Chapter 45

NATHAN Istare at the painting of the beach we visited every summer as kids. Every brushstroke is infused with love and joy and reminds me of a simpler time, despite the memories of Mom painting it between chemo and radiation treatments, her body growing frailer each passing day. The light in her eyes when she had a brush in her hands and paint smeared across her cheek couldn’t be dimmed by even the darkest day. She finished it a few months before she died, and that beach is the last place I remember feeling truly happy. Except that’s not true. I shake my head, not wanting to think about the last time I was happy. When she sat on my lap in this very office before I left for Chicago. When I almost told her how much I loved her. My phone vibrates on my desk in front of me, and I answer it without glancing at the screen, thankful for any distraction I can get. “Mr. James, it’s Ernst. From Persephone’s.” Why is a guy from a jewelry store I’ve only ever been into twice in my life calling me?