CHAPTER ONE

Gillian Swann should have seen the Grand Canyon when she had the chance. A convenient tenth grade field trip had promised to be her ticket to this incomparable visual feast. But she decided to wait for a better time. She knew that she wouldn’t be able to resist the magnificent scenery before her. She absolutely would have needed her easel and her watercolors and a way to transport her creations back to Oyster Cove.

She knew that she needed time in solitude that would never have been available to her on a three-day group trip. And she knew that if she waited to go on her own later, she would have the opportunity to luxuriate in the canyon’s dazzling colors—to burn the sight them into her memory forever. She knew that there would be plenty of time in her young future to drink in this glorious sight. She knew wrong.

For the past three years, Gillian’s eyesight had been failing—so imperceptibly in the early days that she thought that bifocals were to be her worst fate. It was a full year before she could grasp the undeniable truth of her impending blindness.

It is a terrible thing for anyone to look into the future and see never-ending darkness. But such a future held special terrors for Gillian. If there was one thing she had learned to detest in her life, it was relying on other people. Putting her trust in those around her had never been met with anything but betrayal, neglect, and disappointment. Early in her young life, she had promised herself that she would rely on no one. How insufferable to know that she would be at the mercy of a world that had repeatedly shown itself to be so untrustworthy.

There was another painful loss to bear, though she constantly chided herself for even thinking of it as a loss. And that was the dream of becoming an artist. Even before she began losing her sight, she knew it was just a pipe dream.

Sure, she was a very competent graphic artist, and she made a very decent living making business signs and logos, posters, websites, book covers, business cards, etcetera. She had a good eye for design back when her eyes were good, and she was justifiably proud of her work. But she didn’t kid herself that she was a real artist. Not like the real, real artists who resided in her hometown of Oyster Cove.

The town had more artists per square foot than it did seafood restaurants, which is a whole lot of artists for a Cape Cod-adjacent beach town. On every street corner, at every storefront, and even in most residential blocks, the influence of Oyster Cove artists was evident in all directions.

Statues, murals, mosaics, painted sidewalks, three-dimensional advertisements, sand art, shells, anchors, and buoys were showcased in the most imaginative displays, depicting pirates, mermaids, and sea creatures. Walking through the town was like meandering through an outdoor gallery, and Gillian had spent countless hours admiring the dazzling creations of the local talent.

How she envied real artists, both the living and the dead. How supremely satisfying to create artwork that was admired and enjoyed for centuries after they were gone. It was some consolation that this art would always be a part of her and that she would be able to summon the memory of these images even after her sight was extinguished.

So, she consumed artistic images frantically, obsessively. Her living room was filled with heavy, unwieldy coffee table books with art from the ages—Egyptian paintings and artifacts, Roman sculptures engaged in love and battle, Picasso’s provocative renderings, Renaissance portraits, and her favorites, the Impressionists who congregated in the south of France in search of color and light and joy.

She devoured these images until her failing sight sucked the color and sharpness and enjoyment right out of the pictures. She was left with dim light, gray shadows, and a red and white cane that proclaimed her blindness to the world.

As visual pleasures receded, she tried her best to cultivate an appreciation for music such as classical music, opera, and jazz. She was determined to find creative sustenance in the musical realm because, what choice did she have? Opera held special appeal because her mind was able to paint the scenery and costumes that she knew to be unfolding on the stage before her. It stirred her imagination and occupied her love of imagery in a way that envisioning a sedate orchestra simply could not match.

So, on this particular occasion, she found herself in a large theater house on the Cape, ready to experience Turandot, of which she’d heard nothing but the most glowing reviews. How sweet of her boyfriend, Byron, to have driven her there, especially when he was going to have to come all the way back to take her home.

Gillian felt a bit guilty to take up so much of his time. But he did it so cheerfully. He was so anxious to provide her with any pleasure that would help to compensate for her loss of sight. Too bad he wasn’t able to stay and enjoy the evening with her, but opera just wasn’t his thing.

Besides, there was a big test coming up on Monday for his online university class. He was getting a degree in hotel management, which was a perfect choice of career for him. He was so charismatic and sociable. They were qualities that came in handy at his current job at a large call center, but it was still monotonous and low-paid work.

And while he helped her with handling the cash for the café she had inherited, that scarcely took up more than an hour of his day. He needed a career that was would be a real showcase for his talents. Gillian was proud of his hard work and determination to create a better future for himself.

So, Gillian sat by herself in the theater, whose splendor she could only imagine. She envisioned lush purple and gold velvet curtains cascading over the stage. An over the top ornate ceiling. Curvy Art Nouveau box seats. A gigantic chandelier? Or was she allowing herself to be overly influenced by a ten-year-old remembrance of Phantom of the Opera? She was starting to get excited.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I am so sorry to have to announce that our talented star, Matteo Giovanni has been taken violently ill backstage. It looks very much like food poisoning,” the theater manager said, apologetically.

The crowd groaned with disappointment. They had all been eager for a spectacular show.

“We will do our best to reschedule this performance in two weeks’ time. Our deepest apologies for the inconvenience.”

This was more than a small disappointment for Gillian. Byron would already have made his way home. He was probably hunkered over his studies. To have to call him to come get her immediately . . . This was precisely the kind of burden that she dreaded placing on him.

He’d never complain, of course. In that, Gillian counted herself as lucky as any woman on the planet. She couldn’t have found a kinder, more loving, more generous mate. They had been together for two years, meeting a full year after her grim diagnosis. She had already started to stumble off street corners and was no longer able to drive.

None of that of that mattered to Byron. He was by her side when she had to shut down her graphic design business. He lovingly took on the role of caretaker and live-in boyfriend. He became her chauffeur, did most of the housework, helped Gillian buy new clothes, and made sure she was well-groomed and presentable before she left the house.

Many times, she stood before the mirror, not just wondering if her long auburn hair was neatly in place but wondering if there would ever come a day when she forgot what she looked like. Or more likely, whether the image of herself that she had last seen would become her lifelong reality.

She had often been described by others as having delicate, sensitive features. She knew that it was always meant as a compliment and that she was generally regarded as quite attractive. But with her impending blindness, attractiveness was becoming an increasingly abstract concept. What did it matter to her what she looked like? But of course, she did have to wonder about what mattered to Byron.

Though she had just turned thirty, one day, she would one day be forty, and fifty, and sixty. She would never know what her sixty-year-old self looked like. She would never truly able to imagine how time and wrinkles had altered her. But Byron would not have to imagine. He would witness it all, the changes, the aging, the final loss of all sight, even the blurry gray shadows that were currently all she had left. Assuming, of course, that he would always be there.

 “Excuse me, Miss. My name is Evelyn Williams, and I’m here with my husband, Ted. You don’t know us, but we live in Oyster Cove. I’ve seen you around town. What a shame about the performance. Nothing to do about it but head back home. We were just wondering if you needed a ride.”

Being regarded as an object of charity bothered Gillian more than almost anything else. Her loss of independence and the prospect of relying on strangers was abhorrent to her. But the alternative was to completely ruin Byron’s evening of study.

“If it’s not any trouble,” Gillian responded warily. “That would be really helpful, thank you.”

The half-hour drive back to Oyster Cove was a jarring reminder to Gillian of how socially isolated she had become. She had really become unaccustomed to talking to anyone besides Byron. It just felt so much easier to hold the world’s pity at arm’s length and avoid as much interaction as she possibly could. But here she was, trapped in a car with two chatty good Samaritans. At least they could talk about opera, if nothing else.

They dropped her off right at her front gate, at which point she thanked them and insisted on going in alone. She could vaguely detect a light inside the house, a white three-story Victorian, coming from the direction of the upstairs bedroom. That was unusual. Hopefully, he wouldn’t mind moving his studying to the living room. Of course, he wouldn’t. He was an absolute sweetheart about such things. He was her knight in shining armor.

Gillian stepped inside the foyer, the interior details of the home firmly entrenched in her memory. The entry was rich with dark polished wood, with immediate access to the staircase.

“Byron! I’m home! You’re never going to guess what happened.”

She began to climb the stairs and heard the bedroom door open.

“Honey! What you doing here? How did you get here?”

“Mr. Giovanni got food poisoning. They have to reschedule. I got a ride with some folks from Oyster Cove, which was really nice of them. I’m glad I didn’t have to bother you and disturb your studying. Now you don’t have to go back out at all.”

“Yeah, how about that? So why don’t we go downstairs and make ourselves a pot of tea?”

How thoughtful of him. “But I’m so tired. I’m going to get into my PJs and listen to one of my opera tapes. I guess, when you really think about it, listening is all I really could have done tonight anyway.”

“Gill, you’re not feeling down, are you?” Byron fussed. “Come over to the bed and let me give you a massage.”

“That sounds wonderful. But I still want to put my clothes away first. I’ll be with you in just one minute.”

Gillian shimmied out of her sky blue sleeveless shift dress and opened the closet door. Alas, it was not one of those large walk-in closets. But she had never been much of a clothes horse. Byron was the one whose clothes had to be accommodated in the second bedroom. Pulling her shoes off, she had to balance herself against the back wall of the closet.

What she touched wasn’t the wall. Gillian let out a frightened squeal. What she was touching was warm. And it was a body. But the only other body in her life and her world and her bedroom was Byron’s body. And he was in the room behind her, not in front of her. Gillian’s mind was barreling through shock and confusion. This was not what Byron’s body felt like! This was what her own body felt like. Her hands were planted on someone’s breasts!

The owner of the breasts let out her own squeal and pushed past Gillian in an irritated huff. Gillian staggered back into the room.

Byron was almost hyperventilating. “Okay. Okay. Okay. Okay. Gill, this is not what it looks like.”

The naked, ample-breasted woman sighed in exasperation. “She’s blind, not stupid. It’s exactly what it looks like. But she had to know sooner or later, right? For one, I’m glad it’s over. All this sneaking around. You’re in love with someone else and she needs to deal with it.”

“Simone, please, please. Let me handle this,” Byron pleaded.

Gillian’s head was spinning. Simone! All this sneaking around! That implied a whole bunch of sneaking around. In love with someone else? Her devoted knight in shining armor!

“Byron?” Gillian wondered what miraculous response could possibly put an end to this nightmare.

“I messed up, badly. I messed up. All guys do eventually. I just . . . I just . . . was under so much pressure. The call center, balancing the books over at the coffeehouse, and taking care of you. I’ve taken really good care of you, haven’t I? And you know . . . my classes.”

Simone scoffed. “It’s time to get real, By. Make a clean break. She is not your responsibility. Anyway, I’m outta here.”

“Simone? Simone—all right. Yeah. I’ll give you a call.”

Gillian had been frozen motionless. But, “I’ll give you a call” roused her into action. “No! No! You’re not going to give her a call. You’re going to leave. Right now. Both of you. Get out. Get out. Get out!”

Reaching down, she pulled off one of her shoes and flung it in Byron’s direction. “Out.” She torpedoed the other shoe at him as well. Gillian heard them scramble to the door and down the stairs. She hurriedly stumbled to the door and made her way to the top of the stairs.

“How could you do this to me, Byron? How could you?”

Simone’s voice was dripping with indifference. “C’mon. There’s nothing more to say.”

“Gill, I’m sorry. We’ll talk later, okay?”

Gillian was near hysteria. “Get out!” she shouted.

Just a few more shuffling noises, and then a door slam, and she was finally completely, utterly, terrifyingly alone.

Barely aware of how close she was to the stairs, she sank to the floor and wasn’t able to move for a very, very long time.