CHAPTER 4

Sailor Quinn-Ross pushed her drawing table up against the window. Just like Edward Hopper, she thought, or any of the countless other artists and writers who’d come to Cape Cod for inspiration and stayed for a lifetime. The little Truro cottage had been a rare find and a steal! When she’d called Josiah Gray—the real estate agent she’d met at the Buzzard’s Bay Dunkin’ Donuts back when “pay it forward” was popping up everywhere (he’d paid for her large black coffee and then given her his business card)—and left a message that she was looking for something to get her out of Boston and away from her loser and soon-to-be ex-husband, she’d never expected him to call back and say he had just the place. In fact, he’d added, if he wasn’t going through a divorce, too, he’d buy it himself.

Sailor had called Josiah right back and met him that evening. She’d walked around the sandy yard covered with scrub oak, gnarled pitch pine, and rambling beach plums, took note of the once lovely—but now overgrown—gardens, and, enchanted by the sunlight filling every room, signed the papers before an ad could even hit the papers. And even though the cottage would need winterizing, it was solid, and it was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time.

Sailor stood in the middle of the bright, airy bedroom she’d envisioned as her studio and looked around. Her old oak drawing table—which she’d had since college—fit perfectly under the window, but it also took up half the room. And this was the bigger room! She’d already ordered a twin bed for the smaller room because there was no way her bed from home would fit, not that she even wanted it after she’d found Frank on top of his secretary in it! In fact, there wasn’t much she wanted from the four-thousand-square-foot house in Cambridge. Everything she wanted, she’d already packed up and moved. The house in Cambridge, she’d decided, was much too big anyway, especially since the kids had moved out—and it was too full of memories that just didn’t matter anymore. The kids mattered, but Frank—well, let’s just say she was tired of pretending. “Sell it all,” she’d said as she walked out. “I’m done! I am so done!”

The simple cottage, on the other hand, was perfect. It was a true beach cottage—a place to crash when you weren’t at the beach or out exploring the Cape. It had hardwood floors throughout and a sunny deck with an outdoor shower, and in addition to the two bedrooms, it had a cozy living area that opened into a small kitchen, and although the bathroom was barely big enough to turn around in, she’d manage.

Sailor picked up a cardboard box marked BOOKS and put it down in front of a small oak bookcase she’d set up next to her drawing table. She pulled open the flaps, lifted out a pile of children’s books, and stood them up on the shelves. A lifetime of work, she thought, and it fits on two shelves! What would happen to her career now? Frank had always been her editor. He’d been the one who called her that snowy afternoon in early December all those years ago, when she didn’t know how she was ever going to pay for Christmas gifts. He’d been the one to tell her he loved Don’t Put the Cart before the Horse—a silly children’s book she’d written and illustrated her senior year at RISD—and ever since that day, they’d been a team—in more ways than one. Any idea she’d had for a book always breezed right through the publisher’s meetings. What about now, though? Would Frank make things difficult for her? Would he try to have her blacklisted? She would definitely need to find a new editor . . . maybe even a new publisher. With her library of work, though, and her connections, she shouldn’t have too much trouble . . . or would she? Her connections were getting older—some were even retiring—and she was getting older, too. The publishing world was changing. Nothing was certain anymore.

Sailor sighed, stood up stiffly, and made her way through the boxes to the kitchen. The electricity had been turned on that morning, so she’d picked up some basics for the fridge—cheese, butter, eggs, and then she’d stopped at the package store and picked up a couple of bottles of chardonnay. She looked at her phone. It was 4:45 . . . and five o’clock somewhere just off the coast. She opened a bottle, rummaged around in one of the boxes for a glass, and carried both outside to sit on the steps. Whatever happens happens, she thought resignedly. I can’t worry about it. Besides, I’m sitting on the steps of my new beach cottage with a bottle of wine, the smell of the ocean, and a new life—it doesn’t get any better than this!