1. Wendi
1
Wendi
Present Day
Sunday
At the foot of the bed, a little Yorkipoo body unfurled in a sleepy stretch. A soft whine came, then another, more insistent. Max’s paw nudged Wendi’s shoulder.
She pulled the quilt tighter around her. The morning light filtered through the sheer linen curtains, and outside, the waves crashed against the shore.
“I’m up, I’m up,” she groaned.
Her phone lit up, reading 6:47 a.m.—thirteen minutes before her alarm was set to go off. Max always managed to wake her right before. His black hair stood up in wild tufts, and his eyes were bright, ready for the day.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed and moved toward the door. Max jumped down to follow her.
“Morning, troublemaker.”
She caught her reflection in the dresser mirror—hair twisted into gravity-defying angles and pillow lines etched across her face. Her former Manhattan-self would’ve gasped and reached for the straightener. Back then, mornings started at 4:30 a.m., with a calorie-tracked smoothie and an outfit chosen days in advance. Now, her routine consisted of staying in pajamas until she absolutely had to change, occasionally forgetting what day it was.
The beachfront cottage felt like a dollhouse compared to her Manhattan apartment, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in charm. Salt-worn siding, faded blue paint peeling in places. Mismatched furniture. Windows that sometimes stuck but framed perfect ocean views. Even the shower demanded a specific sequence of handle-turning that had taken weeks to master. But it was hers.
In the kitchen, she filled Max’s bowl while the coffeemaker gurgled to life. She leaned against the counter, watching him devour his food with a single-minded focus.
It was hard to believe this was the same dog she’d rescued two years ago—the one who’d spent his first two days cowering under her bed. Back then, he’d been nothing but protruding ribs and skittish eyes.
“You’ve come a long way, sweet boy.”
And so had she.
The woman who had once sobbed through a presentation to hotel executives, who had locked herself in a bathroom stall, hands shaking too much to even text James about what had happened, felt like a stranger now.
Not that he would’ve understood anyway.
“It’s just nerves,” he’d say. “Buckle down and push through.”
She grabbed her mug—the one Emma had gifted her—with “Home is where your art is” painted in wobbly letters. The coffee warmed her hands as she slipped on sandals for their morning walk.
Outside, salt air filled her lungs as Max tugged at his leash, eager to reach the sand. The beach was nearly deserted—just a few joggers in neon running gear and the Hendersons, an elderly couple who had been married for fifty-seven years, walking arm-in-arm wearing matching windbreakers.
Max bounded toward the waves, kicking up bursts of sand before looping back, his eyes on her as if to say, “Did you see that?”
During those dark months after her breakdown—when she couldn’t sleep, create, or even remember why she’d once loved her PR job—Max had been her constant. The reason she got out of bed.
“Ready to check out the shop, boy?” His ears perked up at the sound of the familiar phrase.
The morning sun created a patchwork of gold and blue that changed with each drifting cloud as they headed toward Main Street, passing familiar landmarks—Mrs. Winters watering geraniums outside the candle shop, Old Pete setting up his newspaper stand, the scent of fresh coffee floating from Phil’s Diner. These were the details she once would’ve missed back in the city, too busy sipping her venti latte and scrolling through emails on her phone.
“Morning, Pete.”
“Another beautiful November day, Wendi-girl,” he called back. “Good weather for selling some art supplies, huh?”
She stretched her lips into what she hoped passed for optimism. The week before, she’d gone a whole four days without a single customer.
Walking on, she couldn’t help but notice how Hadley Cove had changed since her childhood. A high-end seafood restaurant had replaced the antique shop where she’d gotten her first job. The old record store where she’d spent hours browsing vinyl records with friends had been replaced by a boutique selling overpriced beach decor to tourists. And the old barn, where she’d had her first kiss, had been converted into an event venue for weddings and retreats.
Some changes hurt more than others though—like driving past her parents’ empty house on Sycamore Street, sold after her mother’s funeral five years ago. The shutters, once a cheerful yellow, were now a dull beige. The oak tree in the front yard—the one she used to climb while her dad pretended not to see—stood untouched. But the porch swing was gone, and the flower beds her mother had once tended to were nothing but weeds now, creeping toward the cracked walkway. When her mother had passed, she’d come back only for the funeral—a twelve-hour visit, a handful of obligatory condolences, and then straight to the airport. And for her father’s funeral three years before that? She hadn’t come at all.
She told herself he wouldn’t have expected her to. That he understood why she’d stayed away.But sometimes, late at night, she wasn’t so sure.
Still, the heart of the town—the soul—remained. The boardwalk was lined with vendors selling saltwater taffy and trinkets. In the nearby park, the old Wishing Tree stood as tall as ever, its branches filled with faded ribbons tied by generations of hopeful souls. From the town square, the clock still chimed on the hour—except between 6:00 p.m. and 6:00 a.m. And through it all, Old Pete remembered exactly how she liked her ice cream—strawberry with rainbow sprinkles.
Hadley Cove had always been the place she’d left and never the place she returned to. That teenage Wendi Parker had sworn she’d never move back to. But when everything in Manhattan had crumbled—her marriage, her career, her sense of self—where else was there to go? Thirty-seven years of running had brought her straight back here. She knew better than anyone that sometimes, the places we ran from were the ones that knew us best.
Two teenagers zipped past on skateboards, calling out to someone across the street. Their carefree energy reminded her of summers with her childhood friend, Emma, racing bikes down these same streets, hair flying behind them, making plans for futures that seemed impossibly distant and perfectly certain at the same time.
Just ahead, The Painted Shell sat on the corner of Maple and Main, its blue exterior standing out against the surrounding buildings. Wendi had painted the sign herself—a spiral shell with swirls of color emerging from its center. Max waited patiently as she unlocked the door, the brass bell chiming softly.
She flipped on the lights, illuminating her creation. Art supplies lined the walls—watercolors, acrylics, brushes, canvases, and specialty papers. A small gallery area displayed local artists’ work, including a few of her own. The teaching space in the back held four tables for classes.
The shop had been a bakery, and a lingering scent of yeast and sugar was still detectable on humid days. She’d chosen it for the large windows that flooded the space with natural light and the wooden floors—it was also all she could afford.
Next week’s calendar hung by the register. More empty squares than filled ones. Tuesday’s beginner class had one name penciled in. Wednesday—the art auction fundraiser ... Her eyes paused on it.
Future Wendi will handle that. Hopefully.
And her pride and joy: Friday’s “Art Therapy” session for the local community center. The last class never made money. She offered it for free to whoever needed it—but more often than not, she found herself rearranging chairs in the empty room. But when the class filled, even if just for a few hours, it felt like a small victory.
Every corner reflected her touch, from the hand-painted color wheel and shelves she’d stained herself, to the way she arranged drawing pencils by hardness rather than brand, from 9B to 9H.
This was hers—created from nothing but a dream and a divorce settlement.
For better or worse, right?
Max settled into his plush bed by the window as Wendi opened the ledger. The numbers stared back with brutal honesty.
Another month of scraping by.
She closed the book with a decisive snap, refusing to spiral so early in the morning. Instead, she arranged a display of sketchbooks.
But the numbers haunted her anyway.
Rent: $1,500.
Utilities: $320.
Insurance: $440.
Her personal expenses had been whittled down to almost nothing—no cable, no streaming services, and groceries purchased strategically around sales and soon-to-expire markdowns.
Last month, she’d cleared $1,773 in sales. The month before: $2,105.
The credit card she’d sworn never to use for business expenses now carried a $6,200 balance, while her savings account had dwindled to $11,437—enough for perhaps five more months at this rate.
Back in her old life, she’d earned enough to never check price tags, to hail cabs without calculating the cost, and to order takeout without a second thought. Six figures plus bonuses, direct deposited and largely unappreciated while she’d been too busy to spend it. The irony wasn’t lost on her—having money when she was too miserable to enjoy it, and now finding joy in work that couldn’t sustain her. At forty-five, she should’ve been well on her way to retirement planning, not starting over.
The shrill ring of her phone cut through her ruminations. Laurel’s name flashed on the screen—her former boss at Pinnacle Hotels.
Wendi’s finger hovered over the green button. She could’ve let it go to voicemail. But ...
“Laurel, hi.” She kept her voice even.
“Wendi! Finally, I get to hear that voice again.” Laurel’s words came in rapid-fire, overlapped with Manhattan traffic. “How’s that tiny beach town treating you?”
“It’s good. Quiet. Just what I needed.”
“So ... tell me you’ve gotten this art phase out of your system, because I’ve got an offer you won’t want to pass up.” The familiar intensity in Laurel’s voice made Wendi’s chest tighten.
“I’m listening.”
“Singapore’s back on the table, and I need someone who speaks their language—metaphorically speaking. I want you. Better hours than before. More work-life balance. Three days a week in the city and one weekend a month—you could keep your beach cottage. Starting salary will be twenty percent higher than when you left.”
The amount made Wendi’s knees buckle. She gripped the edge of the counter for support.
More than The Painted Shell would make in three years.
“You don’t have to answer now,” Laurel continued. “Take two weeks. The position opens on the fifteenth, but I’m holding it for you. The board specifically asked for you.”
Wendi took a deep breath. “That’s ... generous.”
“It’s pragmatic. We’ve been through three people since you left—none of them had your instincts.” A car horn blared in the background. “Take your time. Think it over. Call me when you’re ready to rejoin civilization.”
The call ended, leaving Wendi clutching her phone, heart racing and palms damp—the same creeping symptoms that had preceded her breakdown.
Laurel Sullivan was the woman who’d plucked her from the marketing department eight years ago after hearing her smooth over a catastrophe with an irate hotel client. “You have a gift for reshaping reality,” Laurel had told her. “You don’t just solve problems—you make people forget there was ever a problem at all.”
It had felt like a compliment then. Four promotions and countless crises later, Wendi recognized it for what it was—Laurel’s talent for identifying useful tools. That’s what she’d been—a tool to deploy against bad press, disgruntled clients, and public relations nightmares.
Still, they’d made a formidable team. Wendi crafting narratives that transformed ordinary hotels into exclusive experiences, Laurel cutting through corporate politics to implement them. When a celebrity trashed a penthouse suite, Wendi had not only prevented negative press but had somehow spun it into a feature in Architectural Digest about the hotel’s renovation program. When bedbugs had been discovered in the Chicago location, she’d managed to redirect focus to their new organic cleaning protocols, actually increasing bookings the following quarter.
She’d been good at it. Too good, perhaps. Good enough that even her spectacular meltdown hadn’t completely burned her bridges.
Feeling her heart rate climbing, Wendi closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips together into a fragile steeple. She then pushed her palms against each other, focusing on the pressure points where they connected. With each point of contact, she mentally named a color in her studio—cadmium red, cerulean blue, burnt amber, titanium white—a grounding technique her therapist had taught her.
Dr. Abrams’ voice echoed in her memory: “Anxiety tells us stories about a future that may never happen. Bring yourself back to what is real right now.”
Real: the pressure of my palms, the colors surrounding me, Max’s steady presence beside me.
She reached for the bottle of water she kept behind the counter, savoring the sensation of cool liquid against her throat, the weight of the bottle in her hand. Eighteen months ago, this same trigger would have sent her spiraling. Six months ago, she might have needed to call Dr. Abrams. Today, she could still feel the anxiety—uncomfortable, yes, but no longer terrifying. No longer defining her.
She’d come that far, at least.
The first time Dr. Abrams had demonstrated the finger-steepling technique, Wendi had almost walked out.
This is what I’m paying two hundred dollars an hour for? she’d thought, the woman who’d negotiated million-dollar contracts, who’d managed teams of professionals, and who’d juggled crisis calls on three continents.
But they worked.
Anxiety couldn’t co-exist with full presence in the moment. At least not the debilitating kind that had once sent her to the emergency room, convinced she was having a heart attack.
Max nudged against her calf, his wet nose leaving a damp circle on her skin. She sank to her knees and buried her face in his soft curls. His heart thumped against her cheek.
“What do you think, boy?” She scratched his ears. “Take the job or stick it out here and survive on ramen until the bank comes knocking?”