Chapter 5 Nathan
Nathan
After spending the weekend unpacking and getting the gallery ready for opening day, I call Sara first thing Monday morning. I tell her I’m ready to visit whenever she is. Her voice sounds airy, her mood light as she accepts the invitation.
“Can you be at my place by ten? Bring your sketchbook. We’ll do a tour, maybe get some ideas in your head.”
I try not to sound overeager. “Of course. Ten is perfect. Just let me take care of a couple of things here, and I’ll be on my way.”
The drive is shorter than I think. Sara’s house sits at the far edge of the island, a quarter-mile of sand path winding through beach plum and thistle, the air glittering with the salt haze of evaporating surf.
I follow the directions she texted, right at the wind-scoured mailbox, left at the dilapidated fence with its collection of seashells and driftwood.
The house is visible from a distance, a hulking block of green and gray against the dun-colored hill, the lighthouse looming in the background like a silent sentinel.
Sara is waiting for me on the porch as I pull to a stop, a mug balanced on her knee. She’s swapped the windbreaker for a cashmere sweater and is wearing a pair of faded jeans. She waves me up, then disappears inside, leaving the door ajar.
“I brought muffins,” I say, following her into the foyer.
“Bribery. Smart man.” She sets the basket of muffins down on the side table, then says, “Let’s give you the grand tour.”
The house is a tangle of cozy rooms and vaulted hallways, each wall packed with paintings, sketches, and multicolored mosaics. A library is crammed with volumes of literature, from Shakespeare to Huxley. There’s even an entire section dedicated to art history.
“Wow. So, you’re an enthusiast of both art and literature,” I say, taking in the enormity of her collection. “Quite impressive.”
“Actually, my late husband was the art aficionado. I, on the other hand, am the book worm.”
“I see. Well, you know what they say—’art and literature often go hand in hand.’”
“Indeed they do.”
Sara moves with a practiced efficiency, sliding between the narrow spaces like she’s memorized the obstacles.
“This is the main house. My husband and I designed this together. This part”—she gestures around—“this is where we lived and loved. Our little sanctuary.”
She leads me past the kitchen to the sunroom, where the entire eastern wall is glass. Beyond it, you can see the dunes tumbling down toward the water, the lighthouse steady on its outcrop.
“There it is,” she says, setting her mug on the windowsill and gesturing to the lighthouse.
“It’s stunning.”
She leans against the counter, studying me. “There’s a tenant in the guest cottage,” she says. “Her name’s Diane. Writer, former journalist. Keeps to herself.”
I nod, not sure what response is appropriate.
“She’s nice…and quiet. She’s working on a novel, something about second chances and reinvention. You’ll probably cross paths if you’re here long enough.” Sara says it with a deliberate casualness, like she’s laying down a chess piece and then glancing away.
I follow her to the back porch, where the world opens to a ragged sweep of wind-torn grasses, the blue-white concussion of the ocean, the sky already bruising with the promise of afternoon storms. Sara points toward the lighthouse.
“Want to walk up? Or do you want to sketch from here?”
I hesitate, tempted by the idea of staying in her sunroom and just watching the water mutate by the minute. But the horizon tugs at me. “Let’s go see it up close.”
The path to the lighthouse is not a path so much as a succession of trampled grass and soft sand, interrupted by splintered driftwood, and the occasional skeletal remains of a crab.
The wind batters us from the south, smelling of salt and tar.
Sara walks slower than before, careful and deliberate, but never complains.
“You’re probably wondering about the gait,” she says. “It’s called chorea. Latin for ‘dance.’ My brain thinks I should be dancing all the time, so my legs don’t always listen. It’s supposed to get worse, but the experts keep revising that timeline, so I just live in the here and now.”
I feel a prickle of embarrassment for noticing, but she waves it away. “If I didn’t mention it, you’d be staring anyway. This way, you can just watch the lighthouse instead.”
Passing by the cottage, I catch a glimpse of a woman on one of the Adirondack chairs, her fingers dancing over the keys of a laptop. Diane, I presume. She doesn’t look up from her work, completely engrossed in her own world.
We continue our walk in silence. The sand becomes finer as we approach the lighthouse, each step sinking into the grainy surface.
We reach the base, a squat cylinder striped in black and white.
Sara touches the worn brick, then tilts her head up to the windows at the top.
“My husband used to bring me here on storm days. Said the building was luckier than most. It never even lost a shingle.” She looks over at me, her eyes sharp and amused.
“He was wrong, by the way. It lost plenty. But sometimes it’s better to let the legend win. ”
I get out my sketchbook, trying to keep my lines loose, fluid.
The light keeps shifting, cloud and sun dueling in the high air.
Sara watches, occasionally pointing out the way the doorframe tilts, the green stain where moss creeps up the foundation.
She tells stories as I draw, about the volunteer who once camped here for a week during hurricane season, about the teenagers who spray-painted a proposal on the seaward face.
We circle the building, then start the slow walk back.
The conversation slides from local gossip to the history of the island, to Sara’s own biography in fragments.
She tells me about her time in law school, her years in Tennessee, and her marriage to Andrew.
She edits her life as she narrates, making the worst parts sound either funnier or less important.
We pass the cottage once more. Diane has abandoned her laptop and is now standing on the porch with a raised hand in greeting.
"Sara," she calls out, her tone warm and familiar.
Sara answers back with an equally friendly wave. "Diane! Meet my new friend.”
Diane's eyes land on me, and there's a slight pause as she takes me in. As she approaches, I notice the way she appraises me, with the clinical detachment of someone who’s probably spent too much time interviewing strangers.
“Diane, this is Nathan Garner,” Sara says. “He’s the one I was telling you about… The artist. He’s agreed to paint the lighthouse for me.”
“Oh, how lovely. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Nathan. I'm sure Sara's been regaling you with tales of the island and its interesting inhabitants."
"Interesting is certainly one way to describe it," I reply.
“Diane is from Charlotte too,” says Sara.
“Really?”
“Albemarle, actually,” Diane says. “But close enough.”
I blink at the coincidence. “Well, I guess what they say about small worlds is true.”
“Indeed,” Sara says, her eyes crinkling in amusement. “Well, Nathan, shall we continue?”
The three of us part ways, Diane returning to her porch, while Sara and I continue back toward the main house.
"Sara, this place… It's incredible. I can't wait to get started on some sketches."
As we ascend the hill, Sara gives me a wily smile. “She’s quite a sight, isn’t she?”
The way she says it, I’m not sure if she means the lighthouse or Diane.
We settle at the porch table, and Sara pours tea into mismatched mugs.
The conversation stays easy, as if we’ve known each other longer than a few hours.
She asks about my family, my last job, my earliest memory of the ocean.
She doesn’t judge, just catalogues, storing each answer for later.
Occasionally, her gaze drifts to the guest cottage, as if tracking the passage of its elusive inhabitant.
I ask her about Diane, and her expression turns thoughtful.
“Diane… She’s a good woman, still finding her footing after some personal setbacks.
But she’s resilient. She’s been here a couple of years now.
I invited her here to write my memoir, then asked her to stay.
” Sara sips her tea, glancing toward the cottage.
“She and her daughter. And I’m glad I did.
I think they’ve found a certain peace here on the island. ”
“Daughter?”
“Yes, Cassie. She’s thirteen. Bright as a button and just as sharp. She has dreams of being a scientist one day.”
“That's a wonderful dream. My mother was a scientist. A biologist, actually. She used to take me to the ocean and explain all about the mysteries beneath the surface.”
“Is that why you chose Kitty Hawk for your gallery? Because of your mother?”
“In a way, yes. The ocean was always her place of peace. It’s where she found her inspiration, her joy. I guess I wanted to feel close to her somehow. Even though she’s gone, I wanted a piece of that peace, that joy.”
We finish our tea, and Sara stands, gathering the empty cups. “You should come back tomorrow. If the weather holds, you’ll want to catch the light just after sunrise. It’s when the whole island glows, even the ugly parts.”
She walks me down the porch, then pauses. “Diane’s single, by the way.” It catches me off guard, and I’m not sure how to respond. But before I can, she continues. “In case you were wondering.”
With that, she turns back to the house and leaves me standing there, watching the swirl of sea and sky, the lighthouse steadfast in the distance.
The words "Diane's single" echo in my mind, mingled with the crash of waves and the distant call of a seagull.
I'm not sure why Sara thought it necessary to share that information, but it adds another layer of intrigue to my day.