Jenna sat at a corner table and rested her laptop on her knees. Out the window the afternoon sun glimmered on the Gulf waters, just across the street from the coffee shop. Halcyon may not have offered Wi-Fi, but that didn’t stop the artists from seeking it out on their own when necessary, and Sunset Coffee was the closest place that offered a steady stream of Internet connectivity.
She tapped her fingers on the smooth cover of her laptop. Since mentioning her old Etsy shop to Gregory that first week in the darkroom, she hadn’t been able to quit thinking about it. She’d once had several hundred people following her site—both loyal customers who came to her whenever they had a specific idea in mind for their home or office, and new customers who found her through the site or heard of her through word of mouth. Back then, she’d been an entrepreneur, a shop owner, even if that shop was just online, and enjoyed a decent side income from her prints.
She used to daydream about where her photography could take her. Maybe a celebrity would find her site and order one of her prints, setting off a firestorm of orders. Or maybe a travel magazine would notice her work and give her an assignment to some exotic locale. She’d had so many ideas, so many desires. So much possibility. But it had all changed with the appearance of two pink lines on the plastic stick, the boyfriend who hit the road, the life that had altered so dramatically within such a short span of time.
She hadn’t checked her Etsy page in years. A few of her frequent customers had continued to contact her after she stopped posting new inventory, asking for more prints or new arrivals. She’d wanted to say yes, but exhausted and scared and trying to keep life going for herself and her new daughter, she had no spark left to offer to her photography or her customers. Finally, the requests dwindled, then stopped, and she set her camera on a shelf in the closet.
But that was then, and possibilities were again opening themselves up to her. Since she’d been at Halcyon, she had amassed a collection of photos she loved, shots she could hardly believe she’d captured herself. It seemed the longer she was here, the more she saw the unexpected dignity and grace of the world around her. Not the “beauty shots” she attempted when she first arrived, but the grit and strength of life that refused to be snuffed out.
Gregory was just as pleased with her progress—more even, if that was possible. A few days before, he’d contacted editor friends of his and talked up the “new talent” he’d discovered. They’d all been interested and said they’d take a look at her new online portfolio.
“Good things are coming for you,” he’d said.
And she believed him. But at the same time, she didn’t want to sit around and wait. Etsy was familiar to her, a way to ease back into the art world without diving headfirst. She chewed on a fingernail as she waited for her computer to power up. Would she have any followers left, or had they all moved on to other photographers who regularly posted new product? When she arrived at her page, she scanned until she saw the number next to the little heart. Seventeen.
It doesn’t matter. You’re starting now.
The first thing she did was change her shop description, noting that she’d been gone for a while but was back and posting a new collection called Ray of Light. She’d thought about it a lot this week, the idea that light can seep in—through cracks and around corners—at the most unexpected times. The idea comforted her. Then she scrolled through Etsy’s “Top Tips for Shop Success” and read the new seller rules and follower etiquette, Google analytics and search engine optimization. It was enough to make her head hurt, so once she posted her new collection and added prices, she pressed Save and closed her laptop. A smile crept up her cheeks. Who knew what could happen?
Her cell, practically bursting with phone service, sat in the side pocket of her bag. She pulled it out and walked to the front porch swing. As she sat down and pressed the button, a brisk gust of wind rattled the palm fronds along the edges of the porch. That morning she’d overheard the kitchen staff talking about a storm out in the Gulf. Apparently it didn’t have a name yet, and therefore wasn’t anything to worry about. She breathed in the scent of salty sea spray and a faint hint of coconut on the breeze.
“Let me guess,” Max said when he answered. “You’ve decided to stay forever.” They’d sent some texts back and forth, but this was the first time they’d actually spoken.
“Ha. Not quite. But I am still here.”
“Well, go ahead. Tell me all about it.”
She recounted the highs of the previous weeks—from her initial awkward shots to The Bottoms, the canoe shot, the darkroom, and even helping some of the new artists get settled when they arrived for their own retreats. When she finished, he laughed. “What is it?”
“I’ve just never heard you like this. You’re almost giddy. It’s like a vacation high and a creativity surge all rolled into one big ball of energy. I’m a little jealous, I’m not going to lie.”
“What do you have to be jealous about? You have all the time in the world to focus on your photography. It’s your passion and your career. That’s my goal. It’s why I stayed.”
“I get it. I do. I think you’ll get there one day, and this is a great first step. How are your daughters doing with your sister?”
“I think they’re doing just fine.” The day before, she’d talked to Betsy from that same porch swing. Betsy had been taking a nap when Jenna called. She could hear the fatigue in her sister’s voice, even though Betsy denied it. She’d said the girls had been up extra early that morning, asking for chocolate milk and tractor rides.
“That’s good,” Max said. “How are you doing without them?”
She stretched her legs out on the coffee table in front of the swing. Another strong breeze lifted the hair from around her face and blew a stack of napkins to the ground. Jenna closed her eyes. “I miss them. A lot. But I’m trying to be someone they can be proud of. And I’m doing good things here, Max. You’d be proud too.”
“I’m always proud of you, sweetheart. You can’t do a thing to change that.”