Chapter Thirteen
I SHOULD BE PAINTING. TECHNICALLY, I AM PAINTING.
THERE’S A canvas in front of me, a mix of blushy pinks already layered across the surface, the start of another shoreline study.
This whole collection is supposed to feel like Harbour Island: soft mornings, salt-stiff breezes, that impossible blue the water turns an hour before sunset.
It’s the first time I’ve ever tried to bottle a place I know so well.
And maybe that’s why it’s gotten slippery. Every time I dip into a color, my mind ricochets somewhere else.
Looming pressure doesn’t help. The show will hang at Graham Vale’s house.
The legendary Graham Vale, who somehow knows my work.
Where editors, collectors, and everyone on this island with deep pockets will drift through the rooms with strong opinions, loudly shared.
People collect photographs of this island because they want to own a piece of it.
I’m trying to paint mine because I want to feel closer to Gran, the legacy she left behind, the brushstrokes I can’t ask her about anymore.
I’m set up on my back patio wearing a bikini, trying to catch a little sun.
The breeze carries in the scent of sunscreen and a whiff of grilled pineapple from somewhere down the beach.
It’s distracting in the best way. Harbour Island is like that.
You might come here with plans, and then the island laughs and hands you a Goombay Smash instead.
I’m running out of time, too. Sloane, Dinah, and Thomas are coming over at six for Mahjong.
That gives me an hour. Which technically means I could get another layer down on this painting, if only I’d stop wondering whether the familiar grilled pineapple scent is coming from the house two doors down and start moving the brush in my hand.
Noah called this morning and invited me out on the boat with his friends in a couple of days.
A barbecue on Sand Dollar Beach. And then there’s the rainstorm with Jack.
It’s been nearly a week but my brain hasn’t stopped replaying that night.
What almost happened. What I wanted to happen.
But maybe it doesn’t matter, because I haven’t heard from Jack since.
I sigh and dip my brush again, this time pulling in a sharper line of indigo across the water. A little contrast. A little clarity. I tell myself I’ll stay out here twenty more minutes, then shower and slice some limes.
I HAVE THE DOORS THROWN OPEN, AND THE WAVES MINGLE WITH the Coldplay mix coming from the speaker.
I’ve mixed a batch of coconut margaritas with pineapple garnishes, a bowl of my legendary French onion dip, which is really just a packet mixed with sour cream, and Sloane’s favorite kettle chips, dressed up in a stoneware dish.
Thomas arrives first, all but two shirt buttons undone, a large bowl in hand.
“So you did make the guacamole,” I exclaim in greeting, accepting the dish like it’s the gift from the gods that it is.
“I told you I would,” he admonishes me.
Sloane and Dinah show up together a few minutes later as Thomas and I set up the tiles.
Sloane’s sun-kissed brown bob skims her shoulders, accentuating her collar bones.
Dinah’s long dark hair is wrapped up in a high bun, showcasing a caftan that looks casual but I know probably costs as much as a vacation.
“Okay,” Sloane leans forward as she begins dealing, eyes glittering. “I have sip sip. Did you hear who was at lunch at The Dunmore today?”
I smile at Sloane’s use of the Bahamian phrase for gossip as Thomas theatrically chimes in, “Please say someone famous. I’m starved for a celeb sighting.”
Sloane grins. “Oh, he’s famous. Very famous. A certain British singer with phenomenal fashion sense who Dinah’s mildly obsessed with.”
She can only be talking about one person. My head whips toward Sloane as Dinah gasps and nearly jumps out of her chair. “You’re lying!”
“I swear on my new Missoni bikini,” Sloane says, holding up a hand. “He walked in with two guys and a girl, low key, sunglasses, oversized hat, but it was him. He chatted with an older couple while waiting for his table and told the server to bring them a round on his tab.”
“No,” I whisper. “That’s so charming. He’s not allowed to be so cute and talented and charming.”
“Apparently he ordered grilled lobster and a Pellegrino,” Sloane says. “And then he tipped like two hundred dollars.”
Thomas whistles low. “Honestly, I’d marry him for that alone.”
“Same,” Dinah mutters, leaning back dramatically. “The moral of the story is never skip The Dunmore.”
We all nod solemnly. Harbour Island’s magic isn’t just the pink sand and colorful historic cottages. It comes in many forms, one being that your celeb crush could casually show up at lunch.
Thomas claps once. “Shall we?”
As we play, I am very clearly not paying attention. I discard tiles without looking, repeatedly forget it’s my turn, and nearly knock my drink over twice.
Dinah eventually levels me with a loving but exasperated glare. “Out with it. Now. Before I pelt you with Mahjong tiles.”
Sloane hums thoughtfully. “I give her two minutes before she cracks.”
“I give her thirty seconds,” Thomas says, not even looking up from arranging his tiles.
I hold my hands up in defeat. “Fine. Noah invited me to a beach BBQ on Sand Dollar Beach.”
Everyone stares at me, clearly underwhelmed.
“That’s it?” Thomas asks. “That’s the big distraction?”
Dinah narrows her eyes. “Was it like a sexy invite or a ‘bring a side dish’ invite?”
“It was…a cute invite,” I admit.
Sloane shrugs. “Okay. Not nothing, but not panic-inducing, Lucy.”
I chew my lip. “…And a week ago, Jack and I almost kissed on the way home from drinks.”
Thomas lets out a strangled noise and dramatically faints out of his chair, one hand clutching his chest. “Tell my mother I died doing what I loved. Gossiping.”
Dinah’s eyes narrow. “Back up. Drinks?”
“At Rock House,” I say. “With his clients. He brought me along because he knew I loved the wife’s books. So he sort of surprised me.”
Sloane smiles slowly. “Jack surprised you with drinks with one of your favorite authors?”
I nod. “He said he thought I’d want to meet her.”
Thomas presses a hand to his chest. “Oh honey.”
“And then you almost kissed,” Dinah says carefully.
“In a rainstorm,” I add. “Like a full, cinematic rainstorm. It was really hot.”
Dinah and Sloane exchange a loaded look that makes my stomach flip.
“And it was really confusing,” I finish. “And we haven’t spoken since.”
Sloane’s eyes soften. “Of course you’re confused.”
“I don’t know how to feel about any of it,” I admit. “Noah feels easy. Jack feels…like Jack.”
Thomas pats my hand. “Ah yes. The most dangerous feeling of all.”
Dinah points at me, and I brace myself. “You don’t have to know,” she says firmly. “And you haven’t made anyone any promises.”
She pauses, making sure I’m listening. “But you do need to make one promise to yourself. Don’t be scared of what your future could look like. Whether it’s with someone new…”
Sloane picks up seamlessly, “…or with someone we all know is still very much in love with you.”
I cover my face with my hands. “You think he is?”
Thomas snorts. “Lucy, he’s been over here fixing things around your house and telling the entire island about your art show. That man is down bad.”
I laugh despite myself, something in my chest loosening picturing Jack telling people about my art.
Dinah reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You’re allowed to be messy. But just make sure you’re honest with yourself.”
Thomas raises his coconut margarita. “To being messy.”
We clink glasses. And Dinah’s right. I’ve made no promises.
Not to Noah. Not to Jack. Just to myself.