3. Wendi
3
Wendi
The morning dragged on.
Three customers had wandered in, spent little, and left. A tourist picked up a lighthouse print. A high schooler tried (and failed) to haggle over paintbrushes. Mrs. Cooper, loyal as ever, bought paper for her grandson.
Total sales: Forty-seven dollars and sixteen cents—less than dinner for two at the bistro down the street.
Retirement by ninety-five?
Wendi turned to find Max on a cushion by the window, stretched out on his side. A patch of his hair caught the sunlight, and occasionally, his paws twitched as he dozed.
At least one of us is living the dream.
The shop phone hadn’t rung once all day. Not even one of those scam calls offering an extended warranty on a car she no longer owned. Her inbox wasn’t much better. No online orders, just a newsletter from the Chamber of Commerce recapping last week’s town hall meeting she’d missed.
Today’s inventory check had also been yet another exercise in denial. The high-quality watercolor paper—the expensive German kind professional artists favored—hadn’t sold a single sheet in months. Next to them, the handmade brushes from the artisan in Birmingham had become permanent fixtures in their display. Even the student-grade acrylics were collecting dust.
By 2:30 p.m., Wendi was setting up for the watercolor workshop. Two students had signed up—better than last week’s one, but still far from the twelve needed to turn a profit. She arranged brushes, filled water cups, and set out palettes like soldiers in formation. Then she reorganized the colored pencils one by one, ensuring each was perfectly parallel, even though no one had touched them in days. Back in New York, she’d had an entire team for this—visual merchandizing specialists who understood sightlines and customer behavior. Here, she only had instinct and hope, neither proving particularly effective for sales.
When the final pencil clicked into place, Wendi exhaled and stepped back. Hands on hips, she surveyed her handiwork. There was something soothing about it, the careful symmetry. The store might have been failing, but nobody would ever have guessed it from the way her displays looked.
Small wins.
The flyer on the door caught Wendi’s attention, Save The Shell printed at the top in bold, hopeful letters. She stared at the date.
Three more days.
She’d spent yesterday sorting through potential auction items—mostly her own pieces that hadn’t sold and a few donations from former students. Nothing that would command the kind of money The Painted Shell needed to survive. The stack looked pathetically small against the back wall. Her gaze lifted to the mural above it—the one she’d started the week she opened. A year later, it was still unfinished, much like everything she hadn’t gotten to.
This was it. Her last shot. If the auction failed, so did the shop.
She needed something big. Something to make people believe this place was worth saving.
The bell over the door jingled—a sound far more cheerful than Wendi felt—as Emma breezed in with a brown paper bag. A golden retriever trotted in beside her, tail wagging in a wide arc.
“Riley, careful,” Emma said, guiding him away from the shelves. Riley immediately spotted Max and bounded over.
Max jumped off his cushion and circled the much larger dog with excited little yips. Riley gave a gentle woof and rubbed noses with his tiny friend.
“Special delivery for His Royal Highness, Sir Max-a-lot,” Emma announced, swinging the bag. “Our new sweet potato and peanut butter treats—Riley-approved, four paws up.”
Max momentarily abandoned his playdate and scampered to Emma’s feet.
“You’re turning him into a treat snob,” Wendi said with a chuckle.
“We both know he deserves them for being the sweetest boy.” Emma hopped onto the stool behind the counter. “Alright, out with it. What’s the face about?”
“What face?”
“The ‘I’m fine, except I’m definitely not’ face.” Emma’s red hair flared like a struck match in the light as she leaned in. “Come on, we’ve been friends since we put worms in Joey Miller’s lunch box. You can’t hide from me.”
Wendi tugged at a loose thread on her shirt. “Laurel called. Made me an offer.”
Emma’s smile faltered. “And?”
“And ... it’s tempting. Better hours. More money. Three days in the city, one weekend a month, four days here. I could keep the cottage.”
“But that means going back to corporate. Remember what that did to you? The panic attacks? That night you called me in tears after—”
“I remember. I also remember paying bills without checking my account balance first.”
“Fair. Though I’ve noticed a suspicious lack of ramen in your pantry. Pantries don’t lie.”
“Still a ramen girl—for now. But last week, I put real vegetables in it. That’s growth.”
“Progress.” Emma smirked, then squeezed her arm. “Whatever you decide, I’m in your corner. But that store?” She nodded toward Barking Orders across the street. “Took me ten years to make it real. First two years? Nothing but pasta. My paycheck? Might as well have been Monopoly money.”
“Technically, ramen is pasta.”
“You know what I mean. Good things take time.” Emma glanced at her watch. “Oh shoot, I gotta go. Promised Luke and Jeremiah I’d grab lunch.”
“Yeah, I should probably eat something too. Good seeing you.” Wendi stepped closer to hug her friend.
Emma whistled for Riley, then held up a hand. “Wait—before I go, we must uphold the sacred handshake. As decreed in the Officially Official Redhead Rulebook , section three, paragraph two.”
“Ah yes, the code must be honored. The code is law, after all,” Wendi said, standing.
They launched into their ritual—three quick slaps, pinky hook, hip bump, and jazz hands finale—moving in perfect unison.
“Still flawless,” Emma said.
“Truly, our finest middle school accomplishment.”
Emma hugged her again. “Never forget—there’s two kinds of people in this world: Team Ginger and the unfortunate rest. We, my friend, are the chosen ones.”
Emma’s words stuck with her through the workshop. The two students, Mrs. Winters and Old Pete, seemed to enjoy creating seascapes. Wendi demonstrated how to layer paint to capture the transparency of waves while her thoughts ping-ponged between her life in Hadley Cove and Laurel’s offer.
“Oh dear, I’ve made a mess of it.” Mrs. Winters sighed, dabbing at a blob of white bleeding into her shoreline.
“That’s not a mistake—it’s an opportunity,” Wendi said. “Some of the best art comes from accidents.” She helped Mrs. Winters incorporate the “mistake” into a deeper wave shadow.
“You make it look easy, Wendi-girl,” Old Pete said, his hand hovering over his canvas.
Wendi smiled and adjusted the angle of his brush. “There. That should help.”
At the end of class, Mrs. Winters held her painting at arm’s length, beaming. “My granddaughter’s birthday is next month. I think she might actually want this one.” She carefully set it on the drying rack. “And I’ll bring Susan next time. She’s been looking for something to do since her husband passed.”
Wendi nodded, watching them gather their things. She’d heard these promises before—well-intentioned, but often forgotten. Still, Mrs. Winters had improved over the three sessions she’d attended. That had to count for something, right?
Old Pete placed his painting on the drying rack, making sure it wouldn’t touch the others. “Same time next week, Wendi-girl? Keeps these old hands from rusting up.” He tipped an imaginary hat and gestured to his painting with a wink. “Might even frame that one for the hallway.”
“Your spot’s safe, Pete.” A familiar warmth bloomed in Wendi’s chest as he straightened his coat and shuffled toward the door. She still remembered him changing her flat tire in the rain when she was seventeen, soaked but refusing help, with a simple, “That’s how we do things in this town, Wendi-girl.”
These small connections—they didn’t pay the bills, but they mattered in ways she couldn’t quite articulate.
Amber light glowed along the path as Wendi and Max made their way to the secluded cove. The hidden spot required traversing a narrow path through dune grass and around rocks that discouraged tourists. Beyond the jagged rocks, the tide pools near the outcrop had been miniature universes to her younger self—ecosystems she’d study for countless hours, filling sketchbooks with drawings of waves, birds, starfish, and tiny crabs.
A breeze rolled in from the water, carrying the distinctive scent of low tide. Sea oats swayed, creating a rustling soundtrack that never failed to calm her. Plovers skittered along the wet sand, leaving tiny three-pronged tracks that disappeared with each wave.
“We’re here, boy.” Wendi kicked off her sandals, sinking her toes into the cool sand. Max explored nearby while she settled onto a flat rock. Opening her sketchbook, she began translating the ocean’s movements into lines and shadows on the paper. Her thoughts shifted to the treasure tin she had buried decades before.
It was long gone—she’d looked for it when she moved back last year. She’d half-expected to find it still there. Though the childhood beach treasures were gone, the spot remained the same.
Her pencil paused mid-stroke. The boy in the funeral clothes flickered in her mind—standing at the shore, thirty-six years ago, while the man—his dad, she’d assumed—scattered ashes into the waves. Over the years, she’d wondered about him. She hoped he was okay wherever he was now. Sometimes she imagined him grown, perhaps with children of his own, maybe even telling them about the girl who’d given him a “magic” shell on the worst day of his life.
The sketch beneath her hands had taken shape—not just waves now, but the precise spot where the sky met water, that liminal space where elements merged.
Two weeks to decide.
Memories of her Manhattan life surfaced—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing a sliver of Central Park, the doorman who’d always greeted her by name, the espresso machine that had cost more than her first month’s rent in Hadley Cove, the wardrobe of tailored suits in neutral tones, the reservations at restaurants with month-long waiting lists, and the contacts who could get her into any event.
Going back to Pinnacle meant security—a steady paycheck and health insurance that actually covered things. The salary Laurel offered would not only erase her cash flow problems, but she could also keep the cottage and The Painted Shell open, even if it was only part time. No more anxiety when the electric bill arrived. No more mental musical chairs about which debt to tackle first. No more ramen dinners.
But it would mean returning to a world where colleagues had watched her hyperventilate during the brand relaunch, where her divorce from James had fueled months of gossip. Where her creativity had been limited to finding new ways to say “exclusive,” “luxurious,” and “world-class” without sounding repetitive, and spinning control for wealthy guests who thought their minor inconveniences were catastrophes.
Who had she been there? Just another face in the blur of a morning commute? Another overworked professional eating takeout alone at her desk? When had success started to feel so ... hollow?
Wendi stared out at the water. Here in Hadley Cove, she created art that spoke to her soul. She taught others to find their creative voice. She woke to the sound of waves instead of honking taxis. She had time to breathe, to heal.
It also meant the dwindling savings account despite her best efforts, credit card debt mounting each month, and the fear that another slow season would sink everything.
A year ago, the choice had been easy. Now? Not so much.
Wendi knew some decisions didn’t come with a right answer. Just a choice, and the hope that you could live with it.
Security or passion? Structure or freedom? The devil she knew or the dream she’d been fighting for? Safety had never felt like freedom. And freedom had never felt safe.
She closed her sketchbook with a sigh, brushed sand from her capris, and stood. The last of the daylight had faded, and the first stars emerged, dotting a sky washed in violet and gold. In the distance, a boat’s flickering lights cut through the darkening waters.
“Time to head home, boy.”
Silence.
“Max?” She turned in a slow circle, scanning the beach—empty sand, endless ocean. A flutter of unease rippled through her chest. “Max!”
She hurried toward the dunes where she’d last seen him sniffing a clump of sea grass. Nothing.
Further up the beach? Empty.
Back toward the path? Not there either.
Her pulse hammered in her ears. Max never wandered far. He had to be close. She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Max, want a treat?”
The familiar phrase that always grabbed his attention had to work, right?
She listened, straining against the sound of waves. Nothing.
Scenarios flashed through her mind—Max swept out by a wave. Max falling into a crevice between rocks. Max taken or worse ...
“Max!” His name tore from her throat, sharper now.
Wendi fumbled for her phone, flicked on the flashlight, and swept it beneath the rock outcropping. Just sand.
She sprinted along the shoreline, calling his name, pausing between calls to listen for the faint jingle of his collar tags. “Please, Max! Where are you?”
No pattering of paws. No scampering black blur.
Nothing.