Then she was back in the main room, facing the studio door.
Just a door. Nothing special about a door. Pine, with a small nick in the frame where something had bumped against it once. A crystal doorknob that caught what little light remained.
Her hand reached for the knob before she could think better of it.
The studio took her breath away.
North-facing windows dominated the far wall, their glass so clean it seemed to disappear. The last traces of twilight filtered through, painting everything in that perfect golden light that artists called the magic hour. Built-in shelves lined one wall, waiting for supplies she didn’t have. An easel stood in the corner like an accusation.
She stepped inside. The floorboards creaked under her weight.
It was a proper studio. The kind of space she’d dreamed about during art school, when she’d shared a cramped corner of a converted warehouse with three other students and called herself lucky. The kind of space she’d worked toward for fifteen years. The kind of space she’d finally achieved, briefly, before everything fell apart.
How long had it been since she’d actually painted?
Eight months? More? She’d tried, once, in the cramped corner of the Chicago apartment after she’d been let go. She’d squeezed ultramarine onto her palette, picked up a brush, and then nothing. Her hand had refused to move. Three hours she’d sat there, the paint drying on the palette, the canvas blank in front of her. Then she’d cleaned her brushes, packed them away, and hadn’t touched them since.
“Fraud,” she whispered into the empty studio.
She blinked. The windows that had seemed so beautiful now felt like eyes watching her, waiting for her to pretend she belonged here.
Her hand found the doorknob. She stepped backward into the main room, pulling the door closed behind her. Her fingers found the lock and pushed it into place.
There. Problem solved.
She stood with her palm flat against the closed door, feeling the grain of the wood under her fingers.
The bedroom felt safer. Anonymous. She could be anyone in here. Just another rental tenant running from something, no different from dozens of others who’d probably slept in this bed and stared at this same ceiling.
The mattress dipped under her weight as she sat. The quilt was soft, faded. A wedding ring pattern in blues and greens that reminded her of the Gulf water she’d driven past this morning. She ran her fingers along the stitching. Someone had made this by hand once. Someone had chosen these fabrics, cut these shapes, and sewn them together with care.
Through the window, she caught her first glimpse of the lighthouse beam.
It swept across the water, slow and steady. A bright arc cutting through the darkness, then gone. She counted. Forty-five seconds later, it came again. And again.
She kicked off her shoes. One landed by the closet door. The other bounced off the dresser and disappeared underneath it. She considered retrieving it. Didn’t.
Instead, she lay back on the bed, still fully dressed. The quilt bunched under her shoulder, and she shifted until it smoothed out. Above her, the ceiling was plain white plaster.
The lighthouse beam swept past again, throwing a brief stripe of light across the ceiling. She tracked its movement with her eyes. It appeared at the left edge of the window and slid across, disappearing to the right.
Forty-five seconds.
Everything else in her life had proven unreliable, like her mentor’s legacy, her husband’s loyalty, and her own reputation. But this light circled back exactly when promised.
But this light. This light came back exactly when promised.
The beam swept past. She counted. Forty-five seconds. Again. Forty-five seconds.
Her eyes grew heavy. She should get up. Brush her teeth. Change into pajamas like a functional adult. Instead, she pulled the edge of the quilt over herself, not quite ready to commit to being here but too exhausted to be anywhere else.
The lighthouse beam swept past.
Forty-five seconds.
Forty-five seconds.
Somewhere between counts, sleep claimed her. Her last thought was that Winnie had been right about one thing.
