6. Miles
6
Miles
Monday
Smoke clogged his lungs. Flames devoured the walls. The hallway stretched impossibly long.
“Mom!”
A faint cough—somewhere ahead.
He pushed forward, the heat searing his skin.
Then—there. Her silhouette against the inferno, reaching for him—
Above, a loud crack echoed. Embers rained down.
“Miles, now!” Her hands clamped onto his shoulders. “Go!”
“No! Mom, come with me!”
“I’m right behind you! Don’t worry!”
A final shove—the heat vanished instantly. Cold air rushed around him as he tumbled through the window. Behind him, a deafening crash.
The house caved in, fire swallowing it whole.
“Mom!”
Miles shot awake, tangled in the sheets, his heart pounding as sweat dripped from his neck.
Is that smoke?
He vaulted upright.
Not smoke ... burned toast.
From the kitchen, the usual morning noises drifted in—cabinets opening, water running, a spoon clinking against ceramic.
“Dad?” He swung his legs over the side of the bed, blinking away the remnants of the dream as the light of the room came into focus.
No answer.
Miles scrubbed a hand over his face, then grabbed a T-shirt from his duffel. He pulled it over his head, still half-asleep as he shuffled down the hall.
Good grief, what happened in here?
The kitchen looked like a war zone—toast crumbs scattered across the counter, coffee forming a small lake on the laminate, chunks of grapefruit pulp floating in puddles of pink juice that had escaped from an overturned pitcher. And in the middle of it all stood his dad, fully dressed in a button-up and pressed khakis, silver hair combed neatly to the side.
“Morning.” Arthur grinned. “Made breakfast.”
Miles eyed the blackened toast. “Yeah, I can see that.”
“We need to get going,” Arthur said, sliding a plate of charred toast over.
Miles blinked, feeling like he’d stepped into a sitcom. “Going where?”
“The Painted Shell.” Arthur sipped his coffee like this made perfect sense. “Redhead with the dog?”
Miles stared. His dad remembered Wendi, but he couldn’t remember where the bathroom was after asking three times last night.
“I hope they’ve got good brushes.” Arthur drained his mug in one gulp. “And I want to check out that class she mentioned.”
Miles had planned to tackle the jungle in the front yard and sort through the stack of mail on the table. But seeing his dad dressed and ready—it was the most present he’d been since Miles had arrived.
“Alright.” Miles sighed. “Let me shower first.”
By mid-morning, they were meandering down Main Street, the sun warming their faces. For a while, neither of them spoke—just walked side by side, taking in the salty scent of the sea mixed with the smell of freshly baked bread. It was the kind of morning that made the town feel like it belonged on a postcard.
“Morning, Tom,” Arthur called to a man sweeping outside the bakery. “Knee any better?”
“Better when I don’t think about it!” Tom called back with a hearty laugh, leaning on his broom. “Good to see you, Arthur. Don’t be a stranger now.”
“You know I can’t stay away from your sourdough. Until next time,” Arthur said, waving.
They continued along the cobblestone, passing Coastal Creations with its window display of handmade jewelry, then Sarah’s Sweets, where saltwater taffy sat alongside sugar cookies shaped like starfish, seashells, and sand dollars.
At a storefront with people on colorful mats visible through the windows, Arthur stopped.
“Hmm. Yoga by the Sea,” Miles said, squinting at the sign.
Arthur huffed. “People pay to stretch now?”
Miles bit back a smile, then they strolled down to the corner of Main and Maple where a coral building with a hand painted sign came into view: The Painted Shell. Sunlight glinted off the large front windows, where art supplies and coastal-inspired paintings were carefully arranged. Beneath one window, a wooden bench invited passersby to sit, watch the town go by, or maybe linger just a little longer.
Miles hesitated.
What if Wendi was just being nice? What if dad has a meltdown inside? What if—
“Come on.” Arthur was already tugging the door open.
A small brass bell chimed as they stepped inside. It smelled like cinnamon and vanilla, with a hint of coffee drifting from behind the counter. Barely audible classical music played from somewhere above. The shop was small but felt unexpectedly airy, thanks to high ceilings and windows flooding the space with sunlight. Every inch of the walls were put to use—paints arranged by color, brushes sorted by type, papers organized by weight and texture. A small gallery space showcased local art, while the back section held tables—likely for the classes.
Arthur made a beeline for the watercolors while Miles hung back. He noticed his dad pause in front of an easel displaying a seascape. After putting on his reading glasses, Arthur moved around it, examining the painting from different angles. When he made a full circle, he let his hand hover inches from the canvas, tracing the brushstrokes in the air. For a moment, Arthur looked like his old self—alive in the way he’d once been when art had been his life.
The sudden scrabble of paws against wood yanked Miles from his thoughts. His eyes darted to a cushioned bed near the window, which Max launched himself off and tore across the shop.
Miles braced himself, but the Yorkipoo blew right past him, circling Arthur’s legs with his tail swishing so hard his entire back end shook. The sight reminded him of his fully restored ‘66 Pontiac GTO fishtailing around corners when he’d been in high school.
Arthur kneeled, scratching behind Max’s ears. “Hey there, little fella. Remember me?”
“Oh!” a voice called from behind a curtain. “I thought I heard the bell.”
Wendi emerged, arms full of sketchbooks tied with twine. Her red hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, with strands hanging around her face. A smudge of blue paint marked her forearm. Her cheeks flushed as she spotted them.
“You actually showed up,” she said, wearing faded jeans and a green T-shirt that made her eyes—and the freckles across her nose—stand out even more.
“We said we might,” Miles said with a wink.
Did I really just wink?
He fought back a face-palm before realizing how different she looked in daylight—softer somehow. Prettier even. Gorgeous actually. It made him wonder what else there was to her he hadn’t noticed the first time ...
No, Miles. Stop.
“So the brushes ...” Arthur straightened. “The, uh ... you know, the—” He snapped his fingers. “Kolinsky sables with the red handles. You have those?”
Wendi’s eyebrows lifted. “Actually, everything here is vegan—you know, cruelty-free,” she said, opening a glass case and sliding out a drawer. “These came in last week. They mimic the same spring and control.”
Arthur plucked one of the brushes, bending the bristles. “Huh. Wouldn’t have known the difference.”
“Exactly. I never felt right about animals being harmed for art supplies—or anything else, really, even if it’s been the standard forever.”
“Don’t like the idea of animals being harmed either.” Arthur shook his head. “Never thought about it that way before.” He turned the brush over in his hand, seeming to examine it with a new appreciation. “Guess an old dog can still learn new tricks.”
Miles smiled and wandered over to the gallery wall. The paintings on it varied—some looked like they belonged in a museum, while others like someone was still figuring things out.
In the center, a beach scene drew his attention: the waves were a little too bright, the sky unnaturally blue, but the piece had a certain joy about it. Next to it, a still life of oranges in a bowl was so realistic, Miles almost thought he could smell the citrus. Another piece was more abstract—bold streaks of red and gold twisting across the canvas like fallen autumn leaves swept up in a breeze. He wasn’t sure if that had been the intent, but it worked. A few paintings had tiny yellow price tags on the corners.
Whoa. Do people really pay that much for this stuff?
When he glanced back, he noticed Wendi staring. She quickly tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then shifted her focus to his dad. “These are beautiful,” she said, flipping through a small sketchbook Arthur had pulled from his pocket. “You really capture the movement in the water.”
“Been painting that cove forever,” Arthur said. “Got stacks of paintings back home. Every season, every kind of weather. Even snow on the beach. Now that’d be a sight.”
“Really?” Wendi’s eyes widened. “I’d love to see them.”
Miles tensed.
His dad’s paintings were strewn about the beach house in various states. Some showed flashes of his old talent. Others were disjointed compositions, strange color choices, and sections left unfinished where it seemed he’d forgotten what he was doing.
“Actually,” Wendi said, setting the sketchbook down, “I’m hosting an art auction this Wednesday. Local artists are donating pieces to support our community programs.” She gestured toward the class area. “And, honestly, this shop needs—”
“I’ll be more than glad to donate some paintings, young lady,” Arthur said.
“That would be incredible.” Wendi stepped forward and gave Arthur a quick hug. “Thank you. Thank you so much!”
“It’s nothing. Got plenty of them collecting dust.” Arthur patted her on the back. “Art’s meant to be shared.”
Miles opened his mouth to intervene, but stopped himself. A part of him wanted to shield his dad from potential embarrassment. The other part couldn’t ignore how alive Arthur seemed in that moment. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything.
“The auction’s Wednesday evening,” Wendi said, glancing between them. “But we could look at the paintings before then? I could help select pieces that might work well.”
“We’d need to sort through them first,” Miles said.
Wendi nodded. “Of course. No pressure.”
She rang up Arthur’s selections—two brushes, a tube of cobalt blue, a small watercolor pad—while Arthur leaned over, letting Max lick his hand.
“Oh, almost forgot!” Wendi said, giving Arthur his change. “We’ve got an open class today at three. Super casual, with a few others. You’d be more than welcome.” Her eyes flickered to Miles. “Both of you.”
Me too?
For a moment, their eyes locked and his pulse quickened.
Miles cleared his throat. “We’ll see how the day goes.”
Arthur tucked his purchases into the canvas bag Wendi had provided and turned to Miles. “I’d like to come, son,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a new sense of purpose. “Been too long since I painted with other people.”
As their gazes met, Miles felt his chest tighten. In his dad’s eyes, he glimpsed a spark that had been missing for months. Maybe today wasn’t about finding new brushes. Maybe it was about finding the right moment—the one that could help his dad feel like himself again, even if only for a little while.
Miles held the door open, the bell jingling behind them as they left. Through the window, he caught Wendi watching them. He stared—just a beat too long—before turning away.
“Nice lady,” Arthur commented, shooting a wayward look at Miles as they walked back up Main Street. “Knows her stuff.”
“Yeah, she does.”
“Pretty too.” Arthur nudged him. “Maybe too pretty for this town.”
Miles smirked, keeping his eyes ahead. “So, you think the class is a good idea?”