Chapter 5 - St. Jude’s Bay
St. Jude’s Bay was a town carved from granite, salt spray, and pine trees.
When Grant arrived in his rented SUV late Monday afternoon, the fog was rolling off the Atlantic, thick and cold, wrapping around the cedar-shingled houses that lined the harbor. It was a world entirely removed from the glass towers and yellow taxis of Manhattan.
He found the cottage at the end of a narrow dirt road lined with wild roses. It sat on a rocky bluff overlooking the gray, crashing waves of the bay. The house was tiny, weathered by decades of salt storms, with smoke curling gently from a stone chimney.
Grant parked the car fifty yards down the road. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard he could feel it in his throat.
He stepped out into the biting wind, his expensive wool coat providing little defense against the damp chill. He walked slowly up the gravel path, his shoes crunching loudly.
Through the front window, illuminated by the soft yellow light of a single lamp, he saw her.
Claire was sitting at a wooden table near the glass, wearing an oversized knit sweater and thick grey socks. She had a sketchbook open before her, a charcoal pencil held loosely in her fingers. She looked thin—painfully thin—but as she paused, looking out at the foggy sea, Grant saw a stillness in her face that he hadn't seen in four years. The constant, anxious tension that had gripped her jaw in New York was gone, replaced by a quiet, profound sadness that belonged entirely to her.
Grant raised his hand to knock on the heavy wooden door. His hand trembled in mid-air.
He hesitated for a full minute, terrified that if she opened the door and saw his face, the peace she was trying so desperately to build would shatter.
Finally, he knocked. Three quiet thuds against the salt-worn wood.
Inside, the movement stopped. Through the window, Grant saw Claire freeze. She didn't expect visitors; no one in this town knew her.
She rose slowly from the table, wrapping her sweater tightly around herself, and walked toward the entryway. She opened the door carefully, holding it anchored with her shoulder.
When her eyes landed on Grant, she didn't scream. She didn't gasp. She didn't drop her head in tears.
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She simply stared at him, her gray eyes clear, dark, and utterly empty of surprise.
“Hello, Grant,” she whispered into the cold ocean wind.
