Nicholas's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 37
Nicholas was packing, preparing to check out of the modest cabin he had rented near the Hood Canal construction site, when David Chambers drove up. He and his two boys got out of the car. The boys immediately wandered down to the beach while David joined Nicholas on the porch.
They were sitting on the porch companionably, watching the boys hunt for seashells. Nicholas waited, curious to hear what had brought the man to see him.
“I’ve been thinking. You mentioned looking for a place to settle down, maybe have a workshop.”
“Yeah,” Nicholas said. “I’m getting tired of years of temporary arrangements. It’s far past time for me to get serious and put down roots somewhere.”
David watched his boys for a bit. When he cleared his throat several times and his voice sounded the careful tone that Nicholas had learned was how he approached the still tender subject of his wife’s passing.
“I own a piece of land on Bainbridge Island. About eight acres, mostly forested, with some waterfront. It belonged to my wife, Sarah. Her uncle deeded it to her when he passed away—he’d owned it for forty years but never developed it.”
Nicholas waited, sensing there was more to the story.
“Our plan was to build something there,” David continued. “Our retirement place, maybe. Somewhere quiet where she could have her studio—she was an artist. We’d go out there sometimes, just to walk the property, imagine where we’d put the house.
“Then she died.” David’s voice remained steady, but his hands fisted tight.
They sat in silence. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of water against the pilings below and the distant call of a loon.
“I can’t build there,” David said finally. “Every time I visit the property, I see the house we planned together, hear her talking about morning light in her studio, picture her painting the view across the Sound. It’s ... too much.”
“Have you considered selling it?”
“To a developer?” David shook his head. “Absolutely not. They’d clear-cut the trees, subdivide it into McMansion lots. My wife loved that forest. She’d spend hours there just watching the light change through the canopy.”
He turned to look directly at Nicholas. “I read your books, you see. I believe you would understand what a place like that could be. You’d appreciate and build something that honors the land instead of dominating it. You’d preserve what matters.”
“Are you suggesting I buy it?”
“Yes, I’m suggesting I sell it to you for what Sarah’s uncle paid for it in 1982. Which is essentially nothing by today’s standards.” David named a figure that was a fraction of what Puget Sound waterfront property would command in the current market.
Nicholas was quiet for a long moment, processing both the generosity and the trust implicit in the offer. “That’s way below fair market value, David.”
“Fair market value doesn’t account for me knowing the land will be respected,” David replied. “Or for what you’ve done for me and my boys.”
“I appreciate the offer,” Nicholas said carefully. “But I don’t want to take advantage of your grief or guilt over not being able to use the property yourself.”
David smiled slightly—the first genuine smile Nicholas had seen from him when discussing his wife. “This isn’t about grief or guilt. It’s about Sarah’s legacy. She believed places had spirits, that the right person could sense what they wanted to become. If she were here, she’d insist I offer it to you.”
The next morning, David drove Nicholas across the Agate Pass Bridge to Bainbridge Island, then along winding roads that led away from the main town toward the island’s quieter northeastern shore. A gravel road wound through a lush second-growth forest before opening into a natural clearing.
Nicholas’s first impression was of overwhelming green—Douglas firs and western red cedars creating a canopy overhead, ferns and salal carpeted the forest floor, moss covering fallen logs and boulders. The air smelled of saltwater, the kind of fragrant damp that spoke Pacific Northwest.
“This clearing is where we thought the house should go,” David explained, leading Nicholas along an informal trail. “Sarah said it felt like the land’s natural gathering place.”
The clearing was perhaps two acres, roughly oval, with mature trees forming natural boundaries on all sides. At its center, someone had placed a simple wooden bench—weathered cedar that had aged to silver-gray.
“From Sarah’s uncle’s time,” David noted. “She said he liked to take the ferry from Seattle and come here and sit after spending an hour or two wandering the property. She did the same thing when we visited.”
They sat on the bench, David quietly allowing Nicholas to take in the peace and beauty of the spot. The clearing felt protected. Through the gaps in the surrounding trees, he could glimpse the blue water of the sound and, in the distance, the snow-capped peaks of the Cascades.
“The beach is through there,” David said, pointing toward a path that led north through the trees. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
They followed a path, now slightly overgrown. Massive cedar and maple trees towered around them. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, creating constantly shifting patterns on the forest floor.
The beach was small and intimate, perhaps fifty yards of rocky shoreline between two points that curved inward to form a natural cove. Driftwood logs lay scattered along the high-tide line, and shallow water revealed beds of eelgrass where small fish darted in and out of the shadows.
“Private beach,” David observed. “Accessible only from this property. Sarah used to come here early in the morning with her sketchbook.”
Nicholas walked to the water’s edge, looking east across the sound toward the Seattle skyline visible in the distance. A freighter moved slowly south towards the Port of Seattle. Two kayakers were fishing off the point. Despite the proximity to urban areas, the cove felt completely secluded.
“What are your thoughts?” David asked after giving Nicholas time to absorb the setting.
Nicholas turned slowly, taking in the forest, the water, the mountains beyond. “It’s beautiful. Perfect peaceful.”
“Sarah called it a sanctuary,” David said quietly. “Her place of refuge from the noise of the world.”
They spent the next hour walking the property boundaries, David pointing out features his wife had particularly loved—a grove of young maples that turned brilliant orange in fall, a hidden spring sheltered by two massive boulders.
“There are building covenants,” David explained as they returned to the clearing. “Island requirements to preserve trees and protect water quality. But nothing that would prevent thoughtful construction.”
“What about utilities?” Nicholas asked, his practical mind already considering development challenges.
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