9. Wendi
9
Wendi
Wendi eased her car behind Miles’s truck and cut the engine. A cottage stood outlined against the darkening sky. She slung her purse over her shoulder and stepped out. Shell wind chimes clinked on a porch where a rocking chair sat beside an old cooler. Waves crashed steadily beyond the house.
She followed the sandy path to the porch, barely reaching the welcome mat before Miles pulled open the door.
“Fair warning—this place isn’t exactly HGTV material.”
“Join the club. My place looks like a tornado went through it.”
She walked inside—and froze. Paintings crowded the space, leaning against walls, stacked on tables, propped on chairs. Landscapes, seascapes, and still lifes in watercolor, acrylic, and oil. Between them—pill organizers, sticky-note reminders, and a whiteboard calendar with appointments color-coded.
Arthur stood at an easel by the window. When he saw them, he beamed. “There she is!”
“Hey, Arthur.” Wendi stepped closer.
“Ah, ah—no peeking.” He shot her a wink. “Big reveal on Wednesday.”
“The one you mentioned earlier?”
He dipped his brush in water. “That’s the one.”
“We should start sorting these if we want to finish tonight,” Miles said, motioning toward the stacks.
“Take whatever speaks to you,” Arthur said. “Miles knows my best work.”
They settled on the floor beside the first stack. Wendi lifted each canvas with care, taking in Arthur’s brushwork. Again and again, the cove appeared—dawn, dusk, summer, winter—the same shore, yet captured differently each time.
Their fingers grazed as they reached for the same one. A small spark zipped through her. Wendi glanced up quickly, surprised by how close they were sitting now, knees almost touching.
She cleared her throat. “This one belongs in the auction.”
They continued in silence, separating the pieces into piles. Sifting through them, Wendi noticed Miles setting aside certain ones with strange color choices. No comment. No explanation. Just a quiet decision. She told herself it wasn’t her business to ask.
Finally, they moved to a collection of still lifes.
Then she saw it .
Her breath caught. A small painting of a metal tin with its lid open. Inside, lay a piece of sea glass, a sand dollar, and a shark tooth.
No way.
Her hand hovered over the canvas. “Arthur, what’s the story with this one?”
Arthur looked up. “Found it a couple years back, near the cove. Neat tin. Decided to paint it.” He stood, moving to a nearby shelf. “Still have it somewhere ...”
He rummaged around briefly before producing it, dented but unmistakable. He cradled it for a moment, almost like a treasure, before opening it. Inside, the contents were exactly as she remembered.
But no spiral shell.
The memory struck with unexpected force. For a moment, she was back there—the boy, the beach, his tear-streaked face, the way he held the shell to his ear.
A voice yanked her back.
“You okay?” Miles asked.
“Just admiring the detail.” She managed a smile, though it felt brittle.
She couldn’t bring herself to explain—to tell them what the tin had meant, what it had once held, and how it had made her feel. Instead, she watched as Arthur handled it with a tenderness that made her heart ache. It belonged to him now, and she was okay with that.
“Going to read a few chapters of that mystery novel before I turn in,” Arthur said, setting the tin back on the shelf.
“Need anything?” Miles asked.
Arthur clasped his son’s shoulder as he passed. “I’ve still got a few good years in me, you know. But don’t keep her up too late—you both look like you need some sleep.”
After Arthur disappeared down the hallway, they continued sorting through paintings. Wendi caught herself watching Miles—how his lips pressed together when he focused, the faint crease between his brows and the careful, almost reverent way he held each canvas. Her eyes wandered to the scar on his forearm that ran from the crook of his elbow to his wrist.
Without thinking, her fingers moved, reaching out and tracing the scar.
Miles went still. “House fire. I was ten.”
She quickly withdrew her hand. “That must’ve been awful. I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright. Just one of those things.” He reached for another canvas, the topic clearly closed.
She took the hint. “So how’d you end up in Atlanta?”
“Born and raised. Never left.” Miles paused, glancing at her, then back to the canvas in his hands. “And you? How’d a small-town girl end up running PR in Manhattan?”
Wendi smiled. The answer felt simple and complicated. “Pure stubbornness. Growing up, all I wanted was out of this town. Funny how life turns out.”
“Sounds like the shop brought you back to what you love.”
“That was the plan.” She leaned back against the couch. “Here’s my Hallmark movie pitch: Small-town girl comes home, opens dream business, finds herself again.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
“Finding myself? Some days, yeah. The business? Not so much. If the auction flops, that’s it. I’m done for.”
“Then what?”
“My old boss called on Sunday with a job offer. Better hours, more money. Everything I should want ...” Her shoulders slumped.
“But?”
“Leaving feels like giving up.” The honesty surprised her. “But staying might be worse. At least financially.”
Miles seemed to study her. “Starting over takes guts. Seem’s like you’ve already done the hard part. That’s got to count for something.”
She tilted her head at his observation, free of judgment or advice. He made it sound so simple.
And just like that, James was in her head. She could almost hear him now, the way he’d leaned across their kitchen island years back when she’d mentioned wanting to leave her job at Pinnacle and open an art store in New York: “Wendi, you’re not thinking this through logically. You need more strategy. There are risks, and I’m not sure you’re accounting for them all. Let me explain how a business plan works ...”
The lectures always came sugarcoated in concern, but beneath that was something condescending, as if he were the only one capable of truly seeing the “right” way to handle things.
“Anything I can do?” Miles asked. “Want help setting up for auction?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
Miles placed a hand on hers. “I want to.”
For a beat, she could only stare at his calloused fingers resting on hers. A slow flutter unfurled in her stomach. He squeezed her hand lightly and the pressure of his fingers seemed to pull her closer, and for a second, she imagined leaning into him, letting the distance between them disappear completely. But then—he let go.
They pressed on, selecting eight paintings for the auction. The process felt almost ritualistic—choosing what would be seen and what would be remembered. Wendi’s mind worked methodically as she glanced over each piece.
She picked four of the cove during the day: early morning, midday brightness, late afternoon, and one with a soft storm rolling in. Those would offer a range of moods, she thought—serenity balanced by a bit of drama. Then, another two of the cove, this time at twilight in deep purples and blues—a more romantic feel.
Next, she chose a still life—wildflowers in mason jars, both inviting and personal. To round it out, she picked one of a small boat anchored just off the coast. Its soft pastel colors gave it a dreamlike quality.
Once they were done, Miles gathered the paintings, and they walked out the door toward her car. A canopy of stars shimmered overhead, glinting on the water. With each step, Wendi grew more aware of Miles—his height, the scent of bay rum and cedar, and the way his shoulder brushed hers. She tried to ignore it, but it was impossible .
A canvas slipped, and Miles caught it just before it hit the ground. The sudden motion brought them even closer.
Inches.
In the moonlight, his brown eyes gleamed, almost golden.
She couldn’t look away. Didn’t want to.
His gaze held hers—deep, steady, pulling her in.
Her pulse quickened.
But what? Was he waiting for her?
Her heart raced. Faster. Faster.
Her lips parted—just barely, just enough.
Closer. She could feel the heat of his breath.
And then—
“Miles?” Arthur’s voice called from the porch.
They sprang apart.
Wendi nearly tripped over her own feet as she jumped back. She let out a startled laugh that came out higher than intended.
“Did we check the mail today? My magazine should’ve come by now.”
“Yes, Dad, we did. It won’t get here until next Monday.”
“I do remember you saying that. Well, didn’t mean to interrupt. Oh yeah, one more thing. Tomorrow I’m going to show you both where I do my best work. How’s three sound, young lady?”
“That sounds perfect,” she called back.
Miles sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I should probably—”
“Of course.” She busied herself with opening the trunk.
When they finished loading the paintings, Miles shut it. “Glad you came over. Dad seems better when you’re around.”
“I mean, I am kind of wonderful.”
“More than kind of.”
She and Miles stood facing each other. What was the protocol here? They weren’t colleagues or just friends, but they weren’t ... whatever that almost-moment had been.
A hug? Full on or side hug?
A handshake? Please not a handshake.
The air between them felt charged—uncertain, waiting, stretching too long and too short.
Finally, he moved forward and wrapped his arms around her in a brief hug.
“See you tomorrow?” she asked, reluctantly pulling away.
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
She nodded, but didn’t step away. Neither did he.
“Well,” she said, jingling her keys. “Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight, Wendi.”
Another moment passed before he took a backward step toward the house. “Drive safe.”
Inside her car, she closed her eyes, tipping her head back against the seat.
Miles.
If Arthur hadn’t called his name ...
Her phone chimed, snapping her out of it. The screen glowed in the dark interior.
Laurel: Need your decision by Friday. The board wants someone this weekend, not the next, like I had said. They have a candidate they want to hire. I told them to wait until I heard back from you. Let me know either way.