“Greer,” I say, once the talk of Mr. Rugamiester has finished. “I think I know someone you may know. I’m not sure if you’re the same person, but he says there’s only one Greer in Port Townsend.”

Greer sets her teacup on the table and unfolds her legs so that she’s leaning toward me with her elbows resting on her knees.

I can’t look at her when I say it. I’m afraid she’ll think I orchestrated this whole thing. “Kit Isley,” I say. “Do you know him?”

Her face betrays nothing but happiness. She nods, and smiles, and asks how I know Kit.

“He’s dating my friend,” I tell her. “I don’t know him very well; they hadn’t been dating for too long before I left.”

“How is Kit?” she asks. “He just up and left us for sunny Florida.”

“He seems to be well. He wears a lot of flannel,” I blurt. Greer laughs.

“Well, Helena. I’d love to have you, if you still want the room.”

I’m a bit shocked. We moved past the fact that I know her ex-fiancé like it was no big deal. She doesn’t even further question me on the matter. We exchange cell phone numbers, and Greer hands me a folder that has all of the information about the cannery, the rules, and a lease to sign and return to her. She says since we sort of know each other, she’ll waive the deposit. When we part ways outside of the teashop, she hugs me, and my face gets lost in her silver hair. “See you tomorrow,” she says, and then adds, “roommate.”

I haven’t even seen the place, but I’m so happy. I didn’t do the expected thing—the Helena thing. I veered off and took my own road. This is a big, old deal. I’m learning magic.

The historic Clam Cannery building on the Quincy Street waterfront is a 6,482 square foot two-story brick building, which dates back to 1873. Greer is waiting outside for me when I pull up in my rental car.

“Wow, nice car,” she says. I blush.

“It’s just a rental. It’s not very big inside. I actually really need to return it to Seattle and buy a car.”

“You don’t need a car here,” she says. “And you can always use mine.”

“Thanks.”

The kindness makes me feel awkward. I’m usually the one dishing it out. I follow her inside, and it takes a minute for my eyes to adjust.

“Whoa,” I say.

“Greer ducks her head, kind of shy about it. There’s lots of space, exposed beams, and concrete flooring. Is it just me, or does it smell like saltwater in here?

“I don’t do anything with this part. I was thinking about opening it up to the community. Letting them use it for meetings and stuff.” I follow her up the stairs and into the living area. To my relief, I see that it’s much cozier up here. A small kitchen with three green barstools sits under mellow light. She’s addicted to candles, and the color purple, and candles that are the color purple. Not that it’s a new observation. I eye her tattoos and look away quickly when she turns to face me.

“The kitchen and living room,” she says. “I know, I know. I just love the color.” The kitchen/dining area leads into a hallway with two bedrooms. Greer opens the door on the left and I press back a smile when I see the large windows and skylight.

“Wow,” I say, stepping inside. “This is dreamy.”

“It’s all yours.” Greer smiles. There’s a queen bed and two nightstands. I’m going to fill the shit out of those nightstands: papers, gum, bobby pins.

When I spin around I see a large oak dresser and the door to my own bathroom.

“The closet is in the bathroom,” she tells me. “I’m next door. Please don’t greet me in the morning.”

I can’t picture her being anything but perky and friendly, but mmkay.

She doesn’t show me her bedroom. Is it purple? Or does it break all the rules and is blue? Are there giant Kit posters, or giant teddy bears? She leads me into the reading room, which is surprisingly filled with paint supplies.

“Why isn’t it called the painting room?” I ask.

Greer looks confused. “I don’t know.” There’s not much to talk about after that because her paintings are beautiful. Truly it’s not fair to be as beautiful as Greer, and also have this much talent. I get lost in all the water, the ripples. There are so many patterns and variations. Some of the paintings have more transparent water than others. You can see the smooth white rocks beneath the surface, or a little minnow.

“Wow, Greer. There’s so much hidden meaning in these. They’re beautiful.” She ducks her head, bashful. I like that about her. Humble artists always genuinely impress me. She looks really uncomfortable, so I ask to see the rest. When she’s done giving me the tour, she helps me carry my suitcases inside, and I write her a check.

“Why do you paint ripples?” She’s on her way to the fridge. Her steps falter. It’s slight, but heavy.

Her back is to me when she answers, and I don’t know her well enough to hear a change in her voice.

“Cause and effect,” she says. When she turns around she has a bottle of water in her hand. She unscrews the cap and takes a sip. “We think we can control our lives, but our lives control us. And everything that touches our lives controls us. People have less power than they think they do. It’s just the reactions we control.”

She says it with such conviction. I partially believe it.