“He moved to Ireland years ago with his wife, but we talk on the phone sometimes.”

“It’s nice that you kept in touch.”

“It must be hard leaving everything behind and starting over,” he says.

“It is,” I say. “And it isn’t. I think it all depends on what you’re leaving behind.”

“What did you leave behind?” he asks.

“Except for my mom, who I miss, nothing I regret.”

He looks at me as if he wants to say something, just as I stop in front of an art gallery.

“Hey, I know the artist,” I say. “We should go in. Been meaning to see her work.”

I knock on the glass door. No movement; it must be closed for the night.

We’re walking away when I see Anna’s pretty face, as she rushes to open the door.

“Maya,” she says and I’m happy she recognized me. I know she sees me every morning, but we don’t talk too much and I always assume I’m pretty invisible to people.

She looks at Ethan and, to be polite, I say, “This is—”

“Ethan, it’s about time you stopped by. Come in, guys,” she says.

The gallery is small, just like Celine said, but it’s packed. One wall is covered in seascapes, just like the ones Ethan and I saw on our way to Big Sur, the second one has over a dozen beautiful, colorful landscapes of hills and mountains, vineyards, and redwood forests. The wall on the far-right side is the portrait wall. Half of them sketched, half in color and finished.

“They’re beautiful,” I say to her and although she’s trying not to hover, I know she’s watching our reactions as we move from painting to painting.

“Anna, you’re getting better by the day,” says Ethan, sounding like a big brother.

She grins. “If it wasn’t for Ethan, I wouldn’t have the studio in the back.”

“I’m sure you would’ve found a solution. Besides, I didn’t do much.”

“He got the landlord to drop the rent by seventy percent. I could’ve never afforded it otherwise.”

“How did you do that?” I ask Ethan.

“I told her I’ll be using this location in my upcoming novel,” he says. “She’s a fan.”

“Ethan is popular with the ladies. They gobble up his books,” says Anna, laughing too.

“Especially eighty-year-old ones,” he says.

“Hope your magic continues to work. The landlord is getting antsy about the two-bedroom upstairs. She asked me if I’ll rent it, if not, she wants to put both levels on the market.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

“I tried to find a tenant, but single people who’d be OK with a noisy art gallery below—I listen to music when I paint—don’t need two bedrooms, and families want peace and quiet.”

“Is this Hugo?” I ask, realizing one of the sketches bears a striking resemblance to him.

She smiles sheepishly. “Not done yet. He’s just so handsome, isn’t he?”

I have an idea. “Is the space big enough for an office and a single person to live in?”