Chapter 10 Diane
Diane
APRIL
The wind is strongest in the evening. It combs the dunes into long animal spines and tugs the hem of my skirt with insistent, invisible hands.
I’ve taken to walking the shoreline before dinner, telling myself it’s to “clear the head,” but really I’m hoping the ocean will drop a sentence or two at my feet, the way it coughs up blue crabs and sand dollars after a storm.
The sky over Kitty Hawk is in a mood, the clouds gathering and thinning in lopsided armies.
Far out, the horizon is a smudged charcoal line, and every so often, the sun slices through and throws a shimmer over the tidal pools.
I walk with my head half-cocked, alert for the next cracked clam, starfish, or a gull with the audacity to scream in my direction.
The beach is almost empty except for a young couple, their arms entwined in a way that says “new love.” Further up, a man walks his dog, the leash slack, both of them scanning the surf.
The only other figure is a speck near the water’s edge, hunched over a spread of white.
I squint, shielding my eyes from the low angle of the sun.
The silhouette is angular, a stick of a man, but the set of the shoulders, the reach of the arm—I know the shape of someone intent on getting things right.
I slow down when I realize it’s Nathan. He’s camped on a narrow outcrop, close enough to the water that his sneakers are spotted dark with spray.
A large pad of paper is balanced on his knees, anchored with his left hand while the right darts in quick, surgical movements.
I think about veering inland, giving him his privacy, but then he sees me.
He lifts the pencil in greeting, then pats the sand beside him as if inviting a stray cat to investigate.
I hesitate, heart shifting a gear, but the inertia of the day propels me forward.
I pick my way over the ripple-ridged sand, careful not to step on the rocks.
As I approach, Nathan flips the pad closed with a practiced gesture.
The cover is already flecked with dots of pigment, a stray thumbprint of indigo.
I realize with some embarrassment that I am about to see him in his element, and there’s nothing to hide behind.
“Hey,” he says, voice carrying over the wind. “You’re out late.”
“It’s not even five,” I say, settling onto the cool sand beside him. “Unless you’re still running on Charlotte time.”
“Nah, I gave up the city clock. I just meant most people avoid the wind at this hour. They don’t like getting sandblasted.”
“I like it,” I say, and it’s mostly true. “Makes you feel small in a good way.”
Nathan’s eyes go distant for a second, as if cataloging the sensation for future use. He taps his sketch pad. “You working?”
“Trying to,” I say, shaking my notebook as if the words might rattle into place. “So far it’s just shopping lists and half-assed metaphors.”
He laughs, a quiet, companionable sound. “Could be worse. I have a notebook that’s just grocery ads and directions to places I’ll never go.” He opens his pad again, but instead of sketching, he angles it toward me. “Want to see?”
I do, and I don’t. But I nod, and he flips to the top sheet, a sweep of coastline, rendered in hard pencil, with a flock of birds sketched above the horizon in loose, offhand gestures.
There’s something kinetic about it, like the whole thing is about to be whisked away by the next gust. Below the drawing, he’s written a date and two words: breaking weather.
“It’s beautiful.”
He shrugs. “It’s honest. Sometimes that’s all I’m aiming for.”
I search for something clever to say, and while I do, I can feel my own heartbeat in my fingers, so I busy them by digging a shallow furrow in the sand, tracing the edge of an old tide pool now gone to memory.
“Cassie has been going on and on about the gallery opening.
She won't stop talking about the paintings she saw… And the man who painted them.”
Nathan scratches his stubbled chin, a faint blush creeping up his cheeks. “Yeah? What did she say?”
“She was fascinated by how you captured the essence of this place. She said your art made people see the world the way she sees it, and how that made her feel less alone.”
He stops, pencil hovering over the sketchbook like a reluctant seagull. His smile is slight but genuine. "You know, Cassie has quite a talent herself. That girl can draw.”
The wind picks up, spinning a flurry of sand around our ankles. Nathan shields his pad with his arm, then offers it up for me to use as a windbreak. I accept, and the back of his knuckles brushes the heel of my hand. The contact is brief, but my skin registers it like a pinprick.
“So, what are you writing now?” he asks.
“Nothing, really. That’s the problem. It’s like my brain only wants to regurgitate the past, not actually process it.”
“You want to talk about it?”
I let out a slow breath, the kind you only take when you know someone’s actually listening.
“I keep trying to write about the move here, about what it means to start over after…” I trail off, not trusting myself with the specifics.
Nathan doesn’t push. Instead, he stares at the surf, watching the way the light fractures across the water. “After what?” he asks, gently.
I touch the notebook, thumbing its frayed corner. “After my husband died.”
Nathan's hand stills on his sketchbook, and he looks down at his feet buried in the sand. He doesn’t offer words of pity or awkward condolences, just a small nod of acknowledgment. It’s unexpected, but it offers a comfort I didn’t know I needed.
“I’m sorry,” he says finally, his voice so soft it almost gets lost in the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. “That’s… I can’t even imagine what it must be like.”
I shrug, looking out to where the sky meets the sea.
“Most days, I can’t either. It’s been almost three years, and sometimes it still feels like a dream.
Only when I wake up, he’s not there.” I draw a shaky breath, trying to steady the tremor in my voice.
"Sometimes I just…miss him. We both do. I just thought if I could…transplant us somewhere new, it would stop the ache. But it doesn’t.
It just moves it around, gives it a new landscape to dwell in. ”
“I get that.”
“You do?”
He shrugs. “My ex and I—long story—I thought relocating would wipe the slate. Turns out you can’t outrun your own story. It follows you, like sand in your shoes.”
“Yeah. Or like glitter from some party you left early. It shows up in your laundry months later, and you’re never sure who left it there.”
“You know, when I was in finance, everything was about closure. Balancing ledgers, making things add up. But art isn’t like that. Life isn’t either. It’s messier, and you have to live with the leftovers.”
I study him, the way he’s sketched his own hands on the edge of the paper—quick, sure, but not idealized. “I’m not used to the mess. I used to think if I organized things enough, they couldn’t hurt me.”
“How’s that working?”
“About as well as you’d expect.”
He shifts, drawing one knee up to his chest and wraps his arms around it. The gesture is oddly vulnerable, almost childlike. “You don’t have to be perfect. Not out here. You can let it be ugly. The ocean won’t judge you, and neither will I.”
I want to ask him how. How do you let the world see you messy and uncomposed, when every instinct is to curate, smooth the rough spots, stay ahead of the audit? But the words catch, and all I can do is nod, blinking against the wind.
Nathan seems to sense it, the way good listeners do. He sets his pad aside, pushes his hands into the sand, and stares out at the horizon. “Sometimes I imagine the ocean as a giant etch-a-sketch. Every tide wipes away what came before.”
“Except the plastic,” I say, too quick. “That sticks around forever.”
He laughs, and the sound is like a spark in the gathering dusk. “Fair enough. But you know what I mean.”
I do. And for a second, I let myself believe that maybe it’s possible to reset, to let the constant scrape of the world grind things into something new.
The sun dips lower, the sky turning the color of old peaches. A line of pelicans glides overhead, wingtip to wingtip, perfect in their ugly grace. The wind tugs at my hair, and I tuck it behind my ear, then realize my hand is trembling a little.
“Thank you,” I say, quietly. “For not making it weird.”
Nathan tilts his head, genuine confusion on his face. “Why would I?”
I want to explain, but the words seem less important than the feeling of not being alone on the sand, of not having to curate every molecule of myself.
He opens his pad again, tears off the top page, and folds it in half with careful precision. He hands it to me, the paper still warm from his hands. “Here. In case you need a fresh horizon.”
The drawing is better up close. There are corrections, ghost lines, the suggestion of something erased and tried again. I trace the edge of the cloud bank, the birds skimming just above the waves, and wonder what it would feel like to draw a new line every morning.
When I look up, Nathan is watching me. Not expectant, not searching, just present.
The wind shifts, stronger now, and sand needles at my shins. “I should head back,” I say, even though I don’t want to.
“Okay,” he says, but there’s a reluctance in the way he packs up, careful not to crush the remaining sheets. “Will you be around tomorrow? At home, I mean.”
“Yes. Sara’s teaching Cassie how to make saltwater taffy. Apparently it’s an essential life skill. Why do you ask?”
“I thought, if it’s not too much trouble, I might drop by with some art supplies for Cassie. She seems to enjoy drawing, and I have way too many lying around.”
I smile at the thought of Cassie’s excitement at such a gift.
“That would be wonderful. She’d love it.
” I stand, brushing sand from the back of my calves, and for a split second, I want to say something brave—invite him to dinner, suggest a future, even a small one.
But the thought is too raw, so I just thank him again, tucking the sketch into my notebook.
He watches me go, a solitary figure etched against the breaking surf, and for the first time in a long time, the walk home feels less like a retreat and more like a beginning.