After Henry’s sudden death, when grief had threatened to consume me, Helen had convinced me to join her on a painting retreat in southern France.
For 2 weeks, we’d sat in lavender fields and village squares, trying to capture on paper the beauty around us.
It had been a lifeline during the darkest period of my life.
“I’m not sure I remember how,” I confessed.
Helen laughed.
“It’s like riding a bicycle. Besides, the position pays. Not much, but enough to supplement your social security. You could stay here as long as you like, rentree.”
“Helen, I couldn’t impose.”
“It’s not an imposition,” she insisted. “This house is too big for just me. The guest room is always empty, except when my daughter visits at Christmas. And frankly, I’ve missed having my best friend around.”
I felt tears prick my eyes.
“You’re serious?”
“Completely,” she affirmed. “Stay a week. Stay a month. If you like it here, stay longer. No pressure, no expectations.”
No pressure.
No expectations.
The words washed over me like a benediction.
Two days later, I received an email from Walter Drummond at the bank.
James had returned, this time with Sandra, insisting there had been a misunderstanding about the power of attorney.
When Walter had explained that I had left town indefinitely, they had demanded my location.
Walter, of course, had not provided it.
“I wanted to warn you,” his email concluded, “that they seemed determined to locate you. Mr. Walsh mentioned something about a family emergency requiring your immediate attention.”
I smiled grimly, imagining what this emergency might be.
The hotel bill, no doubt, or perhaps some new financial demand.
That afternoon, I agreed to meet with Irene at the art center, a converted boat house overlooking the harbor.
The space was bright and airy, with large windows capturing the shifting coastal light.
“Helen speaks very highly of your talents,” Irene said, showing me around the studio. “We’ve had a surge of interest in our beginner classes, but our current instructor can only handle so many students.”
“I haven’t taught before,” I admitted. “I’m not sure I’d be any good at it.”
Irene, a brisk woman in her 60s with short gray hair and paint splattered jeans, waved away my concerns.
“Do you love painting?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.
“Can you explain to someone how to mix colors, how to hold a brush, how to see the world as shapes and light rather than objects?”
I thought about the hours I’d spent teaching Elsie to paint when she was young, guiding her small hand as she learned to create flowers and trees and people.
“Yes,” I said. “I can do that.”
“Then you can teach,” Irene declared. “Start next Tuesday with the morning group. They’re mostly retirees, very forgiving of firsttime instructors.”
As we finalized the details, my phone, which I had finally turned back on, began to ring.
Elsie’s name flashed on the screen.
“Excuse me,” I said to Irene. “I should take this.”
Stepping outside, I answered the call.
“Hello, Elsie.”
“Grandma.”
Her voice was tight with tension.
“Where are you? We’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m visiting a friend,” I replied calmly. “As I told you I would.”
“Dad says you emptied your accounts and disappeared,” she accused. “He says you’re having some kind of breakdown.”
I laughed, the sound carried away by the salt breeze.
“I’m not having a breakdown, Elsie. I’m finally putting myself first.”
“But what about the family? What about the—”
“Hotel bill?” I finished for her. “Or is there another financial emergency I’m supposed to solve?”
Her silence confirmed my suspicion.
“Elsie,” I said gently. “I taught you to paint when you were 6 years old. Do you remember that?”
“What does that have to do with anything?” she asked, frustration evident in her voice.
“Everything,” I replied. “I’ve just accepted a position teaching watercolor at an art center. I’m going to be staying here for a while.”
“Where is here?” she demanded.
I looked out at the harbor, at the boats bobbing gently in the late afternoon sun, at the seagulls circling overhead.
A profound sense of peace settled over me.
“Somewhere I’m respected,” I answered simply. “Somewhere I belong.”
Autumn in coastal Maine painted the world in brilliant hues of crimson and gold.
Three months had passed since I’d fled my old life.
Three months of peaceful mornings watching the sun rise over the Atlantic, afternoons teaching eager students the basics of watercolor, and evenings on Helen’s deck, sharing wine and memories under star-filled skies.
My modest salary from the art center covered my personal expenses, allowing me to preserve my savings.