Page 139 of Every Beautiful Mile

I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. The last time I was in Bangor, I was wearing rubber boots, a flannel shirt, and had bloodshot eyes as I boarded a plane with a trash bag. Now, I stand in a creamy silk blouse, fitted dress pants, leather ankle boots, and red lipstick.

Ethan probably won’t even recognize me.

Nope.

Ethan is tomorrow’s problem.

I’ve negotiated with myself if I can keep my cool through the afternoon meeting, I’ll allow myself to have a proper meltdown the moment I get back to my hotel.

I’ll stay in Bangor for the night and drive to Bethel tomorrow. What I’m going to say to him, I have no idea. But I have plenty of time to over-analyze that plan tonight.

The empty brick warehouse stands at the edge of the city and looks like a human hasn’t entered it in decades. Piles of plowed muddy snow sit around the parking lot while patches of ice fill in the cracks of the pavement. Summer in Maine had been beautiful, but the way the freezing wind cuts across my skin in winter is completely miserable.

I twist on the old knob, and some of the peeling paint that covers the wooden door flakes off as it creaks open. A surprising rush of warmth blows out to greet me, along with the loud hum of a furnace.

“Hello?” My voice echoes around the big, empty room.

No response.

I’m stunned by how different the inside is from the out. Outside, it looks abandoned, but inside, it has the potential to be spectacular. Exposed brick covers every wall as partially broken bulbed ropes of lights drape haphazardly across a high exposed beam ceiling. The floor is concrete, which I imagine will pop if refinished.

My boots click against the floor as I walk. There’s a small bar that would maybe seat six, covered with dust and chairs. Whatever this building originally was, someone converted it into some sort of entertainment space afterward.

I click across the room and push through a set of doors that surprisingly lead to a small and very outdated kitchen. I bite my lip. A kitchen reno would be expensive, making me wonder if it would be smarter to focus on an upscale bar experience with a limited menu of small plates versus a traditional full-blown restaurant.

The door creaks open from the front of the building, and a wave of anxiety washes over me. I’m confident in what I can bring to the table, but this is a big project, my biggest one yet.

As I make my way toward the door of the kitchen, a large stack of familiar-looking canvases leans against a corner and makes me stop.

I crouch down next to them—recognition striking like a bolt of lightning.

I thumb through them. Bright colors cover mountainous landscapes, one identical to the oversized piece that now hangs in my living room, and cityscapes that I assume are of Bangor. R. Donalds is scribbled on the bottom corner of each.

Wait—what?

The artist is opening a bar? It doesn’t seem right. She was close to seventy when I met her. Not that she couldn’t tackle the project. It just seems so… big. Maybe a relative? A daughter even?

I glance at the papers for the meeting, Rhonda Donalds' name on the paper clear as day. I missed the connection.

Footsteps grow louder as they cross the big room toward the kitchen, where I’m still kneeling, attention back on the paintings. I can’t move. I’m hypnotized and confused as I let my hands trace the familiar colorful strokes of each one.

Rhonda, from little Bethel, Maine, has a stack of paintings in a warehouse in Bangor owned by someone with the same name.

How?

“She sends her regards,” a familiar voice says from behind me.

Time stops right along with my heart as I slowly stand and turn around.

I see the eyes before the smirk. “Ethan,” I whisper shakily, taking him in.

Ethan is standing in a suit looking like every woman’s fantasy, and I have zero words. I’m dumbfounded. And, against my delusional thinking, the thick hair on the top of his head, sharpness of his jaw, and hard lines and angles that make him him are still just as attractive.

“Penelope,” he drawls.

After not hearing his voice in so long, the depth of it makes me lightheaded.

He leans against the brick wall casually, like this isn’t one of the most jarring experiences of my life, as the file of papers I’ve been holding falls to the ground and scatters like confetti.

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