14. Miles
14
Miles
Miles gently caught her arms. “Wendi.”
No response. Her breaths came out in shallow gasps.
Miles knew panic—had hauled people from smoke-filled rooms, steadied rookies on their first bad call, and faced himself in the mirror after nights he’d rather have forgotten.
He guided her into a chair and kneeled beside her. His palm pressed lightly between her shoulder blades, feeling each rapid rise and fall of her breath. “You’re okay. Breathe with me. In through your nose ...” he whispered. “Out through your mouth.”
Slowly, her breaths steadied. Her gaze lifted, meeting his—embarrassment flickering beneath gratitude. “I—” Her voice trembled, and she shook her head. “I thought I’d be alone ...”
Miles traced soothing circles around her back. “Give it a little more time.”
A faint smile touched her lips—it wasn’t much, but it was something.
The door suddenly burst open, the bell clanging above it. Miles glanced up.
More footsteps. More voices.
The bell rang again. Then again.
Even more faces. Some familiar.
What’s happening?
A woman with auburn hair rushed to Wendi’s side. “Sorry we’re late!”
People streamed in behind her.
Auburn-hair squeezed Wendi’s hand. “Lisa was locking up when I called. Kara was feeding the animals. But when I said it was for you and the Shell—you know how they are. Katie posted on her bookshop’s Facebook, and, well—” She gestured at the packed room.
Miles stepped back, observing Wendi’s shoulders loosen, and the strain around her eyes fade. In its place—something softer, something that looked a lot like hope.
The woman with auburn hair turned to him and stuck out her hand. “Emma.” Her smile was genuine. “Thanks for being here for her.”
“Miles.” He shook her hand.
Old Pete limped in with Mrs. Winters on his heels. Ada set up a makeshift bar in the corner. Phil flashed Miles a thumbs-up from his food truck window.
“Never a doubt,” Old Pete said to Wendi, thunking a gallon of tea onto the table. “This town can’t lose The Painted Shell.”
Arthur walked up and greeted his neighbor, Mrs. Winters. “Cindy? Didn’t expect to see you here tonight. Thought you’d be home with a book and that old cat of yours.”
Mrs. Winters huffed. “Oh, please. When I heard what was happening, I figured someone had to make sure you weren’t getting into trouble.”
“Trouble?” Arthur smirked. “You always said I should put my work out there more.”
“And look at you now,” she said, nudging his arm. “Had me worried the other night, you know. But you look like yourself again.”
Arthur gave a small nod. “Feels good to be part of something again.”
No blank stares. No half-finished sentences.
Miles sighed. Dad seems okay.
Wendi stepped up to the podium, dabbing at her eyes. “Thank you all for being here,” she said. “The Painted Shell isn’t just a store or some gallery; it’s home. And standing here tonight, I’m reminded of exactly why.”
“Save the Shell!” someone shouted.
The chant rippled through the building.
Miles leaned against the wall, arms folded. This wasn’t his town. But seeing them rally around Wendi like this, feeling the shift in the room—it unraveled something inside him.
He watched her soak it all in—her shoulders lighter, her smile brighter. He wanted this for her—more than he’d wanted anything in a long time.
Arthur, standing near the front, let out a hearty cheer.
Miles glanced at him, then moved forward and raised his voice. “Save the Shell!”
And just like that, he was part of it.
The auction kicked off—ceramic bowls, carved figures, and paintings. People bid more than they should’ve and paid more than what made sense.
“And now,” Wendi said, “paintings by our very own Arthur Dalton.”
She unveiled the first one: the cove at dawn. The sky was layered with oranges and pinks that exuded the feeling of early morning. Wisps of lavender clouds hovered above and, in the distance, a single seagull soared, while the dark silhouette of the rocky outcroppings framed the scene.
Miles tensed as the bidding started.
His dad’s paintings were good— really good—but auction-worthy good?
“Two hundred,” a voice called out.
“Two-fifty.”
“Three hundred.”
With each bid, Arthur stood a little taller. When it sold for five hundred, his face shone with something brighter than the sun.
The next painting: the cove in a storm. Dark clouds swirled above churning water. Waves crashed and foamed as wind whipped across the surface. Arthur had painted it on one of his better days, telling Miles about riding out a storm as a young man.
Bidding grew more heated for this one, the storm in the cove fetching six hundred. Miles added the running total in his head.
The third painting depicted the cove at sunset. The sun was going down, turning the water purple and gold. Jagged rocks framed a lone boat bobbing toward the shore.
Sold for nine hundred.
Wild!
Then, Wendi’s painting was revealed—a spiral shell with bands of cream and caramel, shimmering under the blue sky, and tilted at a slight angle, giving it a dreamlike feel. The crowd hummed in admiration.
That spiral shell looked a lot like ...
No—couldn’t be. There are probably thousands just like it.
The bidding started low—
“Two hundred.”
“Two-fifty.”
—but climbed quickly.
“One thousand.”
“Fifteen hundred.”
“Two thousand,” someone shouted, and the room went quiet for a moment before erupting into applause.
Across the room, Wendi’s eyes found his. Her smile hit him like a physical thing—relief and hope mixed together. For a moment, Miles let himself imagine being part of this place for good—standing in rooms like this not as the guy passing through, but as someone who belonged, someone who was there to stay.
“Break time,” Wendi called after the seventh painting sold. “Phil’s got food outside. Stretch your legs. We’ll be back for our final piece—a special painting Arthur made just for tonight.”
The crowd spilled outside, riding the high of the night’s success. Laughter and chatter carried into the cool air as the first stars dotted the deepening blue above them. Across the street, Phil’s tables filled up. String lights cast an amber glow between the buildings while the scent of sweet potato fries and salt air wafted through the night.
As Miles glanced upward, he noticed how the stars were much brighter here than in Atlanta. “Congrats, old man.” He clapped his dad’s shoulder. “Your paintings might be the reason this place makes it.”
“The best is yet to come,” Arthur said, watching people milling around, admiring their new paintings. “They remember. All of them—why this place matters.”
Miles nodded, struck by how present Arthur seemed tonight.
A young woman approached with a canvas tucked under her arm. “Mr. Dalton? Your brushwork is incredible—how do you get the waves to move like that?”
Arthur lit up, launching into a story about painting the coast as a boy. Miles stepped aside as his dad spoke with the ease of someone who had never forgotten his craft.
Nearby, the couple from the hardware store waved him over. “Miles! Your dad says you know a thing or two about refinishing floors?”
Of course he did.
“Just enough to be dangerous.” Miles smiled and walked over. He chatted about sandpaper grits and polyurethane, nodding along to their renovation woes, but his eyes couldn’t help but drift through the crowd, looking for a familiar face.
Where is she?
He excused himself after a few minutes, grabbing a paper cup of water from a table. He gulped it down and scanned the clusters of people, looking for that unmistakable red hair—for the woman he adored.
“Fire!” The primal scream sliced through the night.
Miles turned toward it.
Smoke billowed from a window at the back.
Orange flames crawled up the walls, distorted through the warping glass.
Someone yelled about 9-1-1.
He smelled it now—the nauseating sting of burning paint and canvas.
Wood splintered. Something snapped.
Miles’s eyes watered as he surveyed the scene, mentally calculating.
Rate of spread: Rapid. Old wood and art supplies feeding the flames—perfect storm for engulfment.
Wind direction: East—pushing smoke and heat toward the back.
Points of failure: Cracking ceiling joists, weakening floors, and heat-stressed windows. Could explode into lethal glass shards.
“No—no, no, no!” Arthur’s voice cracked, yanking Miles back from his thoughts. Tears filled his dad’s eyes. “My special painting!”
“Dad, I’m sorry, but you have to get back, okay?” Miles tried to reassure him, his feet already carrying him toward the building.
He shoved through the crowd, fighting against the flow of bodies. Snatches of conversation reached him—someone said how old and dry the building was, how fast it would burn, another said the fire department was ten minutes out.
Ten minutes?
In ten minutes, there’d be nothing left.
Smoke thickened, curling through the air. Glass cracked. People shouted conflicting things—someone called for water, another yelled about an extinguisher, but Miles already knew the truth: None of that would be enough.
There she is.
Miles sprinted in Wendi’s direction.
“Let me go!” she screamed, straining against the men holding her back. “My boy’s in there!”
The men tightened their grip. “The fire department’s coming. You can’t go in there.”
Flames swallowed the doorway.
Wendi’s sob cut through the chaos. “Max! Please, someone—”
A blast of heat seared against his face.
Someone shouted his name—maybe his dad, maybe Wendi.
He turned. Bolted.
A hand clamped onto his arm. But nothing—not logic, not fear, not the weight of every risk he knew too well—could stop him.
He tore free. He knew exactly what this was. The kind of choice that ended careers. Or lives.
Didn’t matter.
Didn’t think.
Didn’t stop.
He charged straight into the fire.