Chapter Twenty-Three #4
I squatted down by the water’s edge and watched the first of the turtles propel themselves into the waves.
The water pushed them back up the beach but they were undeterred, continuing to chase the water that would take them away.
It was incredible to watch but still my fear for their little lives remained.
My anxiety must have shown because Simon crouched down beside me and put his hand on my back and said, “They’ll be all right. ”
I shut the video off on my phone and pocketed it. I turned to face Simon, knowing my worry and doubt were etched on my face.
He sighed and pulled me close, giving me a half hug and placing a kiss in my hair. “This is one of those moments that you have to trust the universe, Spencer. And whatever you do, do not get attached.”
I pulled back and studied him in the amber light with his ridiculously long eyelashes, his dark hair that curled in the humidity, his square jaw and full lips, and I thought how it was entirely too late for his warning.
My post about the baby turtles went viral.
Taylor, my number one fan in Cape Split, made certain that everyone in the village saw it.
I had taken out the original sound and narrated over the video the facts that Roland and Zach had taught me about the turtles.
One particularly poignant shot of a lone little guy being swept out to sea by a wave I narrated by describing this time as the “lost years” of juvenile sea turtles where they headed out to sea and, other than sightings in the Sargasso Sea, no one was exactly certain where they went.
My voice cracked in the narration, giving the piece an honest bit of emotion that I decided not to edit out.
I had set up the post with links to the local rescue outfit that Gramps and Pops and most of the residents of Cape Split worked with and according to Roland, their donations were enjoying a healthy spike. I liked to think that would help more sea turtles survive and thrive.
Simon and I fell into a routine over the next two weeks where we spent our mornings working on the house, either decluttering or fixing something that needed it, our afternoons either exploring the Outer Banks or working our jobs, and our nights naked in bed together.
I knew it wasn’t wise to let it go on so long, but I felt as if I could never get enough of him and our required two months of living in the cottage would be over in just two weeks.
Decisions were going to have to be made and soon. We didn’t talk about keeping or selling the cottage, and as far as I knew neither of us had changed our minds. At least, I thought I hadn’t.
When I considered Charlie and Simon’s responsibility for him, I understood why selling the cottage was important to Simon. It would give Charlie financial stability should anything happen to Simon—although I couldn’t bear to even think about that possibility.
Unfortunately, the time Simon and I spent here caused me to become more attached to the place than ever.
But Charlie…I cared about him, too, and I wanted to help do whatever was best for Charlie and for Simon.
If I thought selling the cottage would bring Simon joy, I wouldn’t hesitate for a second, but I didn’t think it would.
In fact, I feared that losing this place would hurt Simon; he’d become so much more relaxed over the past few weeks than the man I’d first met.
I suspected his Gramps had left the cottage to him specifically to give Simon the same sort of escape from his responsibilities that Gramps had enjoyed. I wished I knew for certain.
Simon had turned the dining room into a temporary office, a place I actively avoided because…
bat. I could hear him talking to clients and I wondered how a man who had illustrated such a delightful children’s book could bear to spend an hour talking to his boss about the fluctuations in premium rates and how he believed they should adjust their pricing strategies accordingly.
Feeling restless while Simon worked and Dude napped on the couch, I wandered upstairs to the main bedroom as Simon and I had moved into the guest bedroom.
The locked steamer trunk I’d found in the attic was now here, pushed up against the wall.
No one had been able to unlock it and Simon and I had agreed not to get rid of it until we saw the contents.
I doubled back to the kitchen and examined the junk drawer for any implements that might work to pick the lock.
A cake tester, a flathead screwdriver, and a metal meat skewer.
I returned to the bedroom and began to try to pry the round face of the lock with the screwdriver.
No luck. I tried the other items as well and it still didn’t budge.
Next, I tried inserting the flathead into the keyhole.
I jiggled it, angling it down a bit. The inner circle depressed under pressure and I tried to turn the lock.
It moved! I turned it ninety degrees and then pulled forward, leaving the screwdriver in the keyhole.
The faceplate of the lock dropped forward. The trunk was unlocked.
“Simon! Dude!” Neither of them came running. Darn it.
I popped the latches and pushed the lid up and gasped.
Inside were stacks of drawing pads, art supplies, and several paintings carefully wrapped.
I reached for the first one. I hesitated.
Should I? Of course I should. The trunk was a part of the house and we had to go through everything.
Should I wait for Simon? Who knew how long he’d be on the phone?
I forged ahead. I slid my finger under the masking tape and gently pried the paper off the piece.
I knew right away whose work it was. Simon’s.
The painting was done in his usual explosion of color that swept the viewer right into the piece.
It was a whimsical painting of a young woman, climbing a circular staircase up to the clouds.
I recognized Lorelei as the model immediately and I was amazed at how much depth the piece had.
I wasn’t even afraid of heights and I felt my palms sweat at the fall she would take if she plummeted off the staircase.
I’d seen the illustrations from Simon’s book on the small screen of my phone but holding his work in my hands and seeing the colors and control in every brushstroke was pure magic. The man was so talented. How could he have quit?
I unwrapped the next piece and the next until they were scattered all around me in a riotous circle of whimsy and color. How had Gramps gotten all of Simon’s artwork and why was it hidden in a trunk in the attic? It should be on every wall of the house.
I reached in and plucked out a sketchbook.
I flipped through the pages of pencil drawings, many of which were the starting point for the paintings around me.
I heard footsteps outside the bedroom door and started.
Fearing Simon would consider this an invasion of his privacy, I debated tossing everything back into the trunk and pretending I hadn’t gotten it open.
I shook off the thought. I knew deep in my heart that he needed to see this.
“Sorry, I heard you call but I was stuck on the ph…” Simon’s voice trailed off as he took in the sight of me seated in the middle of all his paintings. His gaze darted from one piece to the next as he took it all in.
“I got the trunk open.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“How?” he asked.
“Flathead screwdriver.” I held it up.
He nodded and stepped slowly into the room as if he were leery of land mines.
I scooted to the side to make room for him beside the trunk.
He picked up the nearest painting. It was a woman with a sweet smile and long deep purple hair, wearing a pale blue sundress, walking three frogs on leashes on a pond covered in lily pads.
It had all the fantastical elements of Simon’s other pieces but I suspected this one was more personal.
I noticed that two of the frogs wore bow ties while one had a bow on its head.
Was this their mother walking Simon and his two siblings?
“Your mother?” I whispered.
He ran his forefinger down the profile of her face and nodded. “Yeah.”
I was silent, watching him examine each painting as if he was reacquainting himself with long-lost friends. When he looked up at me, his eyes were damp and his voice was rough. “I thought I got rid of all of these.”
“What?” I gasped. I couldn’t even wrap my mind around doing such a thing.
He blinked a few times as if he could dry any tears before they fell.
“When I chose to take the job at the insurance company, I packed up every piece of my work and tossed it in the dumpster behind my apartment.” He lifted one of the sketchbooks and studied the corner.
“If I’m not mistaken, that’s a blob of dried ketchup, at least I hope it is. ”
“Why…” I had no words. I couldn’t fathom doing such a thing to all these magnificent pieces. “Please explain.”
“I was really freaked out about what happened to Charlie and couldn’t imagine doing anything as frivolous as art while he was fighting for his life,” he said. “I was terrified for my brother. Gramps, Lorelei, and I—we didn’t even know if he’d get his ability to speak back in those early days.”
The fear and grief in Simon’s eyes made my heart hurt.
“I think I was in the dealmaking phase of things. I thought if I gave it all up and devoted myself to making certain that Charlie had the best care then he’d be all right. I wouldn’t lose him like I’d lost my mother and essentially my father, although good riddance to that one.”
He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as if he could push back the feelings.
“You’re going to think I’m a jerk, but if I’m being completely honest, a part of me needed to cut art out of my life so I could be the person Charlie and Lorelei, who was still in nursing school, needed me to be.
I’d dreamed of being an illustrator my entire life and knowing that I wouldn’t have time for it anymore hurt too much, so I chucked it all.
In hindsight, I might have been a tad dramatic. ”
“I still don’t understand,” I said. “Why couldn’t you keep art in your life?”
“I just didn’t want it anymore.” Simon shrugged. “Artists talk about their muse, you know, the thing that inspires them?”
I nodded. I felt stomach-sick thinking about all he had been through and what it had cost him.
“When Charlie got into that accident on top of my mother dying and my father abandoning us, I just didn’t have it in me anymore,” Simon said. “Creating had always been my escape from the real world but at that point in my life, there was no escape.”
“You’re a good brother, Simon O’Malley.” I took his hand in mine and laced our fingers together.
“I would do anything for my siblings.” Simon met my gaze. “Anything. I think of it this way: If the house was on fire, and I had to choose between saving my siblings or my paintings, I would choose my siblings. It’s a no-brainer.”
“Of course, but that’s not what happened,” I countered. I wanted him to see that his art mattered. That he could find it in himself again.
Simon’s brown eyes were filled with stark honesty.
“That’s exactly what happened—metaphorically.
I mentioned that my father left after my mother passed away?
He took her entire life insurance and left us with nothing.
Gramps took care of us, finished raising us, and then Charlie stepped up and took care of me and Lorelei, making sure I got through school.
Then when Charlie was injured, I looked at it as my turn. ”
“But surely, your father—” I began but he interrupted.
“Tried to take over the conservatorship for Charlie from Gramps so he would have access to Charlie’s disability money.
When Gramps passed and left the conservatorship to me, my father tried to get his sticky fingers on that and our inheritance from Gramps, too, which Lorelei and I both agreed was to be put in a trust for Charlie. ”
Fury—swift, hot, and intense—lit up my core.
If his father was here in the room with us, I thought I’d probably take a swing at him.
Simon didn’t seem to feel the same. He released my hand with a quick squeeze and reached into the trunk and pulled out a stack of sketchbooks.
He began to flip through the pages and I studied his profile, trying to parse out how he was feeling.
He reached into the trunk again and came back with a note on an index card.
Scrawled in the worst handwriting I’d ever seen, it read: Simon, I left you this house and kept your work here for you to find when you were ready.
I hope you learn from my choices. Choose happiness, Simon.
Don’t give up what you love most or you’ll live a life of regret.
Find a way to live your life so that you have room for both your responsibilities and your passions.
Let the people who love you, help you. And always remember who you are. Love, Gramps.
“That crazy old man must have dumpster dived all of my work out of the trash.” Simon’s words ended in a sob.
A tear dropped onto the note. I reached over and put my arms around his middle, hoping to offer him some comfort. He responded by pulling me in even tighter and lowering his face to the curve of my neck. I felt his tears soak my shirt just as I’d done to him over that ridiculous pot holder.
I ran my hands up and down his back, trying to soothe the grief that was silently pouring out of him.
From his stories about Gramps, I had already grown fond of the old man, but now, this gesture to his grandson caused me to love the supposedly crotchety old man whom I would sadly never get to meet.