Look on the Bright Side

Chapter Four

The day Elsbeth Smith’s life veered off the road was completely, charmingly normal right up to the moment of impact.

First order of the day: Kiss husband. Intentionally, not just a peck. Second, text the kids in birth order—Harlow, Addison, Lark, Winnie and Robbie—and tell them to have a wonderful and meaningful day. Sure, they made fun of her for this, but she didn’t care. She was used to it.

Third, get to work. Bills to pay and all that.

She’d driven down to Long Pond Arts, her gallery down by the marsh with its picturesque view of Uncle Tim’s Bridge and Hamblen Island, before eight. Turned on the lights, opened the back door, since it was a sparkling day and the smell of the salt water was irresistible. She spent an hour and a half working upstairs on her latest—the third in a series of autumn on the cranberry bog. Each painting showed the same view, but at different times of day—dawn, with a golden and lavender sunrise, mist clinging to the trees at the edge; full afternoon, with the berries glowing red, the sky’s vivid blue contrasting with the bright white clouds; and number three here, the bog in late evening, a sliver of a moon rising, reflecting in the water.

She’d changed the gallery’s hours to be from nine thirty to six last year, worried that waiting till ten meant losing foot traffic that could translate to more sales. No one was here yet, though, so she wrapped up a painting for a lovely young couple who’d ordered something via the website, jotted them a note of thanks and left it for Meeko, her beautiful and lazy Lithuanian assistant, to address and ship.

“Good morning, and you’re late, Meeko, honey,” she said as he slouched in.

“Traffic very bad today,” he lied.

“Leave earlier next time.” She smiled firmly until he nodded, then went into the office. Inventory, orders, banking, emails, sales, updating the website, while Meeko, seemingly exhausted, dragged a feather duster along the shelves, phone in one hand.

People came and went, and whenever possible, Ellie popped out to welcome them. “Hi! Thanks for stopping in! Where are you from? Beautiful day, isn’t it?” She rang up smaller purchases—handmade ceramic mugs, limited edition prints, charming cards, mobiles, coasters…the type of merchandise that filled in the gaps between sales of actual paintings and sculptures. Texted Gerald a note that said she couldn’t wait to sit on the deck this evening, and received a martini emoji and heart as a response.

She smiled at her phone. God, she was lucky. They both were. Thirty-eight years of marriage, and they still flirted. Still loved each other. Still had a more than healthy sex life. Just this past September, the last of the kids had finally flown the nest when Lark got that sweet little guesthouse—and she and Gerald had adjusted to the slower rhythm at home, eating later, talking more.

At first, sure, it had been an adjustment. A natural one, she read, but a little surprising nonetheless. Without the kids as a cushion, they’d bumped and scraped more than they ever had. Had it always taken Gerald so long to finish a project? Could he ever completely clean up the kitchen, or was he marking his territory by leaving crumbs on the counter? And how about the garage? It had been built for housing a car, not the myriad tools he still wasn’t quite sure how to use. Their house had always been in a state of charming disrepair, but things were getting a little more shabby these days. Since Gerald had retired fully, she had hoped the glacial pace of getting things done would have picked up a bit. It had not.

Ellie loved home projects, but just didn’t have the time. If their positions had been reversed, she would’ve done repairs systematically, finishing what she started before tackling something new, as was her way. Without Robbie there, kicking off his shoes and leaving them in the middle of the floor, without Lark coming home from the hospital needing to eat and talk about her day, every little flaw of home and husband seemed magnified. It had felt weird. Just the two of them. Not bad, but weird.

Gerald had felt it, too. He’d even snapped at her one day—“Do you ever hear something I said the first time I say it?” It was so unlike him—unlike them. Yes, she’d been tuning him out, because the truth was, she wasn’t actually fascinated by the story of his trip to Ace Hardware in Eastham. But point taken. She had apologized and feigned interest in his adventures in screen door repair, though a hummingbird could fit through the hole that was still there. A little less talk, a little more action, Gerald, please?

Another fight came in October after she asked if he could be more aware of leaving knives in the sink after he used them. The man loved his knives. God forbid they had the kind that could go in the dishwasher. And God forbid Gerald wash them within an hour of using them. Nope. Apparently, there was a man-rule that if you used a knife, you waited for your wife to come home to wash it and put it back, then inform her you were going to do that, so she didn’t have to.

But whatever little bumps and scrapes they’d encountered had smoothed out by winter, and she once again felt like they were the happiest couple on the Cape, which was what everyone considered them. Sure, more time off, more time away would’ve been nice, but it wasn’t in the cards at the moment. Her career—her paintings, the gallery—was as demanding as ever. More so, really. Gerald took care of the house and yard (more or less) and did errands for his dad and their kids. She earned. It wasn’t how she’d expected it to be, but it wasn’t so bad, either.

Just too busy.

Around lunchtime, Ellie took her salad into the little courtyard behind the gallery. A family of geese paddled past, placid and calm, reminding her of herself when the kids were little. Happy times. She missed that. These days, family dinners were always at Addison and Nicole’s, since they had such a big and splendid house and did things like iron napkins and make place cards. Lots of times, Ellie would stop by the bookstore to find two or three of her other children hanging around, chatting with Harlow or Robert, her father-in-law. All the kids revered Grandpop. Sometimes, they took him out en masse or went over to make him dinner. They didn’t do that with her and Gerald. It made Ellie feel a little left out.

Those days when her little goslings had followed her, confident that she would keep them safe and make their lives fun…she missed those days.

Through the window, she could see Meeko standing mournfully by the window, taking selfies as he practiced his hello, I am an Eastern European model poses in front of some of the larger canvases.

She put the lid back on her salad container and went inside. “Meeko? Did you update the website?” she asked.

“No. Tomorrow I do it.”

“Today you do it. Or you can clock out.” The man-child had seemed like a good idea at the time of his hiring, but what he had in good looks and a decent knowledge of art, he lacked in work ethic.

“Fine. I clock out. We are slow today besides.” He gave an existential-crisis sigh and slouched off.

He had a point. They were slow. It was Tuesday, and hopefully this weekend would bring in more customers. Around three, a couple pulled into the parking lot in a big Porsche SUV. The woman held a Chanel purse and wore diamond studs; the man was dressed in Tom Ford. Wellfleet was a posh little town when the summer folk came in, and Ellie had gotten good at spotting designer labels.

“Welcome,” she said. “Thanks for coming in. Is there anything special you’re looking for?”

“We have a spot in our house here that just cries out for something dramatic,” the husband said, and for the next hour, Ellie discussed the light in their dining room, their style, the other artwork they owned. (They clearly wanted to show her what great taste they had.)

“What mood are you trying to express in the space?” Ellie asked.

“Interesting, bright, nothing too depressing.” He indicated one of her own oil paintings, Oyster Beds at Dusk. “And nothing too banal.”

Ouch. “How about something like this?” she asked, guiding them to a corner where one of her baby artists’ work was hung. Miles was a talented kid who did post-neo-expressionism (or graffiti, as her daughter Winnie described it). It was important to feature a range of styles. Only a few Cape artists featured their work exclusively in their galleries. Most of them, Ellie included, needed to hedge their bets.

“I love this,” the wife murmured. “So impactful.”

The landline rang. “Excuse me one second,” she said, since Meeko was gone. “Long Pond Arts,” she said, picking up the phone.

“Hello! I’d like to talk to you about refinancing your house!” said a humanlike voice. She hung up and returned to the corner where she’d left the couple. They were gone. She glanced out the door and saw them wandering farther down the street to her friend Jo’s gallery. Dang. She’d really thought they might buy Miles’s painting. But even if they didn’t, they could’ve said goodbye, at least. Thanks for your time. You have a lovely gallery. Nice talking to you!

Rude.

The wind chimes out back clanged gently. She checked the cranberry painting, added a bit more color to the scrubby bushes at the edge of the bog, poked her head out again. No one else in the gallery.

“That’s okay,” Ellie said out loud. “It’ll be a great season.”

She needed it to be. She always needed a great season. The familiar thread of fear tightened around her stomach.

Being an artist on Cape Cod was not exactly an unusual occupation. After all, anyone who got their hands on paints could call themselves an artist. Ellie had put herself through art school—Massachusetts College of Art and Design, one of the best. She’d been a standout student, gone to Europe to take some extra classes and had every intention of supporting herself on her art.

She’d gotten married instead. Had five children and painted only sporadically for twelve years. But since she’d opened the gallery…gosh, twenty-three years ago?…she’d put the pedal to the metal. Already educated, she’d been diligent about honing her craft to reach the level of accomplishment she had now. Workshops from other painters, online tutorials, poring over other people’s work and thousands and thousands of hours painting had made her a proficient and talented artist. She knew that.

But popular opinion was nothing if not fickle. She’d started this gallery as a way to create and sell her work, sure, but also to bring some money into the family. And she had. She’d ended up bringing most of the money into the family. She still did. And she still needed a good season. A really good season. Again. Financial security, that wispy, elusive creature, was always just around the next corner.

So now, with no one in the gallery but her, looking critically at her cranberry bog painting (was it banal?), it was easy to feel like she was running to stand still. What if she hadn’t chosen well with the young artists she was featuring? What if her very slight increase on prices backfired? What if her work wasn’t current…again?

Because that was a thing, too. What did the customer want this season? Hopefully, her lovely landscapes and charming Cape scenes, so carefully crafted over the winter, would sell, but it depended. What were the interior decorators pushing? Whose work had been featured in Cape Cod and the Islands or Cape Cod Life or Yankee magazine? Sunset paintings? That was so two years ago. Now alleyways bursting with flowers were all the rage. Nope, scratch that, do you have any still lifes with fruit? Actually, we’re so over fruit. Still lifes with flowers? No, wait, hyperrealistic waves, please. The beach in the snow. Provincetown in the snow. Provincetown in the rain. Make that Paris in the rain, please. Got anything whimsical, like a mouse stealing a raspberry? Oh, sorry, we’d prefer kids swimming. Or no, young men swimming. Do you have any nudes? How about some oyster shells? Didn’t you use to sell paintings of those cottages with the flower names? I wish you had some Jackson Pollock kind of stuff. Hey, what about sunset paintings?

A gallerist needed to be psychic. What would be hot this year? How much to charge? You didn’t want people leaving because they could get a painting of oyster shells for a thousand bucks less at a craft fair. But maybe you should be charging more, implying that your art was elite and rare. But then you’d have to compete with the Provincetown art scene, where galleries were in every third building, and paintings could sell for tens of thousands of dollars.

Young talent was becoming more and more important. The art world was ageist these days. Ellie had just said to Gerald that Monet would’ve been put in a nursing home and tied in his wheelchair if he were alive today. No one cared if you’d had a good, solid career with a technique forged by years of experience. Customers wanted to discover art, as pretentious as that was. We have an early Deborah Constantine, they wanted to say (once Debbie got huge, of course). “Only paid four thousand dollars for that baby there.” Reviewers, too, fawned over young artists. Bursting onto the art scene was a phrase Ellie was heartily sick of (and a phrase that had been used to describe her, once upon a time). These young artists didn’t have to be great, or even innovative. They just had to be new.

A few years ago, a young oil painter made a splash getting $20,000 a canvas for scenes of Coast Guard rescues back in the early part of the twentieth century. They looked almost exactly like Ellie’s own vintage rescue scenes from a decade ago, which had sold for a quarter of the price. Same black-and-white underpainting, same alla prima method in which wet paint was applied to still-wet paint, same scumbling texture effect. Brushstrokes the same thickness and size. One of Ellie’s paintings had shown four men on the beach, waving to the listing boat offshore. One of this painter’s—same thing.

Ellie didn’t know the artist, and wasn’t na?ve enough to think that the guy had copied her, but come on. It would’ve been nice if just one reviewer mentioned her work. In the same school as the Elsbeth Smith series would’ve been nice. Instead, it was as if Ellie’s paintings had never existed.

Twenty grand a piece.

Raise your hand if you, too, burst onto the scene or were praised for your fresh perspective of old Cape Cod, Ellie wanted to say. After all, she had burst. She’d been fresh. She’d been named a young artist to watch. Over the years, she’d seen at least twenty young artists burn out after a few years. The reviews of their early works had been too fawning, maybe. The expectations were too great. Too much pressure to remain the it girl or guy. You couldn’t develop a style, produce for years and still be new. It was one or the other, and if you made your name too early on, chances were high that you’d be packing your canvases or chopping your prices.

Ellie knew this. She didn’t need those titles or accolades—Ten Young Artists to Watch or Artists Redefining Cape Art. In fact, it was only after she’d burst, after she’d been watched, after she’d been new that she produced some of her best, most elevated work. Back then, she didn’t worry too much. She had a voice, and her work was strong and beautiful, and surely people would relate to it, no matter what her age, or how long Long Pond Arts had been open.

That had been true…until four years ago. The gallery had been in the black for the eleventh year running, and Ellie felt confident. Since she’d opened Long Pond, she had painted what the people wanted—seascapes, pretty Cape houses, children frolicking on the beach, sunsets and sunrises galore. Then she decided to do something different for the simple reason that she felt inspired. Wasn’t that what art was all about? Wasn’t her career solid enough for her to reach a little? It was, she thought. She never wanted to be that painter who did the same thing over and over and over.

All that autumn and winter, she worked on a series of huge canvases…stormy skies and dark oceans with incredible layers and detail, rich with the intricacies, the sense of foreboding and power of the weather, the atmosphere so thick you could almost smell the rain. The work was moody, striking and yes, fresh, and she couldn’t wait to unveil it come spring. She planned a big, splashy opening—caterers, bar, musicians. This series would get back some of that early attention, she was certain. Maybe even a review in the Globe or the Times or Yankee. Sales would spike. This work was her best ever. She was so thrilled that in her late fifties, she could be so innovative and energized, her skills sharper than they’d ever been in her life.

Confident and excited, Ellie sent out three hundred invitations to the opening of The Fury of the Storm in early March. Yes, said the Globe reviewer, she’d love to come. Wow, said the editor at Cape Cod Life. Incredible. Count him in.

A week later, and eighteen days before the planned opening, a huge nor’easter named Mathilda ripped out great chunks of the Cape, taking down giant trees, swallowing houses on the ocean side, vomiting up the destruction on the formerly pristine beaches. The Outer Cape was without power for upwards of a week. Families were displaced, beaches destroyed. Marinas were littered with broken boats. A federal emergency was declared, and two people were killed during an attempted rescue of an overturned boat, including a coastguardsman.

Nineteen people came to the opening, and a third of them were related to her. Ellie had already dropped the prices, sensing the impending doom of her show. It was worse than she’d imagined. She didn’t sell a single painting. The only “reviewer” who came was a high school student from Truro who was writing an article for the school newspaper.

Out of the twenty-two formidable, breathtaking paintings she’d created over the winter, painting till her hands cramped, loving her craft once again, confident, excited and happy, only one painting sold all season long. At a 75 percent discount. It was a disaster.

Down the street, Tim’s Bridge Gallery held a huge show for a new artist who had just burst onto the scene—angular houses painted in vivid, nearly neon colors, all sharp angles and weird proportions. Every painting sold at the opening. The owner had looked at Ellie with apologetic eyes as she talked with the thrilled consumers.

It was frustrating, how the worst times seemed to have so much more power than the good times. Those good seasons, that sense of pride and accomplishment, shriveled compared with the year of Mathilda. Even today, as she did at least once a week, Ellie wondered if she’d ever feel truly confident again, business-wise. The days of painting for love, and not just for sale, seemed like a dream from long ago.

Which did not mean Long Pond Arts wasn’t about to have a great year. “Keep on the sunny side,” Gerald liked to sing to her when they took a shower together. It always made her smile. No matter what, she had led a very lucky life. Money worries were never fun, but most people had them. In times of financial crunch, like they’d had the year of Mathilda, Gerald took extra shifts at the hospital. But now, at last, he was retired, even though he’d kept his certification. For more than forty years, he’d worked full-time, and while he’d loved his job, it was draining—the many healthcare crises, chronic understaffing, the physical labor of his work, some horrible coworkers, an ever-changing administration with batches of new rules every time someone was replaced or quit, not to mention the many grim situations he faced close up.

It wasn’t that she resented his retirement. She just wished she could retire, too. She loved the gallery, but if she hit the lottery (tough, since she didn’t play), she’d sell it. Sell it and spend her mornings reading Atlas Obscura and the New York Times the way Gerald did. Go to the places they talked about visiting. Garden again, because she loved gardening. When the kids were little, she started seeds in March, and by July, they could make an entire meal out of what they had grown in the now crumbling raised beds she’d built back then. She could spend more time with Esme and Imogen; visit their oldest grandchild, Matthew, at Georgetown; read and take long walks and set up her easel somewhere, painting just because she wanted to. She and Gerald could lie under the big tree in the backyard with their books, holding hands, drinking iced tea, reading passages aloud to each other. Because yeah, they were that couple. The poster kids for marriage done right.

As if on cue, her phone rang. “Hi, babe,” she said.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he answered. “Wondering what you want for dinner. And also wanted to brag that I got Wordle in two.”

“Wow,” she said, smiling. “Smart and sexy.” She’d tried the game a few times and liked it—plus, word games were good for the brain—but never remembered to play it daily, the way Harlow and Gerald did. Didn’t really have the time.

“Any food preferences?” he asked. “I’m going to Stop Shop in Orleans, so the sky’s the limit.”

“My hero. Um…how about roast chicken?”

“It’s a little hot for that. You know, running the oven for hours.”

Herold recipe, back in the days when she was the one who cooked, had required only an hour for roasting, but she didn’t want to micromanage. “Okay. Something vegetarian, maybe?”

“How about steak?”

“Steak would be fine, hon,” she said, rolling her eyes. Why call for her opinion when he obviously didn’t need it?

“What about a vegetable?”

“Whatever looks good. Hon, I have to run. I have a Zoom call with the arts council. Love you!”

“Love you more. I have plans to demonstrate that later, too.”

She smiled as she hung up and clicked on the link for her meeting. Part of being a business owner was being active in the community, and the council’s annual appeal was coming up.

For an hour, she talked about donors and listened to the impact of a handwritten note versus a mass email. “Ellie, you do that beautiful calligraphy,” Janet said. “Can you handwrite the letters?”

“To five hundred people?” she said. “No. Sorry. I can do one, and we can print them up, though. No one will be able to tell.”

“But that’s so impersonal!”

“I just don’t have the time, Janet.” No one else volunteered to help, or reminded Janet there was an easier way to reach people—this new thing called email.

“Well, can you at least handwrite in each of their names so it looks more organic?”

“I…” Would it take more time to just agree than it would to field seventeen or thirty calls from Janet? “Sure.”

The thought of a home-cooked meal, a martini and sex at the end of the day eased her irritation.

She and Gerald had met backpacking in Europe in their early twenties. Ellie and her friend had gone to a beach in Spain, and there he was, coming out of the water like Neptune’s hottest son—tall, black-haired, tanned and ripped with muscle. He saw her and smiled, and Ellie’s whole body flushed and tightened. Before they’d exchanged a word, she already wanted to sleep with him. At twenty-three, she’d been in love before, had had two serious boyfriends (if a person could say anything was serious at twenty-three). But with Gerald Robert Smith, things felt momentous from that very first second. Ellie knew he’d be important to her. She felt it in her bones before he even said a word. Then he did say a word—“Hi”—and they were pretty much a done deal from then on.

After a week, they felt like they’d known the other for centuries but also couldn’t wait to share more new things together, hear each other’s stories, see each other in different situations, introduce their friends and get their take. She and Gerald—never Gerry—spent the next six weeks traveling around Europe, drinking cheap wine, making love and inhaling each other’s souls.

People predicted it would fade. “You’re not going to feel this way forever, you know,” her mother had said. “Marital bliss is a lie.” Ellie ignored her. Dad didn’t seem to care that much, saying only that hopefully Gerald could support her, since Ellie was an artist. Dad always used air quotes and dropped his voice to a whisper when he said those words. “She thinks she’s”—pause for effect—“an artist.” He had hoped she’d become an actuary. Grace, Ellie’s sister, was the only one who was enthusiastic. Sweet Grace. They’d always been close.

Gerald believed in her talent and was in awe of her work. He loved her passion for art, admired her, listened to her. They eloped five months after they’d met. Grace was their only witness and only guest, because they didn’t care about a wedding. They cared about marriage. Harlow was born a year and a half later, and parenthood only made Ellie and Gerald love each other more. She stayed home while he worked his long days—twelve-hour shifts, sometimes longer. Ellie made sure he knew how much she appreciated that. When he came home, the house was tidy, a meal was in the works, and there were fresh flowers in a jar to welcome him back. Her heart tripled as he got out of the car and ran—yes, ran—up the steps to her and Harlow. “My girls,” he’d say. “I’m so happy to be back with my girls.”

And Ellie was in heaven with her little look-alike daughter, all blond curly hair and big eyes. Harlow was a lovely, curious baby and toddler, so happy and full of life, noticing everything and tucking it away, very smart, Ellie was sure. As a mother, she was awash in love, dazed by luck and joy. She’d never known she could be as happy as she was…and made the mistake of telling her own mother this.

“You do think she’s smart?” Mom asked, frowning. “Seems average to me.”

The twins came next, their most beautiful children, like ethereal fairies from another realm. It wasn’t easy, nursing two babies while trying to play Candy Land with your toddler, and it was so much more expensive…two of everything at once. Larkby seemed to only smile or sleep, but Addison was fussy almost around the clock. Harlow was so cute and invested as a big sister. She’d called the twins the Littles, and the name stuck for all the younger kids.

She and Gerald bought their fixer-upper, wincing at the cost of even the lowest end of the real estate market on the Cape. It had potential, though. It would be a lovely home because it was their home.

Then came Winnie, a bit of a surprise baby, since three daughters had seemed like plenty of children. It was Gerald the nurse who’d been confident that the rhythm method was just as effective as condoms, and it was Ellie the ovulator who believed him.

Not a problem. What was one more girl? She was a gift, their Windsor, so independent and solemn and focused (rather like Elizabeth Windsor, for whom Ellie had named her, having always admired the queen). Four daughters! How lucky! The house projects remained, but the family was healthy and happy, busy and noisy. Gerald’s parents, Robert and Louisa, were thrilled and helpful, just around the corner, which made up for Ellie’s parents. They weren’t the babysitting type. Too tired, too worried, too nitpicking. “She’s still not toilet trained? But she’s two!” Or “Do they always bicker like that?” It was just as well. Her parents were the pee in the swimming pool of life. The opposite of her and Gerald.

Then Gerald decided he wanted a boy.

“One more time, babe,” he said. “Wouldn’t you love to have a son? A grimy little boy digging in the sand, giving the girls a run for their money? Plus, it’d be nice to know someone could carry on the family name.”

“Is that really still a thing?” she asked. Winnie was three and a half, and the past six months had been a little easier, no diapers, the high chair relegated to the basement.

“It is. Maybe,” he said, grinning at her. He pulled her onto his lap, kissed her neck, making those reproductive organs of hers squeeze and sigh.

Nine months later, Robert Harrington Smith was born, he of the sparkling brown eyes and black curly hair. He was worth it, a smiling, gurgling baby adored by his four sisters. Their family was complete, and Gerald had been right. She hadn’t known how much she wanted a son until she had one.

When Robbie was five months old, though, he uncharacteristically started screaming in the middle of the night. Gerald was at work (always seemed to be the way when one of the kids was sick). Ellie rushed into his room. Robbie was in agony…then, just like that, stopped crying. The screaming started again fifteen minutes later. When she went to change his diaper, Ellie saw that his poop looked like cranberry sauce.

“Call Grammy,” she told Harlow, then eleven. “Stay with the Littles until she gets here.”

She put Robbie in his car seat, not wanting to wait for the ambulance, and flew to Hyannis Hospital. It was intussusception, a condition where Robbie’s intestine folded back onto itself, “like a telescope,” the surgeon explained. He was transferred to Boston Children’s Hospital for emergency surgery, followed by a three-day stay, where Robbie’s status as young prince was reaffirmed by the adoration of everyone who crossed his path. He was fine. He’d be fine.

Ellie was the one who was wrecked. He could have died. Her baby could have died.

Their meager savings account was depleted. The copay from the hospital was staggering, even though Gerald was a union nurse.

“I’ll take more shifts,” Gerald said. “Don’t worry, honey.”

She worried anyway. It was impossible, even if Gerald did six shifts a week—seventy-two hours—to make ends meet, let alone pay off their seemingly insurmountable debt.

She went into the attic and looked at some of her old paintings. She hadn’t had much time since she’d had Harlow, so most were from her pre-motherhood days, with—she winced—only seven completed paintings in the past eleven years. But they were good, she thought. At least, they weren’t bad.

She used her third credit card to rent space at the Eastham Outdoor Arts Show down by the Visitor Center, and asked Louisa to watch Robbie. Then she put the five paintings in the back of the minivan and loaded the girls into the car, the twins in their booster seats, Winnie in a car seat and Harlow in front with her. In Eastham, she parked the Littles outside the tent and told them to listen to Harlow. By the end of three hours, the girls had sunburn—she’d forgotten sunscreen—but she had made $2,300 in a single afternoon.

People had bought her paintings. Every single one.

“Why aren’t you showing in a gallery?” asked one woman, her face alight as she paid Ellie for two oil paintings. “These are breathtaking.”

The girls were so proud of her. “You were the best one there, Mommy!” Harlow said in the car.

Gerald had been dazzled (oh, the sex that night had been amazing). “We can make this work,” he said. “This is what you were meant to do. I’m not surprised, but, my God, honey! Great job!”

But with the glow of accomplishment came a disquieting whisper of truth. If they were ever going to pay down their mortgage, get out of credit card debt, improve the house or essentially ever have anything extra, it was going to have to come from her.

Gerald encouraged her, stopped taking overtime shifts so she could paint more (a terrifying risk) and believed in her. He thought she was the best artist on the Cape. “Go big or go home,” he said, so after a year of those little art shows and selling at the flea market, Robert and Louisa cosigned a loan for them to buy the building for Long Pond Arts. It was water damaged and needed a new roof, new bathroom and windows, but they did the work themselves, and Ellie vowed she’d never miss a payment and make her in-laws regret their generosity.

And through the chaos and exhaustion and laughter and noise and worry, she and Gerald remained in love. They did. They had promised to make an island of peace for each other in the crashing oceans of parenthood, and it wasn’t even hard. The Littles would go to bed, Harlow would go up a half hour later, and in the quiet of their ramshackle house, they’d hold hands, make a drink or a cup of coffee, talk and listen. All the marriage advice said never take each other for granted. Be affectionate. Show your gratitude. Have each other’s backs. Be your children’s role models for a good relationship.

They did. They definitely did.

Obviously, they argued from time to time. Did Gerald have to tell her how toxic her mother was? Ellie already knew she was difficult. Did he have to bring it up every time the woman called or visited? Could he do a little more for the kids instead of acting like one of them? On her side, Ellie knew she got wrapped up in the issues of the gallery, which could be utterly consuming—washing windows, fixing the roof, hanging art, choosing vendors, advertising, social media…not to mention creating. She did not slap out paintings. She wished she could, but she was unable to do anything but her best, and that took mental energy and focus and time.

Her marriage was golden. Her career was helping the family financially and gave her another role in addition to Mommy. She was doing it. She was rising to the occasion, making a living through art. She was…dare she think it?…a success.

I don’t know how you do it, friends would say. The kids, the art, the business! Well, you have Gerald. You’re so lucky! I wish Ted/Jim/Leah/Spencer was like him. You two found the golden ticket, that’s for sure.

She wondered if men were told their success was due to a supportive spouse. As the kids got older, she painted more, arranging a list of chores so the kids could pitch in, overseen by Harlow, whom she and Gerald called the General. One by one, the kids graduated from high school, went to college, groped around, found their way. Poor Lark went through all that stuff with Justin. Addie moved to Boston for a few years, then got married and started a family. Harlow dropped out of law school and came back home while Winnie went from job to job, not finding anything that really grabbed her. Robbie finally managed to pass his certification and become a marine mechanic.

Life happened, of course. When Louisa died, it was crushing. She’d been more of a mother to Ellie than her own mother had been, in terms of unconditional love and role modeling. Ellie worried that Harlow had made a huge mistake, leaving law school with just a few weeks to go. Would Winnie ever find something that really suited her? What about Addie and her fixation on money? Or Robbie still acting like a teenager? Her sister Grace’s marriage was always stressful, so unlike hers—Larry was such a blowhard, so full of himself and, Ellie suspected, a cheater.

And then, last fall, the autumn of life began. The kids were grown and settled. Gerald was still fit and vibrant, finally done with the hard work of being a nurse. Lark moved out for good this time, she’d assured them. Welcome, empty-nest years! Welcome, Time, that most precious of all commodities. The time her friends and acquaintances talked about when they finally could do all those things they’d been waiting for. Travel. Grandkids. Reading. Just…being.

But Ellie’s life was just as busy as ever. The gallery had stalled in recent years…the pandemic, the economy, competition from new galleries. After Mathilda, it was hard to trust her own vision, and there was more temptation to phone it in. “Just give the people what they want, hon,” Gerald said, and it hurt, the idea that she was able to slap out a few paintings a month and be happy with it. That had never been her.

But the inspiration and joy had been leaching away for years now. Since Mathilda. Since Louisa’s death. Since her days stopped revolving around the kids, when painting had been the release and reward, not the job.

Speaking of her parents, she saw that she had six missed calls from her mother. Shit. She really shouldn’t put her phone on silent, but she hated being interrupted at work. She hit her mother’s number.

“Hi, Mom, is everything okay?”

“Oh, Ellie, it’s you. Hello.”

“You called me six times. Is Dad okay?”

“What?”

“Is Dad okay?” she repeated, raising and slowing her voice. Mom never wore her hearing aids.

“You don’t have to yell at me. Yes, he’s fine. Why did you call, Ellie?”

“You called me, Mom. Six times.”

“I did?”

“Yep. But if everything’s good, I’ll catch up with you later, okay? I’m just closing the gallery.”

“Oh, the gallery.” Mom’s tone was accusatory. “You’re so busy all the time.”

Tell me about it.“Okay, Mom, talk to you soon.”

“Well, your aunt isn’t doing too well. Her knee is really bothering her.”

Aunt Sharon’s knee had been bothering her since Ellie was a teenager. “I’m sorry to hear that. Listen, I have to run, Mom. Love you.”

“Fine. You called me. Apparently, I shouldn’t have answered.” Mom hung up.

Deep breath. Unclench the jaw. Keep on the sunny side. Call Grace later to vent.

Mom was increasingly needy, especially with technology. “The link didn’t work for me” or “How do I look at these pictures Addie sent me?” Dad, meanwhile, started subscribing to conspiracy theories. “You really think someone could survive in space? That people have walked on the moon? The gravity alone would crush you. Stop drinking the Kool-Aid.”

She hoped with all her heart that her kids wouldn’t ever think of her as an aggravation. Or if they did, that Gerald would have her back and not agree that the other was a pain in the ass, the way her parents did.

One last round in the gallery, making sure the back door was secure (she needed to replace the whole slider, but that would have to wait for fall). If the gallery had a good season, that was.

It’ll be okay, she told herself. The kids were healthy, the grandkids were doing great. Gerald was waiting for her, would be delighted to see her. Her rock and her comfort. Her love. She slung her bag over her shoulder, locked the gallery door and went home, breathing deeply, her shoulders loosening, enjoying the wind in her hair. Her husband adored her.

She was so lucky. She felt that with all her heart.

Which was why finding his iPad was like a sledgehammer to the head.