Chapter Nine
THE AIR IS ALREADY THICK WITH HUMIDITY, AND THE SUN IS bright enough to make me wince as I step out of the shade of my porch and pass through the front gate. My head is a gentle drumbeat of regret, but I force myself into a slow jog.
The island is quiet in that perfect late-morning way, a faint breeze shaking salt off the palms. I wave to a neighbor clipping overgrown bushes and another walking their dog.
I tell myself I’ll jog into town, maybe circle around to get two miles in, then reward myself with a donut from Arthur’s.
A completely fair trade. But first, I want to stop by the art gallery.
The air conditioning hits like a small miracle when I finally enter, the bell jingling as I close the door behind me.
The gallery smells earthy, like canvas and wood and paint.
Helen is standing behind the counter, flipping through a stack of unframed watercolors.
She looks up with a wave as I slip past a display of vintage Bahamas prints.
“Well,” she says, setting the pages aside and studying me. “You look exactly how I felt after the Farrow party last year.”
I groan. “Ugh. Is it that obvious?”
“Only to someone who’s been there,” she teases, walking around the long counter to greet me. “You’re brave to be out running in this heat.”
“I’m running on black coffee and the promise of fried dough.”
Helen laughs. “Sounds like you’ve got your priorities straight.”
I lean lightly against the counter, taking in the cool calm of the gallery, the collection of framed Amos Ferguson paintings glowing under soft spotlights. Helen watches me for a beat, something thoughtful stirring behind her eyes.
“You know, I’m glad you stopped by. I’m curating a group show here at the gallery this August, artists who really capture the essence of island life.”
I smile. “That sounds amazing.”
“I’ve been following your work online,” she adds. “Your pieces have a depth that’s compelling.”
“Oh?” I say, genuinely touched. “Thank you.”
“I was hoping you’d be in it,” she says like it’s obvious.
My brain stutters for a second. “Wait, really? You want to include me?”
Helen tilts her head, amused. “Of course. Why do you sound surprised?”
“I don’t know.” I laugh, suddenly hyper-aware of my sweat-soaked running clothes and frizzy ponytail. “Because I’m standing in your gallery looking like I just survived a tropical boot camp?”
She grins. “You could show up in seaweed and I’d still want your work in the show. You’ve got a voice, Lucy. A point of view. That’s what matters.”
Her words land heavier than she probably means them to.
I’ve finally been painting again, for the first time in weeks, and the colors actually feel like mine.
But I don’t trust it yet. Inspiration’s a slippery thing.
I keep expecting it to disappear the moment I admit it’s back.
Maybe Helen sees something steadier in me than I do.
“Okay,” I say, my throat tightening. “I’d love to be included.”
She gives a victorious clap and motions for me to follow her toward the back room, where a long table is scattered with artist portfolios, color swatches, and a half-finished iced tea sweating on a coaster.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she says, flipping open a folder.
“There’ll be five, maybe six artists, any more than that and it’ll get crowded.
Two are locals, one does those beautiful layered encaustic pieces, and the rest are visitors.
I want contrast. Texture. A sense of place. And your work gives me that.”
We chat for a few more minutes about logistics, tentative dates, and framing deadlines before I say goodbye and step back into the wave of humidity.
I jog back onto the path, the air still thick, the same salt wind brushing my shoulders.
But I feel different. Not just excited, but lighter, like I put down a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying.
I’ve had shows before, back in Charleston, but those always felt like something I had to prove, like I was trying to earn a seat that might not be mine.
This feels quieter. Surer. Like being seen for something I didn’t even have to explain.
After I round the corner by the Piggly Wiggly, the sun hits me again at full force. I’m tempted to skip the donut and run straight into the ocean when I spot him as he steps out the door of Arthur’s. Noah.
I straighten my posture and quickly smooth my hairline.
He’s holding an iced coffee in one hand, talking to someone who looks vaguely familiar.
His hair’s still damp, from either a morning swim or maybe a shower, and he’s wearing sunglasses and a vintage tee that’s faded just right. He looks like he’s on a movie set.
The moment that Noah spots me, he lifts his iced coffee in a wave before saying something and giving a parting fist bump to the guy he was with before turning toward me.
“Hey, Briland,” he says. “Running toward me or just a happy coincidence?”
I laugh, slowing to a walk. “Let’s call it fate and blame the humidity.”
His smile widens. “If this is what humidity brings in, I’m a fan.”
I come to a stop in front of him, the two of us hovering beside the white pineapple fence, the scent of buttery baked goods drifting outside.
“How far’d you make it?” he asks.
“A few sweaty blocks,” I say. “But the donut detour was calling.”
“That’s still farther than I planned to get today…I was actually going to text you this morning,” he says, sounding a little shy. “My friends are heading out tomorrow. We’re doing dinner tonight at OVC. You should come.”
A flash of Jack’s face, his hand in mine, spinning me across the dance floor, flickers through my mind, but I bat it away. “Are you sure I wouldn’t be crashing their last night?”
He shakes his head. “They all love you.”
My cheeks warm before I can stop them. “Then sure. I’d love to.”
Noah starts to back away, still watching me, that crooked smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Perfect. I’ll come by to grab you before.”
He turns, walking off down the street, and I stand there a moment longer, grinning like an idiot.
I’M JUST FINISHING MY HAIR WHEN I HEAR THE KNOCK. I TWIST the last strand into place and clip it up, sweeping it off my neck. The breeze at dinner will be warm, and I don’t want to spend the night battling frizz.
One last glance in the mirror. The light-yellow linen mini dress fits like it was made for me. It barely passes the sitting test, but it’s worth it. The straps are delicate, one dotted with four wooden bead accents that catch the light.
When I open the door, Noah’s standing there, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a bottle of wine. His green eyes move over me for a beat, maybe two, and his lips press into a soft smile.
“Too much?” I ask.
He blinks like he’s snapping out of something. “No. You…” He clears his throat. “You look beautiful.” The way he says it makes my stomach flutter.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice a little softer than I intended. “You look nice, too.”
And he does. He’s wearing a well-fitted light blue button-down, sleeves rolled, and tan pants. There’s something about the way he holds himself that makes the world around him blur.
“OVC’s just a ten-minute beach walk if you’re up for it?” I ask, slipping my phone into my purse.
“Oh yeah, that sounds nice.” He kisses my cheek as he steps inside.
“Same bottle you had at White Cottage. I figured it passed the test,” he says as he sets the bottle on the entry table.
“It did. But just so you know, you don’t need to bribe your way in.” I smile, grabbing my sandals and leading him through the house and out the back door. The breeze brushes the back of my neck, making me glad I pulled my hair up.
The sand is still warm and packed beneath our feet, the sky above us soft velvet, a few stars already visible. The kind of night that feels stolen from a dream.
“You always dress like this for dinner?” Noah asks, a smile pulling at his mouth.
“Only when I like my company,” I reply, grinning.
“Oh,” he says, mock-surprised. “So you do like me.”
I bump his arm and wink. “I meant Kate.”
I slow my pace and tilt my head up. “Look,” I say, pointing. “The Big Dipper.”
He follows my finger and studies the sky. “I used to work at a planetarium,” he says.
I turn to him, surprised. “Wait, seriously?”
“Yeah. Sound design. I spent a whole summer trying to figure out what space sounds like.”
“That’s so cool,” I say, awed. “So…what does it sound like?”
He grins as he puts his hands in his pockets. “Mostly layered synths, deep reverb, and a few eerie wind effects. My proudest track was a piece I called ‘Saturn’s Breath.’”
I laugh. “That is so specific.”
“The assignment was ‘make people feel wonder.’ I overshot it and probably gave them minor existential dread.”
“I’d pay to hear that.”
He nudges me gently with his shoulder. “Careful. I might still have the files.”
We walk in comfortable silence. Without a word, Noah reaches for my hand. He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t acknowledge it. Just threads his fingers through mine like we’ve always held hands on moonlit beaches.
Dinner unfolds in a haze of stories, laughter, and too many shared plates passed around.
Not once do I feel like an outsider. Noah’s friends are warm in that unforced, genuine way that makes you forget you haven’t known them forever.
Which is a relief after my hesitation over joining their last dinner.
We’re tucked beneath a clear tent on the patio, the waves crashing just beyond the edge, the lanterns strung overhead casting a soft amber glow across the table. It catches on wine glasses, on the hoops in Kate’s ears, and in Noah’s hair every time he leans closer.
And he does lean closer. Often. I’m seated between Kate and Noah, but it’s Noah I’m acutely aware of. The way his knee keeps brushing mine beneath the table, like we’re on the same frequency. The way his fingers graze my hand mid-story, tracing lazy, absentminded circles on my palm.