Chapter 9
The watercolor class met in a bright room at the community center. Abby arrived ten minutes early, clutching the cheap set of paints she'd bought weeks ago and a pad of watercolor paper that was still in its plastic wrap.
Martha was already there, setting up easels in a loose semicircle. She looked up when Abby walked in, and her face broke into a wide smile.
"Abby! You made it!"
"I did. Sorry it took me so long."
"Don't apologize. You're here now. That's what matters." Martha gestured toward the easels. "Pick any spot you like. We're casual here."
Abby chose an easel near the window. The light was good there, and she could see the garden. She hoped it would inspire her.
Other students trickled in. Abby recognized a few faces from around town. They greeted Martha warmly and settled into their seats. It was clear the group was a pretty regular one. Maybe it’d be her group one day.
An older man came in last, moving slowly and slightly hunched over. He was maybe seventy, with white hair. He wore a faded button-down shirt with paint stains on the sleeves and carried a worn wooden case that looked like it had traveled the world.
"Morning, Henry," Martha said.
"Morning." His voice was quiet and gravelly. He nodded to the group and took the easel next to Abby's.
Martha clapped her hands together. "All right, everyone. For those who don't know, this is Abby. She's new to the island and getting back into painting after a long break. Let's make her feel welcome."
A chorus of hellos. Abby waved, feeling suddenly self-conscious.
"Today we're doing loose florals," Martha continued. "Nothing too perfect. Just playing with color and shape. Let the water do the work."
She demonstrated on her own paper.
Abby wet her paper and picked up her brush. Her hand remembered the motion even if her brain didn't quite trust it yet.
The room fell into a comfortable quiet, punctuated by the occasional murmur or the sound of water being changed. Abby found herself relaxing into it. There was no pressure here. No one was judging. Martha walked between the easels, offering gentle suggestions but mostly just letting people work.
Abby's floral design took on a vaguely bird-like shape. She hadn't meant for it to happen, but once she saw the long neck forming, she couldn't unsee it. Gerald. Of course. She was painting Gerald again.
She laughed at herself. The obsession was real.
"That's a heron," the man next to her said.
Abby glanced over. Henry was watching her work, his own painting abandoned for the moment.
"It was supposed to be a flower," she admitted.
"Better as a heron."
"You think?"
"Flowers are boring." He turned back to his own paper, which featured a collection of shapes that might have been shells or abstract blobs.
She couldn't tell. She wondered why he was in the class.
But then she looked around and saw that it was predominantly older women.
Did she just walk into the elderly dating scene?
Abby added more blue, then some gray for Gerald's body. The proportions were all wrong, and the head looked more like a tennis ball on a stick than anything bird-like, but she didn't care. It was fun. That was the point. And it was better than sitting at home watching the crew work.
Or running around the island looking for ghosts.
They painted for another hour. Martha came by twice, praising Abby's work. Abby saw blobs, but Martha seemed genuinely pleased, so Abby took it as a win.
When the class ended, Abby helped Martha clean up. Henry packed his supplies slowly, methodically. Everything had its place in the wooden case.
"Will you be back next week?" Martha asked Abby.
"I think so. This was exactly what I needed."
"Good. We'd love to have you as a regular." Martha lowered her voice. "Henry doesn't usually talk to new people. You must have made an impression."
Abby glanced over at Henry, who was now examining something in the garden through the window. He seemed content in his solitude, not lonely but simply alone.
"He seems nice," Abby said.
"He is. This class is one of the few places he goes regularly."
Abby felt a pang of sadness for him. She knew what it was like to lose someone, even if her loss had been by choice rather than circumstance.
She got home, made herself lunch, and was just settling onto the couch when her phone rang. Levi.
"Hey," she answered.
"Hey. How was the painting class?"
"Fun. Really fun. I painted Gerald again."
"Again?"
"I can't help myself. He's become my muse." She looked at the paintings. "They're terrible, but I'm getting better. Maybe by the time I'm eighty, I'll actually capture what he looks like."
Levi laughed. "I'd like to see them."
"No, you wouldn't; they're crimes against art."
"I still want to see them."
"How was your day?" she asked.
"Quiet. We had a small brush fire near the lighthouse, but we got it out before it spread. Otherwise, just routine stuff. Inspections, paperwork."
"Sounds thrilling."
"It has its moments." She heard him shift, as if he were settling into a chair. "I was thinking about Friday."
"What about it?"
"The Fourth of July. You're doing the face painting booth, right?"
"That's the plan."
"I'll be working the event, fire watch, making sure nobody blows themselves up with illegal fireworks."
"Romantic."
"I try." He paused. "But after—when it's over, and the fireworks are done. Want to go down to the beach? Just us?"
"I'd love that," she said.
"Good. It's a date."
They talked for another twenty minutes about nothing important.
When they finally hung up, Abby realized she was smiling.
She might be concerned about premature wrinkling with all the smiling she’d been doing the last month, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Happiness was worth a few wrinkles.