Seven Summers

1

Perfume emanates from the purple and white wildflowers growing on the grassy banks, and the morning air is crisp and still as I set off to Seaglass, the restaurant-cum-bar on the beach where I work. On either side of me, the hills seem to climb higher and higher as the road cuts down through the valley, and in the far distance, the Atlantic Ocean comes into view, a deep blue where it hits the horizon. I follow the curve of the road past whitewashed cottages, the pub, and the Surf Life-Saving Club before Trevaunance Cove appears in full. The tide is halfway in and the curling, clear aquamarine waves are lapping gently against the creamy-white sand.

Summer has landed and Cornwall is radiant. I feel the hope of it in my bones, as though I might finally be ready to step out of the cold shadow that has lingered over me lately.

My new hair is helping too. I've worn my dark hair long ever since I can remember, but yesterday I went to the hairdresser and told her to do whatever she wanted.

Now it swings in waves just shy of my shoulders and I love it. I feel like a whole new person, which is exactly what I need.

My thoughts turn to Finn and my mood takes a nosedive, but then a breeze catches my hair and blows it back off my face, almost as though Mother Nature herself is reminding me that it's time for a fresh start.

As I head up the external staircase to Seaglass, my attention is caught by something unusual down on the beach below. The stream that leads to the ocean has carved myriad tracks out of the sand and someone has dug a number of the rivulets deeper by several inches so that now they look like tree branches forking outward from a trunk.

I pause so I can better study the art etched into the sand. The tree is leafless, which makes me think of winter. I wonder if it's winter in the artist's imagination too. What tools did he or she use to create the work? As a sculptor, I'm interested.

A wave collapses onto the shore and licks over the highest branches. It won't be long before the tide wipes the canvas clean, and I hate the thought of something so beautiful being stolen away before others have had time to appreciate it.

An idea comes to me and I take out my phone and click off a few shots, posting the best of them to Seaglass's Instagram page, along with the caption How about a little sand art with your brunch?

I'm an artist, not a wordsmith, so that will have to do.

Checking my email, I see that I have a new message from Tom Thornton:

Hi Liv,

Just dropping you a line on the off chance that the cottage will be available earlier than 4-I'm already in Cornwall.

Thanks,

Tom

I sigh. My guests are always trying to secure earlier check-ins.

I type back:

Hi Tom,

You're welcome to park your car on the drive, but I haven't had time to clean the place yet, as my last guests have only just left. I'm at work so I doubt it will be ready before 4.

Cheers,

Liv

I feel guilty when I see that he sent the message two hours ago. The rules are clear on the website, but I'm so grateful that he booked the cottage for the whole month of June after a last-minute cancellation that I'm thinking maybe I should make an exception for him. I was stressed about how I would fill four weeks outside of the school holidays and then this Tom guy swooped in and saved the day.

I decide to duck out at some point this morning and get the place ready early. I owe him that.

The familiar scent of stale beer and sea-damp mustiness washes over me as I enter Seaglass. I'm the first to arrive, but our chefs, bar staff, and waitstaff won't be far behind. We run food out of the kitchen and restaurant upstairs, the lower-ground floor is the cellar, and this middle level is all about the chilled bar vibe. On the left are French doors that open on to a balcony and face straight out to sea. And on the right is a dark-wood-paneled bar that takes up about half the length of the wall, with space for a winding open staircase and the bathrooms at the far end. A little along from the main door, perpendicular to the bar, is a performance stage.

My stomach pinches as I stare at this small raised platform, and for a moment I'm back in the past and Finn is at the mic, his lips cocked in a half smile, his gaze tangled up with mine.

Will he come back this summer?

Enough.

Behind me, the door clangs open, making me jump. I turn around, expecting to see staff, and instead find a stranger: a tall, broad man carrying a large black rucksack, his hands jammed into the pockets of a dark gray hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head.

"Sorry, we're not open yet," I call.

He comes to an abrupt stop, looking thoroughly fed up. "What time do you open?" he asks shortly.

"Ten a.m."

It's only a quarter past nine.

He under his breath as he turns on his heel and walks straight out again, leaving the door wide open.

Rude!

I go over to shut the door and glance down at the beach in time to see another wave crash onto the sand, erasing a whole section of tree. Despite my determination to stay upbeat today, I can't help but feel a little melancholic as I get on with opening up.


There’s no car parked on the drive when I return to Beach Cottage, the aptly named house that has been my home since the age of thirteen. A few years ago, I had it converted into two separate apartments, but from the outside it looks like a two-story cottage. It’s built of gray stone with a central door and four symmetrical windows with pale blue frames. Peeking above the high wall enclosing the property are the spiky heads of three fat palm trees. Along the front runs a bubbling stream, which is hugged by a waist-high stone wall with so much lush moss and foliage packed into its cracks and crevices that it looks half-alive. Two bridges, only a meter and a half long, allow access to the driveway and my front door.

I cross the tiny bridge to the main door and let myself into the hall before unlocking the downstairs apartment. My previous guests didn't have children and Tom is coming on his own, so there's little to do in the bunk room and its adjoining bathroom.

Wandering through to the cozy living room, I look around, smiling at the perfectly plumped sofa cushions. The open-plan kitchen and dining area at the back of the cottage are equally spotless. If only all guests were this thoughtful.

Satisfied that I'll have the place ready in no time, I tap out a quick email to Tom, letting him know that he can let himself in at midday. Hopefully, the news will make him happy.


The next morning, when I get out of bed, I go straight to the window and pull back the curtains. Still no car on the drive! Did this Tom guy even check in? I haven’t seen or heard him and he didn’t reply to my email.

An hour later, all thoughts of my wayward houseguest are forgotten as I stand on the balcony outside Seaglass and stare in stationary silence at the two trees now etched into the beach.

The first, on the left, stretches outward from the stream in the same style as yesterday's, a span of leafless, elegant branches.

The second has been sketched directly onto the sand in the center of the beach, a tall, slim, spire-shaped conifer that makes me think of the Italian cypress trees I once saw lining the paths of the Boboli Gardens in Florence.

The memory makes me feel hollow.

I find myself being drawn down to the beach and, up close, I notice how the edges of the cypress feather in a way that looks realistic. I think they might have been created with a rake, but the tree that is emerging from the stream seems to have been scored into the sand with a sharper object. I'd wondered if it had been imagined in winter, but next to the tall, strong cypress, it appears starved of life.

I'm desperate to know what my fellow artist was thinking and feeling when they created these pieces. Did the work come from a place of joy or sadness or from somewhere else entirely?

There's an ache in my chest as I walk the length of the cypress and stand staring out to sea and thinking about Florence, a place that once held so much hope for me.

I'd only just left university when I attended the Florence Academy of Art six years ago and I still felt very much like a student playing at being an artist. But during my four weeks there, as I made cold clay come to life under my hands each day, the future felt wide-open and full of possibilities. I was so excited about the next stage of my life: moving to London and getting a job in a studio.

Then it all came crashing down.

I may not have made it to London or back to Italy as I'd once dreamed, but I am a professional sculptor now. It doesn't matter that I'm not sculpting full-time-I like working at Seaglass during the summer months.

I smile at the sea and the ache in my chest recedes.

Returning to the balcony, I take a few pics and post one to Instagram with the words: More exquisite sand art gracing our shores this morning . . . We'd love to know who our mystery artist is!


Saturdays are my busiest day, what with opening up for brunch, followed by several hours of cleaning and prepping the three other holiday cottages I manage before returning to Seaglass for the evening shift. Before rush hour kicks in, I take a quick look at the post and discover that it’s already closing in on fifty likes. I scroll through the comments, hoping for answers but finding none.

One of my oldest friends, Rach, has commented.

Which one's your favorite? she asks.

I reply without thinking: They move me equally, but in different ways.

Somehow, they both speak of loss, even as one thrives while the other falters.

She must be online because she replies within seconds: Wonder if there will be more tomorrow . . .

I tap out: If you're reading this, mystery artist, we'd like a whole forest, please!

At least I remembered to use "we" for that one, instead of "I." It's supposed to sound as though a team of us are bantering away with our customers, when actually it's just my solitary twenty-eight-year-old self.

I'm run off my feet until closing time at midnight, so when my alarm goes off at seven the next morning, I whack the snooze button and almost fall back asleep.

But my desire to catch the sand artist in action supersedes my exhaustion and I pull myself from bed, hoping that I've timed it right. Low tide was a whole hour and two minutes later today, so there's every chance he or she will still be at work.

When I arrive at the cove, however, I'm once again too late, but my reverence smothers any disappointment I might have felt.

A winding pathway has been carved into the beach, wide where it begins at the boat ramp and narrowing to a single wiggly line where it reaches the shore. On either side of the path are pine trees drawn roughly with sharp, serrated edges. In the forefront they're tall and majestic, but they become smaller and more roughly sketched as the path tapers away.

Suddenly I want to be in the picture, walking along that magical pathway leading through an enchanted forest and experiencing it firsthand.

On impulse, I head down the boat ramp and step onto the sand. I follow the curving path, smiling as it shrinks away in perfectly sketched perspective. Soon I feel as if I'm the size of a giant and eventually I have to put one foot directly in front of the other, walking the last section with my arms stretched wide as though balancing on a tightrope. Joy rises up inside my chest and I can't contain the feeling so I spin in a circle, my arms still outstretched.

The smile is still on my face as I make my way back along the winding path toward Seaglass. And then I look up and do a double take. There's a man sitting on the bench on the northern cliffs, half-hidden behind gorse bushes bursting with brilliant yellow flowers. I stumble and trip, managing to right myself, and when I look up again, he's gone.


On Monday morning, I arrive at the beach to find that it’s still a blank canvas.

Am I here in time to catch the artist or have they moved to another cove?

In case it's the former, I slip up the stairs to Seaglass, figuring I'll stay hidden for a while and wait. And that's when I see it: the life-size drawing on the sand that I'd missed.

It's a simple outline of a girl wearing a knee-length summer dress, similar to the one I had on yesterday, with its hem trailing off to one side, caught in an imaginary breeze. Her wavy hair comes almost to her shoulders and her arms are spread wide in a gesture of joy.

A shiver runs down my backbone.

I walk tentatively to the railing and look up at the cliffs.

He's there once again, the man on the bench. Is he the sand artist? Was he watching me yesterday?

I hurry down the external staircase and run up the road, veering left onto the cliff path. Gorse scratches my legs with each imprecise step as I climb the narrow, rocky track, my mind racing.

No one who draws that beautifully could possibly be a psychopath, I tell myself.

My compulsion to meet this artist overrides any concern for my own safety.

I know exactly where the bench is because I've sat there many times, watching the tide roll in or surfers riding the waves. My heart is in my mouth as the path opens out onto moorland with far-reaching views, and then I'm looking down at an empty bench, chest heaving, trying to catch my breath.