Chapter 11
Diane
I’m halfway back to the cottage when I hear my name, stretched out like a gull’s cry, carried by the wind.
I turn, and there’s Cassie, barreling down the beach like a torpedo.
Her sneakers throw clumps of wet sand, and her hair fans out behind her like a victory banner.
She moves with a lawless energy, redirecting the world to follow her lead.
She zeroes in on me, arms windmilling, and then skids to a breathless stop.
“Mom! You missed it! There were like a million comb jellies on the north side… And Rolo found a skull, a real skull… I think it’s a seagull, but it could be a tern—” She blinks up at me, cheeks ruddy, and I feel a complicated knot in my chest begin to untangle.
“Did you bring it?” I ask, a little wary of what “skull” entails.
She produces a plastic baggie from her jacket pocket. Inside is a beak and a fistful of feathers, less creepy than I expected. “See?” She’s already forgotten the point of the display and is scanning the horizon for the next interesting thing.
“Wow. That’s…impressive,” I say, trying not to sound horrified.
Before I can redirect her, she’s already spotted Nathan, still perched on his sketching rock. “Hey, Nathan!”
I watch the shift in his face. The reserved lines of adulthood soften into something like delight. He stands, brushes sand off his jeans, and meets us halfway.
“Look what I found!” Cassie says, thrusting the bag in his direction.
Nathan reaches down to pet Rolo, then takes in the skull with the solemnity of a museum curator. He holds it up to the fading light, rotates it, then hands it back. “Definitely a gull. See the hook at the end? That’s for grabbing fish.”
Cassie examines it, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Do you think it’s the same gull from yesterday, the one with the missing foot?”
“Could be. They’re tough birds, though. Probably just lost a scuffle.”
I watch them, the way Nathan addresses her, not as a child but as an equal, each exchange a transaction of shared respect. Cassie responds in kind, her usual squirming replaced by an intent, almost scholarly posture.
“What are you guys doing out here?” she asks, then, “Mom, did you make any progress on the book?”
“Some. Not a lot.”
Cassie nods, as if this is an acceptable answer. “Nathan, did you finish your painting?”
“Not yet,” he says, gesturing toward the sketch pad under his arm. “I needed a break. Sometimes you have to let things settle before you know what’s missing.”
Cassie absorbs this, then tugs at my sleeve. “Can we walk with you?”
We fall into step, three abreast, the surf chewing at our toes. I find myself between them, a buffer and a bridge, and for once, I don’t mind the role. Rolo and Cassie race ahead, pausing every few yards to examine a shell or a piece of driftwood, then doubling back to present their findings.
“Is this a slipper shell?” she asks, holding up something oblong and cream-colored.
Nathan inspects it. “Yep. Good eye.”
Cassie beams, then points to another fragment. “What about this?”
He leans in, then shakes his head. “That’s just a broken clam. But see the ridges, how they’re close together? That means it lived in deeper water, where the waves are stronger.”
Cassie looks up at me. “Did you know that?”
I shake my head. “I didn’t.”
Nathan shrugs, modest. “I’m a walking encyclopedia of useless facts. Comes from years of pretending to pay attention at work.”
Cassie giggles, and the sound is so sudden and so bright that I feel it in my molars.
We keep moving, the beach growing emptier as the light tilts toward evening.
The conversation shifts from shells to sharks to the physics of skipping stones.
Nathan demonstrates, launching a flat pebble into the surf where it bounces three, four, five times before sinking.
Cassie cheers, then tries to outdo him, her throws wild but improving.
It’s easy, this rhythm. Easier than I expected.
I’m used to managing Cassie’s enthusiasm, translating it into a language adults can tolerate, but with Nathan, there’s no need to filter.
He matches her stride for stride, matching her curiosity with his own, letting her interrupt and steer the topic as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Even the dog doesn’t seem to mind, happily tailing the two explorers as they claim the beach as their own.
We walk for a while, the wind dying down, the only sound the hush of water and Cassie’s ongoing taxonomy of every shell she finds.
Eventually, she tires of the game and drops back, wandering in and out of our slipstream.
Nathan slows, matching my pace, and for a few minutes, it’s just the two of us.
“You’re good with her,” I say, surprised by the rawness in my own voice.
He glances at me, then away. “I like kids. They don’t bullshit you.”
I think of all the times I’ve envied Cassie’s ability to say exactly what she means, even when it’s inconvenient or embarrassing.
“She likes you,” I say, softer.
He smiles, but it’s different from before. There’s a flicker of something like fear behind it. “I’m not sure I deserve that.”
I want to ask why, but the words jam up. Instead, I focus on the tide line, where the sand is dense and studded with chips of shell.
We walk for a bit, letting the questions hang unasked. It’s comfortable, interrupted only by Cassie’s intermittent yelps as she discovers a fossilized shark tooth, or a fragment of sea glass polished to an improbable sheen.
The sky has gone full Technicolor now, streaks of orange and pink smeared above the black edge of the ocean.
Cassie slows, then stops, crouching in the sand to build a miniature fortress of shells and driftwood.
Nathan and I linger nearby, both of us watching her in that way parents do when they’re not sure if they’re supposed to intervene or just let the magic happen.
“She’s lucky,” Nathan says, after a while.
“Who? Cassie?”
He nods. “To have you. Most kids don’t get a mom who listens.”
“I don’t always. Sometimes I just fake it.”
“We all fake it. That’s half of being alive.” He digs the toe of his sneaker into the sand, drawing a slow, deliberate line. “My mom used to say you can’t teach someone to care. You can only show them and hope they catch on.”
Before I can respond, Cassie pops up, holding two identical shells in her palms. “Match!” she says, then shoves them toward Nathan. “You get one.”
He accepts, turning the shell over in his hand. “You know what this is called?”
Cassie shakes her head, already invested in the answer.
“It’s an angel wing. They’re rare. Usually you only find one, but never a perfect pair.”
She holds hers up, examining it with new reverence. “Angel wing,” she repeats, then slips it into her jacket pocket like a talisman.
I watch them, feeling the shift in the air. We keep walking, now and then stooping to collect more shells, our hands brushing as we pass them back and forth. The light fades, and the breeze returns, but it’s gentle now, a nudge instead of a shove.
When we reach the old pier, Cassie is exhausted, her eyelids heavy despite her protests that she’s “not even tired.” Nathan offers to carry her, and she accepts without hesitation, looping her arms around his neck and resting her chin on his shoulder.
He lifts her with an ease that surprises me, and I feel a pang—part gratitude, part longing, part something else I can’t name.
We walk the last stretch together, Cassie half asleep, Nathan silent. At the dune that leads to our cottage, he sets her down, and she trudges the rest of the way under her own power.
“Thank you,” I say, as we stand at the foot of the porch, the house behind me glowing with the promise of warmth and rest.
Nathan smiles, and for a second, it’s just us.
“Anytime,” he says. “Seriously. I mean that.” He turns to go, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders relaxed in a way I haven’t seen before. I watch until he disappears down the path, then shepherd Cassie and the dog inside. She drops her treasures on the kitchen counter, then vanishes to her room.
I linger, taking the angel wing and tracing its ridged surface with my thumb. I set it on the windowsill, a placeholder for all the things I don’t have words for yet. I stare at it until the house is quiet, and for once, the silence is something I want to keep.