Chapter 44 Diane
Diane
NOVEMBER
The light out here comes sideways, briny and bright, filling the town with a diffused, syrupy radiance that makes everything look like a painting.
The gallery is only a few blocks from the ocean, so we walk, because that’s what you do here, and because Cassie insists she’ll explode if she has to endure another car ride with us.
I let her lead the way, and Nathan falls back, giving her room.
The wind lifts Cassie’s hair, and for a second I see the child she was, the one with legs too long for her body, intent on outrunning every shadow.
Then Amaya materializes on the next corner, waving both arms, dark curls backlit in the haze.
Her smile is all teeth and constellation freckles.
“Hey!” Amaya calls, bounding up the sidewalk. “You’re late!”
“We’re two minutes early,” Cassie says, but she’s grinning.
Amaya clutches a pamphlet, glossy and already dog-eared. “I made Mom stop by and grab a program on the way. Look, you’re in it.” She stabs her finger at the page.
Cassie’s mouth quirks sideways, a little bashful, but she lets Amaya thread their arms together.
They could be sisters instead of best friends, the kind who would share a bedroom and fight over the top bunk.
I am not supposed to watch them this way, but I do.
Sometimes I think it’s the only way I’ll ever remember what joy looks like from the outside.
We arrive at the gallery, and Nathan holds open the door. “Showtime,” he says.
When I step inside, what I see takes my breath away.
It’s an entire chronology of this patch of coast, rendered in brushstrokes so soft they’ll shatter if you touch them.
There are rolling dunes in muted ochres and blue-violet shadows, a sunrise over the salt marsh, the pier at twilight, its pilings reflected in shattered mirror-water.
In the back room are portraits, faces I’ve seen at the bakery, the post office, on the other side of a PTA table.
All of them painted in Nathan’s unmistakable style, alive with the subtlety of things seen in passing but remembered in full color.
And in the very center, spotlit and hung a little lower than the rest, is the painting I’d only glimpsed in progress.
My breath stutters at the sight of it. It’s me, Cassie, and Rolo, standing at the tide line under a sky peeled back for sunset.
Cassie’s hair is wind-ravaged and she’s beaming, mid-laugh, her sneakers soaked through.
Rolo’s tongue lolls in a perfect pink curve, and I’m caught off guard by my own likeness—eyes closed, head tipped toward the horizon, wearing an expression that is pure, unmitigated peace.
I squeeze Nathan’s hand so hard he laughs.
“Too much?” he asks, but the way he looks at me makes my heart gallop.
The room fills gradually, the guests trickling in. Some I know, others I’ve only met in passing, but every face turns toward Nathan with the same shy, proprietary pride, as if this gallery, this show, belongs to all of them.
Nathan fiddles with his tie, a deep navy color that almost matches the shadows in his paintings.
It’s new, and I can tell he’s dying to loosen it, but he endures for the sake of the occasion.
His cheeks flush whenever someone compliments the work, which is often, and the more he fidgets the more I want to grab his face and kiss him senseless, social norms be damned.
Instead, I nurse a glass of white wine and try not to spill on my new dress.
The fabric is lighter than I’m used to, a soft coral that Cassie insisted would “bring out my inner beach goddess,” whatever that means.
I think of Sara, how she would have laughed at my discomfort and then worn something even louder, just to make me look tame by comparison.
I am drifting in a cloud of distant memory when a woman approaches, her hair coiled into a chignon and her eyes sharp as salt. She’s wearing a navy blue shift dress and a single string of pearls, and she radiates the brisk authority of someone who sits on a lot of boards.
“Diane, right?” she says, extending a hand. “I’m Barbara. My husband, Chuck, used to work with Sara at the courthouse.”
I accept the handshake, surprised at the strength in her grip. “Nice to meet you.”
Barbara’s gaze flicks to Nathan, who is deep in conversation with a pair of college-age boys gesturing at the dune paintings like they’re trying to decode a secret language.
“You’ve done something remarkable with the old Hastings house,” she says, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
“We worried it would go to ruin after—well. After everything.”
I blink, momentarily thrown. “Thank you. We’re trying.”
Barbara leans in, her pearls glinting. “You’re the talk of the town, you know. Some of us had bets on how long you’d last.”
I laugh, genuine and startled, and I feel something old and heavy in my chest start to dissolve. “And how are we fairing?”
She chuckles. “Remarkably well it seems,” she replies, offering a small nod toward Nathan. “Enjoy yourself tonight,” Barbara says, glancing meaningfully at the painting behind me. “You deserve it.”
She moves on, collecting a petit four from the tray at the bar, and I watch her disappear into the crowd.
The next hour unfolds in a sequence of tiny revelations.
People approach with stories about Sara, about the house, about the way Nathan’s brushwork reminds them of the dunes at their own childhood cottage.
The bartender pours with a generous hand, and soon the room is thick with laughter and the low hum of good gossip.
When Cassie and Amaya finally reach the family portrait, they stop dead, mouths in a perfect O.
“Mom,” Cassie whispers, “is that—did Nathan—?”
“He did.”
She leans in close. “It looks like it’s still moving.”
I want to say, You look like you’re still moving, but I bite my tongue. Instead, I ask, “What do you think, Amaya?”
Amaya shrugs, but in the way that means she loves it and doesn’t know how to say so. “It’s like, really alive, you know?”
Cassie cackles. “You’re such a nerd.”
Amaya nudges her. “Says the girl who memorized the whole periodic table for fun.”
“Not for fun,” Cassie huffs, “for science club.” But she’s blushing, and I recognize the species of pride that blooms from genuine affection.
Nathan makes his way to us, catching the last of the exchange. He gestures to the catalog Amaya is still gripping. “Want to see the secret message?”
Amaya’s eyes go wide. “There’s a secret?”
He flips to the back, points to his artist statement: In loving memory of Sara H.—and to Diane and Cassie, who kept the lights on even in the dark. The air thins around us, then grows thick again, and suddenly I’m glad for the noise of the crowd.
“Whoa,” Amaya says. “That’s, like, really sweet.”
Cassie doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me, then at Nathan, and then away, as if embarrassed to have been the subject of a dedication. Or maybe just trying not to feel too much at once.
“You like it?” he asks Cassie, his voice almost timid.
Cassie doesn’t answer, just lunges forward to wrap him in a hug, the kind that would have made me jealous a month ago but now feels like the exact right thing.
Eventually, the gallery fills up, then overflows. Guests swirl between the installations, clutching wine and cheese, making the rounds in sensible shoes.
Cassie and Amaya plant themselves in front of a smaller painting, one I hadn’t seen before.
It’s Cassie, unmistakably, but softer around the edges, her hair loose and wild, a spiral of notes and equations scribbled in the negative space behind her head.
She looks older in the painting. Or maybe just more certain.
“Dude, you look so cool,” Amaya says, almost enviously.
Cassie shrugs. “He made up half the math in the background.”
“Artistic license,” Nathan interjects, but he’s watching Cassie for her reaction.
“I like it,” she says, quiet but clear. “You made me look like I’m thinking of something important.”
“You are always thinking of something important,” I say, and Cassie rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
A pair of older women shuffle closer, peering at the portrait over their glasses. One of them whispers, “Is that you, dear?” to Cassie.
Cassie straightens, shoulders back the way she does at debate tournaments. “Yeah. That’s us—me, my mom, our dog, and Nathan painted it. He’s really good, isn’t he?”
The woman beams, her earrings bobbing. “You must be so proud.”
Cassie looks at me, then at Nathan. “I am,” she says. Just that. But it rings out like a bell.
I want to hug her, but I know better. Instead, I sidle next to Nathan, whose eyes are suspiciously shiny. “You did good,” I whisper, and he squeezes my hand beneath the catalog.
The afternoon slides into evening, and the gallery never quite empties.
People linger, hungry for beauty or maybe just company.
Cassie and Amaya play docent, explaining the significance of each painting to anyone who asks.
Sometimes they embellish, inventing stories about what inspired a particular piece.
“This one is about the time Nathan accidentally set his sleeve on fire,” Amaya tells a couple from out of town, gesturing at an abstract wash of reds and oranges.
Cassie nods solemnly, and the tourists buy it completely.
By seven, Nathan calls for everyone’s attention, tapping his glass with a butter knife.
“Thank you, everyone, for coming out this evening. I want to remind everyone that I am available for commissions, and several pieces have already found homes tonight.” He looks at me, a smile ghosting his lips.
“Let’s keep the creative spirit alive in Kitty Hawk! ”
I catch the flash of pride on Nathan’s face, but also the disbelief, as if he’s still not convinced any of this is real. I get it. Sometimes I feel like I’m living someone else’s story, too.
After the crowd thins, Cassie and Amaya join us by the refreshment table, plates heaped with cheese cubes and strawberries. Amaya asks, “Do we get to do this again? Or was this a one-time thing?”
Nathan laughs. “There’s another show in the spring. Different paintings, but same circus.”
Amaya looks at Cassie, who for once doesn’t deflect. “Yeah. I’d go again.”
I reach for a strawberry, surprised at how ordinary this moment feels, and how much I want to keep it. “Next time, maybe you can curate,” I suggest.
“Only if Amaya helps,” says Cassie.
Amaya pumps her fist. “Dream team!”
The girls drift off, orbiting each other with a gravity I envy. Nathan and I lean against the wall, watching them move through the space. Two smart, stubborn kids in a sea of adults, perfectly themselves.
He nudges my shoulder. “You doing okay?”
“I think so.”
Nathan’s voice goes soft. “She’s really proud of you, you know. Even if she doesn’t always say it.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how long it’s been since anyone’s told me that. “You, too. I mean, she’s proud of you, too.”
He smiles. “It’s mutual.”
We stand, surrounded by the hush that follows applause.
The last of the sunlight slants through the gallery windows, illuminating the portrait of Cassie.
It’s not how I would have painted her, but I think maybe that’s the point.
Sometimes you need someone else to show you what you look like when you’re brave.
When it’s time to go, I gather the girls and herd them into the cold. Cassie is quiet, but not in a bad way. She lets me put an arm around her shoulder, just this once. Nathan follows, hands deep in his pockets, face lit from within.
On the walk home, Amaya asks if she can sleep over, and Cassie doesn’t even pretend to mind. I say yes, and Nathan offers to bring ice cream. The girls race ahead, their laughter bouncing off the empty sidewalks.
I watch them, and I don’t feel like I’m chasing after my own life anymore. I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.