CHAPTER 47

Sailor took a sip of her coffee, knowing—since it was after eight o’clock in the evening—she’d probably regret it, but she really needed to get some work done. When she was in college, she’d lived on coffee. “Those were the good old days,” she murmured with a smile. Burning the midnight oil had been the norm back then. She and her roommates had stayed up until all hours of the night painting and drawing and lost in their own worlds. It had been a long time since she’d been so caught up in a drawing that she’d lost track of time.

She picked up her paintbrush, dipped it into the smooth paint, and felt her shoulders start to relax. She looked at the sketch she’d lightly traced onto the gessoed board and started to paint. This was what was missing. Almost immediately, she felt the strain of the last month drain from her body. She turned her radio to a classical station and swirled the paint, meticulously blending the colors. The lovely first notes of “Pachelbel’s Canon” began to play and she stopped to sip her coffee—life is good, she thought, smiling. Suddenly her cell phone started to ring and she looked at the clock. It was after eight on a Saturday night—who could be calling? Maybe it is Merry, she thought hopefully, but when she looked at the screen, her hopes were dashed. She hesitated and then tapped the Accept button. “Yes?” she said and listened as Frank spoke. “My signing is at Where the Sidewalk Ends in Chatham on Saturday.... Yes, everything’s fine.... You?” She nodded, absentmindedly swirling her paintbrush into the red and blue paint and watching the pattern it made. “No, I’m working on them, though. I should have them soon.” She paused. “Maine? But they always come here on the Fourth.... No, I’m not going to be too busy. I thought Merry would bring the kids to the signing . . . she always does.” She shook her head. “Whatever, Frank . . . honestly, I don’t think anything is sacred to you.” She ended the call and turned off her phone. Then she looked down at her palette smeared with purple paint and sighed—so much for working. She carried the gloppy paintbrush and her coffee mug out to the kitchen, dumped the coffee, cleaned and dried her brush, and went back into her studio. She changed the radio back to Ocean 104.7 and turned it up so she could hear it in the kitchen.

She heard a meow on the back porch and opened the door. The orange tiger cat sauntered in, bringing with him the cool summer breeze. “Hello there, mister,” she said. “Are you hungry?” she asked, opening the cabinet. “I don’t have lobster . . . but I do have tuna.” She opened a can and scooped it into a bowl. “I promise I’ll get more cat food this week,” she said, setting it in front of him and jotting cat food on a scrap of paper.

She opened the fridge, pulled out a slice of leftover pizza, and poured herself a glass of wine. She turned on the oven, put the pizza in, and went into the living room. Without turning on the light, she sank into her new chair, leaned back against the pillow, and took a sip of her wine. She couldn’t believe Frank had invited their kids to Maine for the Fourth. He knew they always came to the Cape—it was tradition! Piper always had a big picnic and they all helped out. It was the one holiday when they were all together, and just because he wasn’t invited—he should’ve thought of that before he started fooling around—that didn’t mean the kids weren’t . . . and the kids knew it, too—at least they should’ve known! She couldn’t believe they’d accepted his invitation.

Didn’t they know how disappointed she’d be? It was bad enough she had to share them with their in-laws, but now she had to share them with Frank, too. God help her—she’d never see them! Suddenly the ramifications of being a divorced parent hit her like a Mack truck—nothing would be simple again when it came to the kids. Even though they were adults, Frank was still their father and they would still want to spend time with him. Life just wasn’t fair!

She took another sip of her wine and listened to the haunting sound of Stevie Nicks singing “Gold Dust Woman” and tears welled up in her eyes. She knew the song was about drug use, but at that moment, the lyrics seemed to have been written for her. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered, shaking her head. She wiped her eyes, but more tears just kept spilling down her cheeks . . . tears of grief and sorrow for her broken family and for all the broken pieces of her life. She’d thought she’d been strong, moving out here alone. She’d told herself it didn’t matter, but now, she realized—it was thirty years of her life and it did matter because . . . what else was there?

She felt something brush against her legs, and in the next moment, the nameless, homeless orange cat hopped lightly onto her lap and leaned against her, brushing his soft fur against her wet cheeks. “Hello there, mister,” she said softly. “You know, you really need a name,” she said, smiling as she listened to the last line of the song that was playing, “Call Me the Breeze.” “How about Mister Breeze? What do you think?” she asked. The cat curled up on her lap, pushed his head into her hand, and purred loudly. “Consider yourself named,” she said, taking a sip of her wine, “Mister Breeze.”