I walk toward the back, my pulse still steady but higher than before.
Willow’s standing near the desk, phone pressed to her ear. When she sees me, she covers the mouthpiece with her hand. “Who was that?” she asks, eyes searching mine.
“Nobody,” I say automatically, forcing my tone to stay light. “Just someone confused about the hours.”
Her gaze lingers on me a second too long, suspicion knitting at the corners of her brow. “You sure?”
“Yeah.” I manage a small smile, but it doesn’t reach my eyes. “It’s handled.”
She nods, uncovering the phone again, her voice softening as she speaks to whoever’s on the other end. I stand there for a moment, watching her—the way she fidgets with the cord, the curve of her shoulders, the glow of the studio light on her hair.
And yet, even with her there, even with the door locked, the feeling doesn’t leave.
Something in my gut twists—an instinct I’ve learned not to ignore. The man’s face, his voice, the way he said her name—it all sits wrong.
I glance once more toward the front of the gallery. The glass door reflects only light and shadow, but I swear, for a heartbeat, it feels like someone’s still standing on the other side.
7
WILLOW
The snowoutside looks like powdered sugar, soft and clean, layering itself over the cobblestone path that leads to the gallery. Ten days until Christmas, and the whole street looks like something out of a snow globe: lamps dressed in red ribbons, shop windows glowing gold, faint music drifting from somewhere down the block. Inside, the air is warm and rich with pine, turpentine, and the faint sweetness of beeswax from the candles I keep burning near the counter.
I should be thinking about gifts. Wrapping paper, bows, what to get Vincent’s mother this year that doesn’t look last minute or like another one of my paintings. I should be making lists, or at least pretending to feel festive. But all I can think about is this piece. The last one before the holidays. The one Cast stood over last week, tracing the brushstrokes like veins. I wanted it finished for Christmas, wanted it to feelright.But it doesn’t. Not yet.
By noon I’d given up on it again and started another, and now I’m touching up the final edges—blending warmth into the woman’s skin, softening the shadow that falls over her throat. She’s familiar in a way that unsettles me, too close to somethingI haven’t said out loud. It’s like she knows something I haven’t admitted to myself.
The world outside moves without me. Cast took Theodore and Rose to the arcade, Damien’s at the ballet studio with Elise for her “Daddy-Daughter Rehearsal,” and Vincent’s “running errands,” which probably means his usual last-minute shopping sprint.
I try to focus on the canvas, but my nerves won’t settle. It isn’t just the painting; it’s me. The same flutter of nausea that hits when I open the turpentine, the faint pull low in my stomach. I haven’t had my period in almost two months. I keep blaming stress—the holidays, the long hours, the constant noise—but the thought keeps circling back anyway, steady and insistent as a heartbeat. My cycles have never been perfect, yet every time the scent of cinnamon turns my stomach, I can’t help wondering if this time the reason is different.
So it’s just Penny and me here, wrapped in the hush of the gallery—the first real peace, or time I’ve had in days to be an artist..
I pull back and look over the painting in front of me. The wet paint from my hands staining my chin.
“Mom?”
Her voice cuts through the stillness. I look up and see Penny standing there in one of my old paint shirts, sleeves rolled halfway up her thin arms, hair escaping its braid. There’s turquoise streaked across her cheek and something like pride—or maybe nerves—in her eyes. She’s holding a small canvas with both hands, careful not to smudge the edges.
“Can you look?” she asks.
I wipe my hands on a rag, already smiling. “Of course, sweetheart.”
She skips over, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth the way I used to do when I was little. She holds out the painting.It’s a girl under a snow-covered tree, her face tilted up toward the sky as if she’s listening to something only she can hear. The proportions are uneven, the horizon line dips, but the emotion is there, and vibrant.
“Oh, Penny.” I crouch down to meet her eye level. “This is beautiful.”
She studies my face, searching for honesty. “Really?”
I nod, tracing the air above the canvas. “See how you used blue here? It makes the snow feel cold, even though you didn’t use much white. That’s how you know it’s good—itfeelsright, not just looks right.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “I wanted it to feel like the day after it snows, when it’s really quiet. When it feels like the world’s still asleep, and all you can think about is how happy you are to have your family.”
My heart stutters at that. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”
She beams. There’s paint under her fingernails and a tiny smear on the bridge of her nose. I brush it away with my thumb. “You really think I have the same kind of… you know, gift?” she asks softly.
“You have something better,” I say. “You have heart. That’s what people forget art really is—it’s just love, disguised as color.”
