“She’s perfect,” he murmurs again, voice low. “You’re perfect.”
“Well,” I flip my hair over my shoulder. “I try, but I am serious, Justin. This piece is still drying, won’t be ready until the new year, I’m afraid.”
“Well I guess--”
The sound of small feet pattering across the wood floor cuts me off. “Mom!”
I turn just as Penny appears from the back hallway, sleeves damp, streaks of turquoise still bright across her palms. “The blue won’t come off,” she says, holding her hands up, face scrunched in concentration. “I used the soap and everything?—”
Justin flinches like she’s shattered his trance. He turns his head sharply toward her, that too-wide smile faltering. The change is subtle but sharp, something ugly flickering through his expression. “Is this your child?” he asks.
The question isn’t curious—it’s clipped, almost reprimanding. His tone carries something sour underneath it, and his gaze pins her like she’s an interruption he doesn’t forgive.
Penny hesitates, instinctively moving closer to me, her paint-slicked fingers curling into my apron. I can feel her heartbeat against my thigh.
“Yes,” I say quickly, resting a hand on her shoulder. “She’s being a little artist today.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares—first at her, then at me—as if trying to match us, to find the resemblance. His jaw tightens, a muscle ticking there. “She shouldn’t sneak up on people like that,” he mutters, eyes narrowing slightly.
I force a laugh that sounds brittle even to me. “Kids, right? She’s fine. Anyway—like I said, this piece won’t be done until next year.”
That gets his attention. He looks back at the painting, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Next year,” he repeats softly. Then, after a beat, he smiles again—too many teeth, and it annoyed “Well, I suppose that gives me an excuse to see you again, doesn’t it?”
Something in my chest goes cold. I take a small, instinctive step back, pulling Penny with me. My voice feels too high when I say, “Merry Christmas, Justin.”
He lingers on my name, the way it sounds in his mouth. Then, with a tilt of his head that feels rehearsed, he replies, “Merry Christmas, Willow.”
He turns, slow and unhurried, the door chime breaking the tension like thin glass when he finally steps outside.
The moment the door closes, I move. My fingers fumble with the lock, flip the sign fromOPENtoCLOSED, and only then do I exhale. My pulse is thrumming in my ears, the silence that follows almost ringing like alarms.
Penny looks up at me, wide-eyed. “Mom… who was that man?”
I smile—too quick, too tight—and brush her hair back from her face. “Just someone who really likes paintings.” I forcelightness into my tone. “Come on, let’s see what Pops is up to, yeah?”
She nods uncertainly, and I take her hand, my palm still clammy from where his glove brushed mine.
As we walk toward the back room, I glance once more at the locked door, at the faint outline of his footprints vanishing into the snow outside.
I try to shake off the encounter with Justin as I clean the brushes and help Penny into her coat, but it clings—thin and invisible, like the smell of turpentine that never fully leaves my skin.
By the time we’ve turned off the lights and stepped into the cold, the sky has already dimmed to bruised blue. Snow drifts in soft spirals around the streetlamps, catching the light in glittering motion. I call Cast as we lock the door behind us. He picks up on the first ring.
“Everything okay, love?” His voice is roughened by the cold or maybe concern.
“Yeah,” I lie automatically, tucking Penny closer under my arm. “Just ready to head home.”
“I’ll come get you,” he says before I can argue. “Ten minutes.”
When the truck pulls up, the headlights carve gold through the falling snow. Cast leans across the seat to open the passenger door, his eyes scanning me like he’s taking stock of something unspoken. He doesn’t say anything about how pale I must look, or how tight my grip is on Penny’s hand. He just squeezes my knee once before driving us through the empty streets toward home.
By the time we pull into the driveway, the house is glowing—warm light in every window, laughter spilling out when Castopens the door. The smell of dinner hits me first—roasted rosemary chicken, buttered rolls, something sweet baking. It feels like stepping into another world, one that doesn’t know about strange men or unsteady smiles.
Vincent’s mother—everyone calls herNana, even me—stands at the stove, stirring something on the range. Her silver hair is tied up in a loose bun, and she wears an apron that saysBeaumonts Don’t Burn Things (Usually)in red embroidery.
“Willow, darling,” she says, turning with a smile that softens everything in me. “You look exhausted. Long day?”
I hang Penny’s coat, still thawing from the cold. “You could say that. The gallery was… busy.”
