Chapter 4 Nathan
Nathan
The first thing I notice about the new studio is the way the light migrates, hour by hour, from the far-right window to the left, dragging the horizon with it.
I’ve spent the morning tracking its path, aligning easels and half-unpacked canvases to catch the blunt yellow spill.
The room itself is twice the size I’m used to, complete with echoing floors, scuffed walls, the faint smell of old turpentine and fresh paint.
I set a row of empty jars on the edge of the worktable, rinse them under the sink, and towel them dry.
My hands still remember the move from Charlotte, bubble-wrapping my entire life into boxes, labeling them in a handwriting I barely recognize.
Fragile, Bedroom, Studio. Each word a minor betrayal, a reminder of what I’d left behind and what I still owed to someone who had once considered me indispensable.
The seascape waits for me on the easel, half-finished.
I circle it like a suspicious dog, stepping back, squinting, testing my own resolve.
The sky is wrong. Too clean, too sterile, a digital blue that doesn’t exist for screensavers and airline brochures.
I load the brush with cerulean and titanium, drag it horizontally, then vertically, then horizontally again, trying to pull some weight into the upper third of the canvas.
I want it to look like it feels outside, which is to say, not beautiful but urgent, the whole world threatening to evaporate in a single gust.
Charlotte is still with me, of course. Not the city itself but the phantom ache of the life I’d assembled there.
The high-rise apartment, curated down to the mid-century credenza and the bowl of unripe fruit.
The assurance at parties of always being “Nathan, the finance guy, but also an artist, did you know that?” The clockwork precision of waking at six, running before work, the Friday gallery crawls, the occasional weekend trip to the mountains. None of it had survived the rupture.
Now, the only clock is the one inside my head, and it runs on guilt, regret, and the occasional surge of panic.
A palette knife falls to the floor, and I crouch to retrieve it, knees popping in protest. On my way up I catch a glimpse of my own reflection in the studio window.
My hair is longer than it’s ever been, shirt spattered with Prussian blue, mouth set in a line I don’t remember learning.
I look older, which makes sense, but I also look something else.
Less domesticated. I try to decide if I like it.
Back at the easel, I tackle the horizon line.
It refuses to sit still, keeps threatening to slide up or down, obliterating the illusion of depth I’m supposed to be creating.
I realize that the ocean doesn’t have a horizon.
It’s all horizon, an infinite plane of division.
Maybe that’s why I came here, to stare at a boundary that never resolves, to stand on the edge of something and not be asked to cross it.
When the paint begins to congeal, I switch to the smaller brushes, detailing the foam and the suggestion of wind in the grass.
I lose track of the hour, which is both a relief and a threat.
The longer I stay here, the more likely I am to convince myself that this, the act of making and remaking the same strip of coastline, is enough.
The jar of turpentine turns a cloudy blue.
I swap it for fresh, then set the dirty liquid on the windowsill where it will catch the light and refract into a watery prism.
It’s only when I reach for the palette that I see the old watch sitting in the supply bin.
The band is leather, or was, once. Now, it’s cracked and blotched with oil paint, the face frozen at 7:04.
I don’t remember putting it there. I pick it up, trace a finger around the bezel, then toss it back in.
It lands atop my old business card holder, which now does service as a tube squeezer for the more stubborn paints. I like to think this is progress.
The last time I saw her—Melissa, not the watch—we met in a park halfway between her office and my apartment.
It was August, still fever-hot, and we sat on separate benches like defendants at our own trial.
She wore her black glasses, the ones that made her look both severe and heartbreakingly young, and talked about “next steps.” I nodded, and apologized, and tried to remember when exactly I’d become so replaceable.
Now, I fill the silence with the drag of brushes and the shifting palette of the morning.
Outside, the wind threatens rain. The colors on the canvas darken in anticipation.
I’m losing the battle for realism but gaining something else, a rough vitality that I don’t quite know how to name.
I step back and try to see the work as a stranger might. I fail.
The sound of footsteps catches me off guard.
The boardwalk is mostly empty. The locals are still bundled up against the spring chill.
A moment later, a knock at the door. Not a polite, social knock, but a determined three-count.
I consider pretending I’m not here, but curiosity wins out, as it always does.
I set my brush down, wipe my hands on my jeans, and move to answer.
On the other side of the gallery door, I find a woman leaning on the jamb, chin lifted in appraisal.
She wears a pea-green windbreaker and old jeans cuffed above hiking boots, her salt-colored hair tucked behind her ears.
Up close, you can see the tiny tremor in her left hand, the way she corrects for it by clutching the handle of her oversized tote.
She smiles at me, businesslike, suggesting she’s already mapped out the next several minutes of our interaction.
“Mr. Garner,” she says, as if she’s been here dozens of times before. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” I motion her inside. “And it’s just Nathan.” I try to sound casual, but the paint on my forearm and the mess of brushes on every available surface conspire to make me appear more feral than professional.
She steps into the room and introduces herself. “I’m Sara Hastings. I live just down the coast. Where the lighthouse is.”
I remember the tall, white-and-black-striped beacon jutting out from the earth just a few miles away. “That’s a lovely area, Mrs. Hastings. Very scenic.”
“Please, it’s Sara,” she corrects, turning back to me. “So, do you actually paint here?”
“Yes, sometimes. I prefer being outdoors, but the weather doesn’t always cooperate.”
She moves past me to the easel and stops. I watch her take in the unfinished seascape, her gaze flitting between the brushwork and the actual shoreline visible through the windows.
“This is incredible.” She has the earnestness of a teacher or a nurse, someone whose compliments are a form of labor. “How do you do it? The way the light hits the water, the movement. It’s alive.”
I shrug. “Mostly it’s just staring at the real thing until I go cross-eyed.”
She laughs. “There are worse places to go blind.” She shifts her weight, favoring one leg, and sets her tote on a stool. “You’re new to the area, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am,” I reply, scratching the back of my neck, a nervous gesture that has followed me from childhood. “Moved here over the winter. Finally getting settled in.”
“Ah, welcome then.” Her gaze is now steady on me, and there's a curiosity in her eyes that seems to peer into my very soul. "Do you mind if I take a look around?”
“Be my guest.” As she moves about the studio, I find myself watching her as much as she's examining my work.
She's not like the patrons I was used to in Charlotte.
There's an authenticity about her, a realness that is refreshing. “Sorry for the mess. I’m still in the process of getting everything ready for opening day.”
She waves off the apology without turning, her attention caught by a sketch pinned to the cork board.
It's a rough study of a girl on a beach with her hair whipping about, her arms spread wide as if to embrace the oncoming wind. Sara pauses before it, her finger hovering mid-air as if tempted to trace the lines. “Who’s this?”
“My niece, Jordan. I sketched her last summer when we were at Kiawah Island.”
“Ah.” She lowers her hand from the sketch and continues perusing. “I suppose you can paint just about anything, can’t you? Figures, landscapes, seascapes.”
I shrug, a modesty reflex. “I guess. I paint whatever catches my interest, or whatever I’m commissioned to paint.”
Without turning away from the sketches and canvases leaning against the wall, Sara asks, "Have you ever painted a lighthouse?"
“I can’t say that I have,” I reply, upturned corners of my mouth betraying curiosity. “Why do you ask?”
Sara turns back to me, her eyes gleaming with an idea.
“Our lighthouse,” she starts, "has been standing tall for over a century.
It's an emblem of this town. Moreover, it holds a lot of personal significance for me. Believe it or not, I've lived in its shadow for more than half my life, and each day, it gives me something new to admire. I think it would make a wonderful subject for a painting. You have an incredible talent, Nathan, capturing moments and emotions in your work. I’d love to see what you can do with our lighthouse.”
I'm stunned by her proposal. Remembering my manners, I manage to stammer out, "I’d be honored.”
"Wonderful," she exclaims, clapping her hands together in anticipation. "When can you start?"
I scratch my chin thoughtfully, casting a final glance at the gallery still in disarray. There is a sense of urgency in her request, as if time is of the essence. “Soon. I just need to finish getting the gallery ready for next week’s grand opening. But after that, I could start right away.”
“Of course. Take your time. I wouldn’t want to interfere with your big day. When you’re ready, why don’t you come by for tea? I’ll give you a tour of the property and you can get a feel of the place.” She hands me a card with her address and phone number written in neat, elegant script.
“Sounds good. I’ll give you a call in a few days.”
"Excellent." She gathers her tote bag from the stool, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. "I'm looking forward to it.”
As she starts toward the door, I find myself watching her go.
There’s a grace to her movements, a steady undercurrent that speaks of a life deeply interwoven with this place.
“Sara,” I call out, prompting her to turn.
“Thank you. For dropping by and for sharing the idea. It’s…
well, it’s been a while since someone appreciated my work like this. ”
“It’s my pleasure. And thank you for accepting. You don’t know how much this means to me.”