Liza gazed out the bay window at the stretch of clear sky and blue-green ocean. A beach walk would do her good, she decided.
As Liza left the parlor, she saw her sketchbook and pencil box still sitting on the end table where she had left them the other night. They seemed to be waiting for her like dear old friends.
She picked up the art supplies and tucked them under her arm. She wasn’t sure if she had the courage to start drawing again, but it would be nice to look over the sketches once more, she thought. The images brought back such happy memories.
Wearing her scarf and jacket, with an apple and a water bottle tucked in her pockets, Liza crossed the road in front of the inn. She felt as if she were sneaking away, on some secret errand. Behind her, the steady sound of hammering and the sound of the saw broke the perfect quiet of the clear morning.
No one will miss me, she thought. Not for a while anyway.
As she climbed down the steep hill that led to the beach, she felt her cares and concerns about the inn lifting. The sight of the beach after a storm was captivating. She had forgotten how beautiful it looked, with long ropes of reddish brown and green seaweed flung about like strange confetti, as if there had been a wild party there the night before. Shells and stones were scattered in patterns that marked the tides, and little cliffs and alcoves had been carved from the shoreline by the strong surf.
The waves were still rough today, rushing to the shoreline, one after the other, and crashing with a thunderous roar.
Liza walked against the wind, her hands dug in her pockets and her head down. She felt as if the salt air were practically blowing her cares away. Claire was right. She did feel closer to something vital and elemental here. Was it God? Well, that was one word for what she felt, she acknowledged. The rough, wild sea did seem like the very soul of the Earth, the source of life, the source of everything.
Liza walked until her legs felt weary, then sat in the sand, resting against a large flat rock. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her skin.
It was warmer here today than she had expected. She felt herself slowing down, almost getting drowsy. But the cackling and calls of seabirds nearby wouldn’t let her drift off completely.
She opened her eyes and watched a flock of small birds-terns maybe? Or maybe herring gulls? Her uncle Clive had been a big birder. He knew the proper names of all the species common to the area. There were eighty-seven species of gulls alone, Liza recalled, though only a few lived locally.
Neither Liza nor Peter shared Clive’s avian passion, though Liza loved to watch the seabirds feed and fly along the shore like this. Of all the creatures on earth, birds had such graceful lines and eloquent expression in their smallest gesture, the tilt of their heads, the gaze of bright eyes, or the arch of a delicate wing.
Without giving it much thought, she opened her sketchbook, took out a soft pencil, and began to sketch the flock. After a few minutes, she rose from her spot and crept up slowly to observe them at closer range.
One or two of the birds looked up inquisitively at her but soon returned to pecking at mounds of seaweed, searching for tasty bits of broken crabs or other delicacies in the sand.
Liza’s hand moved awkwardly at first. Her fingers felt so clumsy. She couldn’t draw a decent line. Frustrated, she tore off page after page. But finally, she stuck with a sketch and saw a tiny bit of improvement. She finished one drawing, flipped the page, and moved on to another.
The birds were fast, never staying in one pose very long. Which was a good thing, she thought. A lot like the fast-sketching sessions she was forced to do in art school. A model would hold a position for no more than three minutes, then switch to a new one. Students would rush to capture the pose in bold, swift lines.
“Don’t think, just draw,” was her favorite teacher’s motto.
Liza could almost hear her professor’s voice, shouting at her over her shoulder. The impulse had to flow from the eye to the hand, bypassing a certain analytical, editorial part of the brain that always made a muddle of things.
Maybe that’s my problem lately, Liza mused. I’m thinking too much. “Don’t think… just live,” she adapted her art teacher’s counsel.
Liza wasn’t sure how long she sat there, drawing her small, winged models. Her drawing hand began to cramp, and she stopped to stretch her fingers. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the entire flock of birds took to the air.
The birds hovered over the shoreline and rolling waves. The gulls formed a soft white cloud, swooping and flying as one. Then they sailed off down the beach and disappeared, searching for some fresh feeding ground, she guessed.
Liza sat back and looked over the drawings. A few weren’t half bad, she conceded. It had been fun to try her hand again. She had been afraid of what might happen. Afraid that she’d lost her eye, her talent.
But maybe that never really goes away, she realized. It’s like riding a bike. The equipment is a little rusty and clunky at first, but little by little, you get it all rolling along again.
Could she ever really quit her job and stay on this island?
Run the inn and return to her artwork?
Liza had joked about the possibility yesterday with Daniel. But hadn’t she been a tiny bit serious, too? Hadn’t she wished she had the courage to strike out on her own like that? To choose the road less traveled, the way her aunt and uncle had?
Liza sighed and put the sketchbook aside. Perhaps it was better to just stick with the plan. Sell the inn, return to Boston. Take her lumps at work or look for a new job. Draw a little in her spare time if she liked. Take an art class again.
Time was running out. Her two weeks away from the office were almost over. They expected her back next Monday. If she wanted a longer leave from work, she would have to call Eve before the weekend, either tonight or tomorrow.
Liza didn’t know what to do. She’d had so little sleep last night, it was hard to make any decisions right now. Liza bunched up her scarf under her head and lay back on the sand.
She closed her eyes and took a few deep breaths. God, I’m not too good at prayers, she began silently. I don’t have much practice, but I just feel the need to talk to You. I’m so confused. I don’t know what to do. Should we sell the inn? Should we wait? Should I stay here or go? If I could just have a sign, I’ d be ever so grateful… You don’t need to send another lightning bolt. A less dramatic sign would be fine.
Liza wasn’t sure how long she slept. The sun had traveled across the sky, and the air felt cooler. She sat up quickly and looked down. There was something in her lap, stuck to her jacket-a thick white feather. She picked it up and examined it. It was a long, silky plume. Very pure and clean.
She didn’t think it had come from the flock of birds she had been drawing; they were mostly gray. She glanced around, but there were no birds in sight.
Staring down at the feather, Liza had an odd feeling. It seemed to be a sign, wordless approval of her artistic efforts for the day and also an answer to her question.
Liza stood up, brushed herself off, then carefully tucked the feather into her jacket pocket. She set off for the inn, knowing this was something she couldn’t explain to anyone. Well, maybe Claire North would understand. It seemed to Liza that her rambling, desperate prayer had been heard. Heard and even answered.
PETER didn’t seem to mind that Liza had taken a day off from house repairs. He didn’t say anything about it at dinner. He had helped Daniel with the roof repairs for most of the day and was eager for Liza to see their progress.
After they cleaned up the kitchen, Liza followed her brother and Will upstairs, heading for the attic. But when they reached the second floor, Will headed to his room instead.
Liza was surprised. “I guess you’re tired from all the work you did today.”