Chapter 21

MACKENZIE

T he bus ride into Seabright Cove takes forever. Or maybe it just feels that way because I can't stop thinking about Dylan and the kiss we shared last night.

I don't even know what came over me. It was completely out of character for me to make such a bold move, but I'm not that far deep in denial to know that there are some serious feelings at play. At least, there is on my part.

Those feelings go hand in hand with overwhelming insecurities. I can't stop wondering what they mean and whether my trust is something I can just offer up on a silver platter to somebody who has inadvertently deceived me on more than one occasion.

Dylan is a good guy though. Kristen knows it. Harper knows it. On some deeper level, even I know it, and yet, that is the very quality that made me so wary of him in the first place.

Go figure.

My head is not a safe space for me to be today, full of second-guessing and denial. I'd decided a trip to the one place that managed to get me out of it was in order, which is why I'm currently skipping down the steps of the bus onto the street across from the Abstract Palette.

There's an almost whimsical glow surrounding the studio as I enter, the sunlight penetrating the bay windows at just the right angle. Grace looks up from what looks to be a small lump of terracotta clay that she's delicately moulding between her fingers. It isn't just her attention the tiny bell resonating above the door has captured though. Betty and May are also watching me, lifting their palms in greeting.

"Well, look who the cat dragged in." Betty is all sass, a smile letting me know that she means her words light-heartedly.

"Mackenzie!" Grace beams. She rises from the table, moving swiftly in my direction. "What a lovely surprise."

"Hi," I say, fidgeting with the strap on my bag. "I hope it's okay that I came by."

"You're always welcome," she replies warmly, resting a hand on my upper arm. Her gentle touch takes the edge away, that sense of serenity I've come to know in her presence washing over me.

"Thank you."

"Come and sit with us, Mackenzie," May shouts across the room, her slender hand raised high in the air as she waves us over.

Grace lets out a soft laugh. "Looks like you've made fast friends with those two."

I can't help but smile as I head over to the table where the two older women sit, both of them working on some type of handmade pottery projects.

"Here," May says, tossing a chunk of modelling clay in front of me. "Make something."

"Uh, okay." I take the clay and begin kneading it. It's tough at first as I compress it between my palms, but it gradually softens as I continue.

"So, you decided to come back, hey?" Betty says, giving me side-eye. "I'm glad we didn't scare you off."

I turn to her, my lips pulling in a one-sided grin. There's something endearing about this old, white-haired woman and the attitude she exudes. In many ways, it's like looking into a mirror. One in the distant future anyway.

"Oh, you'll have to do a lot worse than that to scare me off."

"Did you get a chance to think about what we talked about the other day, Mackenzie?" Grace asks, dropping down into a chair beside me.

"The art exhibition night?" I ask. "Yeah. I thought about it. I'd really love to, but I can't figure out what to paint on my canvas."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out," Grace says, picking up the piece of clay she'd been moulding when I arrived.

"It can't be that hard to think of something. Maybe your sexy diver friend could be your muse," Betty states.

I'm so stunned at her remark I nearly drop the handful of terracotta, my mouth gaping open in shock. "What!? I never said he was sexy!" I retaliate.

She hums in response, a small shrug lifting her petite shoulders. "In my mind he is."

"Of course, he is," May responds gruffly. "Because you're a horn dog, Betty."

I glance over at Grace and see her lips pressed into a tight line. Like me, she's suppressing a fit of chuckles. A few seconds later, we fail to control ourselves and bursts of laughter explode around the table. Even Betty herself can't help but giggle.

May slumps her shoulders, leaning into me. "Is he though?" she whispers loudly.

"Oh, sure, May," Betty chides. "Now who's the horn dog?"

"Ladies. I think we've established that you're both clearly horn dogs." I dump the clay on the table in front of me. I expect the two women to carry on with their art but instead their eyes remain eagerly trained on me, awaiting my response. "Fine. Okay, yes. He is."

"I knew it!" Betty says excitedly, slamming her bony hands down on the table.

As hard as I try, I can't stop the smirk that spreads across my face.

"Wait a minute." From the corner of my eye, I can see May watching me intently. "Something happened with this boy, didn't it? You're different today."

"I am not," I argue.

I avoid eye contact with the three women, choosing to retrieve the clay and focus my attention on it, but with every passing second, I can feel my face warming with the blush that creeps up from my neck.

"Yes, you are," Betty joins in.

"Now now, ladies. Let's give her some breathing room," Grace says. "If Mackenzie wanted you to know her business, she'd tell you."

"I kissed him," I blurt.

The women are silent as I let out a long breath. It had felt good to offer that information up to these virtual strangers. I mean, sure, I could have confided in Harper, but she's biased and would tell me straight up to go for Dylan when that could be the worst idea ever.

I look up to find three pairs of eyes fixated on me before Betty's shriek carries across the table. "Slay!"

The rest of us can't help but laugh at her response. "Slay?" I repeat.

"Yeah. Isn't that what all the kids are saying these days?" she asks, waving a hand at the rest of us.

"Oh, stop trying to stay relevant, you old biddy," May grumbles.

"It's a thing, May!" Betty argues. "I heard it on the TikTok!"

I shake my head, restraining another giggle as I absent-mindedly manipulate the terracotta.

"You really like this boy." Grace muses.

My eyes snap upward meeting her cool, icy irises. "Yeah," I sigh. "Unfortunately, I think I do."

Normally it would take a lot for me to admit something like this. I couldn't even admit it to Harper, but here in this circle of women I barely know, I feel as though my secret is safe.

"Unfortunately?" Grace's forehead crumples as her gaze softens.

"I don't exactly have the best track record." I let out an anxious laugh. I may have felt comfortable to share with them my feelings for Dylan, but I'm not sure unpacking the baggage I've accumulated over my lifespan would be a fantastic idea today. "It's complicated."

"Life's complicated, girly," May says, a finger pointed at me.

"You're telling me," I begin. "I don't -"

"I wasn't finished," she cuts me off. Her lips are pursed together in a thin line. It's honestly kind of scary.

"Sorry, May," I apologise begrudgingly. "What were you saying?"

"I was saying, life is complicated." She pauses deep in thought for a moment and I begin to think she might have forgotten what she was actually going to say. "But it ain't worth living without love in it."

My eyebrows shoot upward as I absorb the old woman's words. "You make it sound so simple."

"Hey, what's that you've got there?" Betty asks gesturing to the clay in my hands.

I hold it up for her to see. Without even thinking about it, I've moulded it into a miniature shark, much like the one that Dylan had led me to on the snorkel tour.

"Oh, she's good," May says to Grace, nodding toward the clay shark in my palm.

"She sure is," Grace agrees. "I knew this one had artistic talent the second I saw her."

I smile back at Grace. Her words are kind, but I remember the first time Grace saw me.

It wasn't the day she'd spoken to me on the park bench, my art book resting in my lap as I'd shaded in the colours of the sunset. It had been the day she watched me from the pier as I went for my morning run. Then again, when her stare had found mine through the tavern's windows. I still haven't been able to erase the image of her, the expression of anguish I'd witnessed on her face. I still wondered where that sadness came from.

"Well, I'd love to stay and chat some more, ladies, but I have lawn bowls in twenty minutes, and I need time to warm up these old muscles." May rises from her seat and ambles over to the table on the far side of the room where she lays her project gently.

"I need to get moving too," Betty adds. "I'm going to the matinee session of Chicago at the Seabright theatre. Found myself a gentleman friend that loves musicals as much as I do." She gives us a wink as she too, stands with her art piece – a tiny planter pot.

"Horn dog," May mutters as Betty shuffles past her.

Grace shakes her head, chuckling under her breath. "These two. I swear, you never know how things are going to play out when they're in the same room together. Great artists though."

I laugh, moving to the table to place the small shark I've just made down. Betty and May wander to the sink to wash their hands.

"Don't worry about cleaning up, ladies. I've got it under control," Grace says.

"Are you sure?" They both say in unison as they hold their soapy hands under the running water.

"Oh, yes. It's fine." Grace waves a dismissive hand their way. "I'd hate for you to be late to your activities."

"We'll be back for tomorrow's oil painting class, Grace," Betty hollers. "And Mackenzie?"

I swivel around at the sound of my name. "Yes, Betty."

"Grace is right. You are very talented." She pats her hands dry with a piece of paper towel, then tosses it into the waste basket. "That blank canvas of yours. Something tells me it could be the best work in the exhibition if you just paint something that moves you. Something that makes you feel alive."

I give her a subtle nod, forcing a smile. If only it were that easy.

A moment later, the two of them disappear out the door and I turn my attention back to Grace.

"I can help you clean up," I offer.

"There really isn't a whole lot to be done. I just need to wipe down the tables and get set up for the next class. I have about fifteen people joining me for some charcoal drawing. You're quite welcome to stay."

"That sounds fun." I contemplate her offer. I'd have to catch a later bus home, but I could make it work. "I'll start wiping down the tables."

Grace smiles warmly back at me as I turn for the sink and grab a sponge. "Thank you for your help, Mackenzie."

"It's the least I can do. I haven't even paid for a lesson yet." I swipe the clay from the tabletop, scrubbing at the parts that have dried on the surface. "Which reminds me. My two free sessions are up. How much are your weekly classes? I'm pretty busy with work but I'd love to come down once a week and try out some new techniques."

Plus, I could really use the escape from reality.

I feel Grace's eyes on me as I wander back to the sink to rinse out the sponge. I squeeze it under the running water, watching as the terracotta-coloured swirls circle the drain.

"You'd really like to keep coming back?" she asks.

"Yeah, of course. I like your studio. I think it's really cool."

Grace's smile grows wider as she moves toward me, though her expression is contradictory. Her eyes don't mirror the

happiness in her smile. Instead, they're haunted with sadness.

"Um… are you okay?" I ask.

She clears her throat, turning to gather some art paper from a drawer underneath the bench. Her voice is clipped when she replies. "Yes. I'd love for you to come back. For as many classes as you'd like. Free of charge.

"I don't understand."

Why would she offer me these classes for free? It doesn't make sense.

There's a faraway look in her vacant teary-eyed stare that sends a sense of unease through me. The speed at which her mood has changed from pleasant to tortured is unsettling. I watch as she picks up the little shark I'd moulded mere minutes ago.

"You seem to have a natural talent," she says, delicately turning it over in her palm. "Your mother was the same."

Her words hit me like an ice-cold rush to the head, an almost physical jolt wracking my body. I'm frozen, unable to respond, my breath caught in my throat.

I must have heard her wrong. I must have.

It feels like forever before I finally manage to choke out a reply. "What did you say?"

Her gaze snaps to mine, her clear blue-grey stare wide with shock as the realisation of her admission begins to sink in.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mackenzie," she gasps. "I shouldn't have just blurted that out. I wanted to say something to you sooner." A single tear rolls down her cheek as a wrinkled hand comes up to her mouth. "I just didn't know how."

"To tell me what?"

Her eyes close as she inhales a shaky breath, but still, she says nothing.

My heart thrashes against the walls of my chest. "What are you saying, Grace? Do you know my mother?"

"Yes," she croaks. "Very well."

"How well, exactly?" I whisper.

She shakes her head, her clear, blue stare focused purely on mine as her brow pulls down in sadness. She doesn't answer me though.

She doesn't have to.

Because when I look at her, really look at her, the answer is staring me in the face.

I see myself in the reflection of her storm-blue eyes. Her wavy hair, ash blonde streaked with grey, is wild and untamed. So much like the girl's golden strands in the painting hanging above us.

So much like mine.

It doesn't make any sense that she's standing here before me. A woman I never knew to exist. And yet, here she is. An enigma I'm struggling to comprehend. It's only when I speak the words out loud that their meaning begins to register.

"You're my grandmother."

She nods, the corners of her mouth drawing downward, a frown creating deepened lines across her forehead.

My instincts tell me to run.

To remove myself from this situation. At least until I can have the time to process it.

But I can't leave without asking her the one question that has plagued me most of my life.

"Where is she?" I murmur. "Where's my mother?"

Even before her face crumples in agony, before her weathered hands begin to shake, before she opens her mouth to speak, I know.

I know something isn't right.

"Gone."

Gone? What does that even mean? The definition of gone is vast. It could mean anything in this context. She could have gone into town, gone on vacation, fled the country to the other side of the world, but there's a heaviness in the way she says the word that lets me know. A finality unsubtle in its meaning.

"Gone where?" I dare to ask, knowing full well that the answer she's about to provide is not the one I want to hear.

Her voice breaks, reaching a pitch I've never heard from her before. "She passed away, Mackenzie. Almost a year ago now."

A fierce pain rips through my chest. "No," I wheeze, shaking my head in denial. I am not ready to hear this. I'll never be ready. "You're lying."

I back toward the door as she reaches for me, tears now streaming steadily from her eyes.

"Please, don't go!" she pleads. "Please don't leave like this. We need to talk."

I pull away from her, saying the one thing I know in this moment to be true. "I can't be here."

The bell above the door chimes as I throw it open, ringing more haunting than inviting in my ears now. As I step out onto the street, I feel as though I'm living someone else's life.

But of course, this is happening to me.

Of course, it is.

I pick up speed, no real idea where I'm heading, just knowing I need far away from this place. When my lungs are burning, my muscles spent, I find myself near a small shopping village nestled in a bay. My feet carry me to the water's edge, and I collapse down onto the sand, the full weight of what I've just been told sinking through my bones like lead.

Truth be told, I don't know how I'm supposed to react. My mother has been gone for most of my life. I didn't know if there would ever be a day that I'd see her again. It's only now that I know that day will never come that I realise I had hope.

A tiny slither of faith that maybe one day she'd spring back into my life. That she'd tell me how sorry she was, and I'd have the chance to forgive her.

How could she be gone?

I don't know how long I sit here, the silence of the beach a total contrast to the overwhelming volume of my thoughts, but it's long enough for the sky to change colour.

When the sun has almost set, I find a bus stop across from the shopping village and board a bus back to Cliff Haven.

My tears hold out until I'm about halfway home and I wonder then if I'll ever be able to stop them. I've never been much of a crier, but they pour out of me soundlessly now like rain through a floodgate.

My thoughts take me to places I don't want to go, leaving a myriad of questions in their wake. How will I explain all of this to Kristen? Does my father already know? Surely, he wouldn't have left me wondering about her existence if he did.

Fat heavy droplets begin to fall on the roof of the bus, cascading down the windows, blurring the world outside. I'm so caught up in my grief, I forget to look at where I am. I squint out at the dark street, realising I've missed my stop.

"Shit," I curse as I stand up, swiping at my eyes. I stumble down the aisle to the bus driver. "I need to get off."

The bus comes to a halt a little further down the road. When the door swings open with an audible hiss, I burst out onto the street.

I scan the area, gathering my surroundings. I'm at the beach. If I take the shortcut through the beach trail, I might be able to cut a few minutes off the twenty-minute journey across town.

I cross the street, startled by a car horn and the screeching of tires. I hold up a hand in apology as the headlights blind me, leaving a trail of silver along the wet road. Then I race toward the trail, my hair clinging to my shoulders in thick strands, the crop top and jeans I'm wearing completely soaked through.

There's been a sharp temperature drop, the icy wind blowing through the fibres of my wet clothing. I know the cold should bother me, but I'm numb.

Tears fill my vision as the ground blurs in front of me, the trees creating black shadows in the darkening night. I make it to the start of the trail when everything starts to spin.

I stumble, tripping over a tree branch. My hands shoot out in time to brace myself from the full weight of the fall, but they hadn't been able to stop me completely.

I push myself up into a sitting position, my jeans now coated in mud, my hands filthy.

"Mackenzie!" A voice cuts through the air. "Mackenzie!"

Panic replaces the air in my chest, my body frozen in place.

"I'm coming for you, Mackenzie. You can run but you can't hide."

"Ethan! No!" My scream echoes through the trees.

His hands are on me now, smothering and all-consuming.

He's going to kill me this time. I'm sure of it.

I scramble to my knees, but he still claws at me.

My body feels so heavy. I don't know how much fight I have left.

I'm losing the will to get back up as his voice begins to fade into the background.

I close my eyes, surrendering.

"Mackenzie, it's me."