But with Mac passed out in my little shed—we slept there last night out of habit and because it felt better without talking to Nate first somehow—I don’t need to be quiet.
I make two breakfast sandwiches to go—a recipe I demanded Mac give me because they’re so freaking delicious. Turns out the secret is truffle mayo. Then I pour two coffees to go and head down to the beach.
Stu is there, but it looks like I caught him just as he’s setting up, which is perfect.
His eyes track me when I approach, but when I stop beside him, he grumbles out loud. “What do you want?”
Oh boy.
I give Stu my most winning smile. We haven’t talked much since that day he helped Nate get me help when I arrived. But I say a cheery hello every time I pass him, which is every morning and every night and every time in between, since he’s always out here painting.
“Morning, Stu! How are you this fine…gray morning?” The sunrise isn’t much of one today under the heavy clouds. It’s more of a gradual lightening of the sky.
“You want something?”
“Actually I brought you something.” I hand him the breakfast sandwich wrapped in foil, along with the travel thermos.
“I already ate,” Stu says, opening his easel case. He spends some time twisting the legs on and getting it level, and I take the time to peer into his folder, where I can see the edge of a beautiful painting of Business Island.
“Do you only paint landscapes, Stu?” I set the sandwich and coffee down on a flat rock behind him.
He doesn’t answer me at first, just gives me a stern look under his grizzled eyebrow as he unfolds his lawn chair.
“I’m just asking, because I’ve only ever seen you paint Business Island. And sometimes the water over there.” I point to the open ocean to the right. The shapes of some of the bigger islands out there are visible far in the distance.
“Why are you spying on my paintings?” Stu asks. “They’re not for sale!”
Well, this is going great. I decide to change tack. “Okay, listen, Stu. I know you like everyone thinking you’re a big ole asshole because it means you don’t ever have to share how you really feel about things, and no one will know you’re actually a nice guy under all this.”
I don’t actually know this part is true, but going by Mac, who was only half the grump Stu is, it’s a well-educated guess.
“I also know that Business Island means something to you, because you’re out here dawn to dusk nearly every day of the year, painting the same island over and over again. And I know you’re of sound mind, because I see you watching everything that goes on around here.”
Stu’s eyes narrow, and he unclips his box of paints and brushes, ignoring me. But I see the way his hand trembles as he pulls out his paintbrush. I know he was married once. Mac tells me he wasn’t always an asshole. That he became that way after his wife passed.
“I think that island has something to do with your wife, who was everything to you. I see you getting annoyed at children when they make noise as they pass by, but I also know it’s you who hangs up the lost mittens and boots you find on the boardwalk on the lost rock.”
There’s a big rock over by the Rusty Dinghy where everyone puts items that were left on the beach so their owners can find them. It’s a sweet little small-town thing. And I’m pretty sure Stu started it. I know for certain it’s him who puts most of the stuff up there because I see him pick them up on his walking breaks between paintings.
“What the hell is your point, Jones?”
I smile. He knows my name.
“My point is, I need your help.”
Thishe wasn’t expecting. I can tell because he lowers the brush he was about to hold up to his page.
“I don’t know if you know, but I’m making some changes to Mac’s bar.”
“Oh, I notice all the extra people round here all right.”
“Right. Well, you might also notice they’re not just tourists. They’re a mix of locals and tourists, and that’s what I want Mac’s bar to be. That’s what he wants it to be—a place where everyone feels welcome. Even grumpy old men.”
Stu scowls. “What the hell does that have to do with me?”
“I figured out what it is that glues this town together. It’s the people. The tourists and the locals mix in a way I haven’t seen in other places. At least, most people mix.” I’m thinking of the ATV guys. “I’m pretty sure that’s due to a culture of welcome that Mac’s dad created when he was mayor for all those years. The locals welcome the tourists, and the tourists, for the most part, are in turn respectful of the locals. What I want to do is theme the bar to focus on the people.”
I can tell I’m at risk of losing him.
“I want to have portraits of some of the most memorable locals framed on the wall in the Dinghy, along with their stories printed underneath. You know, facts about them. How long they’ve lived here. What’s special about them.”
I’m going to hit Lana up for that part, since she’s the writer. I haven’t told her yet.
“I also want to have portraits of a few of the tourists who’ve passed through—the ones who’ve been good to this town, or made us laugh, or left a mark on people in some way. I want to name the drinks and some of the menu items after the people too. You know, like the Elizabeth—after Elizabeth who lives up at Widow’s Walk. I think she’d be a pomegranate salad. And Fred—she’d be the gruyere grilled cheese.”
“You are out of your mind, young lady,” Stu says.
Maybe a normal person would give up hope at that point, but I don’t. Because he hasn’t started painting again. He’s curious.
“I think your wife deserves a place on the wall too,” I say softly. “Marie, right? She was a schoolteacher?”
I know this because Elizabeth told me about her at the patio opening. Elizabeth was a schoolteacher too, before she took over the inn, when her companion died. She taught Mac in third grade.
Stu’s grip has gone tight on his brush.
“I’d pay you, of course,” I say. “Say…two hundred and fifty dollars a painting?”
Stu looks like I’ve offered to pay him in bird droppings.
“More? Four hundred? Name your price, Stu. It would have to include licensing so we could use them on the menu too?—”
“I don’t need money!” he snaps. “How’d you know I could paint people, anyway?”
I smile. “Because I’ve seen you do it.”
It was only one time. But a little baby fell asleep in a stroller once, and the mom stopped near Stu’s easel to rest on the beach. The stroller was parked next to her, maybe twenty feet away, but Stu painted that baby like it was his own child. Like a sweet angel nestled in a little ducky blanket.
He stuffed the painting away when he saw me walking by, but it was too late. I’d seen it.
And he knew it.
“Anyway,” I say—I know better than to demand an answer right now—“I do need to know if you’d be up for it. It won’t be easy—my deadline is…well, yesterday. So I’d need as many paintings as I could as soon as possible. But it would be completely up to you who you decide to feature. I’m thinking about twenty in total, including the tourists. I’d only pick one or two to use on the website and menus for now; the rest of them I don’t need until Oysterfest. But I would need a list of names so we can figure out the menu items.
Stu’s looking at me so stone-faced I don’t know whether he’s going to tell me to get lost or just ignore me for the rest of time.
“I’d need to know by the end of the day today too,” I say. “Sorry it’s such short notice.” I move to go, polishing off my coffee. “It would mean so much to me to have a local artist, Stu. To Mac too.”
I haven’t told Mac my plan. He’d think I was crazy just for asking. But I have a feeling about Stu I can’t shake. If anything, at least he knows how valued he is to this community.
He doesn’t say anything, just goes back to his painting.
Maybe theoretical Mac is right. This was foolish. I have some other illustrators I know, so I could use them, but Stu would be the secret sauce.
I’m a few feet away, heading back home, when Stu speaks up. “She grew up on that island,” he says.
I turn around. It takes me a moment before I understand he must be talking about his wife.
“Marie?” I ask.
Stu grunts. “Her father sold it to that developer. Put that damn business center on there. They tore down her family home. It was a nice family home. They had a goat.”
Suddenly, I think of the other paintings he made—none of them had any glimpse of the business center on there—but some of them featured a little cottage. I just figured it was a part of the tiny island I hadn’t seen. Now my heart clenches. He paints them for her.
I smile, fighting tears. But I don’t let them show, because I have a feeling Stu wouldn’t know how to handle those.
I have another stop this morning, and this time I make it with Mac.
“You really think he’ll be up for this?”
“He loves getting up to a mic,” Mac says. “Unlike normal people. It’s just a question of how he’ll be that day.”
Thankfully, his father’s in a good mood when we arrive at the care home. Surprisingly, he remembers me from last time, though he doesn’t remember everything that happened.
“The famous Shelby,” Angus says.
“I don’t know about famous,” I say.
“You are in my son’s eyes. He hasn’t shut up about you every time he’s been here. For months now.”
“Dad!” Mac barks.
Angus waves at him like he’s a bug, but I can see the affection in the older man’s eyes. “Almost as much as he talks about my grandson when he doesn’t bring him along.”
The pointed look he gives Mac makes his son roll his eyes as he explains again that he’s with Cal today.
The three of us go for a walk down in the garden, and after a little talk about the weather, I glance over at Mac, who gives me a nod and a wink. Time to pitch Angus my plan.
This time is a thousand times easier than Stu. When I ask Angus if he’d like to give a little speech at the start of the Oysterfest weekend, he claps his hands together and grins. “Would I!”
We go over the plans, and just like that, that piece of the plan is set.
“So,” Angus says as we pass through the rose garden a few minutes later. “My son tells me you haven’t had any luck finding your grandmother.”
My heart lifts. Mac told him I wanted to ask him some questions, and he remembered. It lowers itself down into my chest a moment later, though, when he looks at me apologetically. “I’m afraid that name doesn’t ring a bell for me either.”
But it’s not the crushing blow it would have been a few weeks ago. “It’s fine,” I say. “I’ve pretty much set the search for Shelby Fox aside, probably permanently. For all I know, my mom grew up in Newfoundland, with how much she’s told me.” Not that I found a Shelby Fox on that side of the country, either.
I explain everything that’s happened so far—conversations in town, my searches on the internet, my trip to the library, and Elizabeth up at Widow’s Walk.
“Is there any reason you can’t ask your mother where she is?” Angus asks after hearing me out.
I chew my lip. “That’s always been the last straw, one I’m not sure I want to deal with. She hasn’t been truthful with me about my grandmother in the past. I worry she’ll tell me something that’ll put me on another wild goose chase.”
“That what this has been?” Angus asks.
“Kind of.”
Then my eyes go to Mac’s on his other side. “Except it hasn’t been fully fruitless. If I hadn’t decided to look for her, I never would have met your son.”
Angus smiles. “And the rest is history, so they say.”
“So they say,” I laugh.
Mac looks embarrassed, but he winks at me, sending a skittering of little butterflies through me. I love this man. I love this town. Moving to Redbeard was the right decision. I know it was.
I think of Deanie and the people at home.
The sadness on Mom’s face in that restaurant. The complete absence of my father.
But I can’t think about that now. I can’t be here and there.
I think Mac sees my thoughts wandering off, so he suggests we should get back. I know he wants to be home when Nate and Cal get back too.
As we turn around, my eyes land on the top of the Widow’s Walk poking up through the forest way up the mountain.
“Hey, Angus,” I ask, just because I’m curious, “was Elizabeth in a…relationship with the Widow?”
He follows my gaze. I wonder, for a moment, if I’ve overstepped somehow.
But Angus gives me an impressed look. “Indeed, she was. It was quite the scandal. The Widow was a widow, of course. Her husband had died years back. A sailor lost at sea. My father knew him.” He looks at Mac, then back up at the mountain. “She was born and raised in that house. Her mother was too. She rented out rooms to make ends meet after Wilt died. Elizabeth was one of her boarders. A decade her junior too. But you know, I don’t tell anyone how to live their lives, so if I ever heard anyone complaining, I told them I was raising taxes on their house and their house alone.”
He cackles.
“Could you do that?” Mac asks, looking skeptical.
“Absolutely not. But you’d love to see the way it’d shut those closed-minded folks up fast. Nothing those type hate more than taxes.”
“Those are the kind of tips you could use if you ever ran for mayor,” I tell Mac.
Angus stops cold, his hands out. “Son! Did you change your mind? Will you do it? We need that big-footed galoot out of office!”
Mac glares at me. “I never said anything about running.”
“I think we could work on him a bit more,” I whisper to Angus.
He cackles for a second time in as many minutes. “I like this one, son. She’s a keeper.”
When we get home, all I want to do is spend the last of our couple of hours relaxing with Mac—I’ve been going non-stop since Vancouver. Then, when Nate gets home, we’ll tell him about us over dinner.
Nerves skitter in my stomach over that, but I don’t think he’ll be too concerned. Kids are sharp, Deanie reminded me when I saw her. She’s got a boatload of younger brothers thanks to her father’s second marriage. The oldest is only a few years younger than us, but the youngest is in kindergarten.
She’s right. Nate might already have an idea of what’s happening.
When we reach the door, Mac picks up a pile of mail on the stoop. He frowns at a big manila envelope at the top of the stack. “It’s addressed to you,” he says.
I frown. “Who do I know who has this address?”
“Probably someone local. It was hand delivered.”
As I take the envelope—which is recycled—there’s a piece of masking tape over the old address, with my name written in sharpie on top. Suddenly my stomach flips, excitement bubbling in my chest.
“Oh my God,” I say, pulling out the papers inside. It’s a thick stack, and even though I’m pretty sure I know what it is, I’m still on pins and needles until I pull it out.
On top is a painting of an older woman, her hair in soft gray curls, a sweet smile on her face.
“Hey, that’s Mrs. Green,” Mac says.
He meets my eyes in a flash, understanding dawning. “Wait, was this?—”
“Stu!” I shriek. I flip through the rest. There are a few more of Marie, plus some other portraits, including one of Fred on the boardwalk, eating her favorite grilled cheese sandwich.
I explain my plan to Mac, and I swear to God the look that man gives me is one of wonder.
“You’re really going to kick my ass with this opening, aren’t you?” he asks, wrapping an arm around my shoulder as we head inside.
“Why would you ever doubt me?” I laugh, leaning in on the man I love.