Chapter
Ten
For the nextweek, Daphne got so many compliments on her lavender-hued hair, she wondered why she’d never dyed it sooner. It was wild, how different her hair color could make her feel, but shedidfeel different somehow.
She wasn’t sure what kind of different quite yet. After all, she couldn’t stop checking her phone, and she cursed chasing a gin martini with shots of tequila last week, which was the only explanation for why she would’ve sent April’s name to her ex. The text sat in her messages like a brick in her stomach,Deliveredunderneath those two tiny yet huge words, because of course Elena had turned off her read receipts for Daphne.
Either that, or she’d deleted her number altogether.
Or she’d read it, hadn’t cared.
Daphne squeezed her eyes closed, forcing her brain to stop. She really needed to stop thinking so much about Elena.
About the lying, the cheating, the—
“Stop,” she said out loud, even though she was alone in the art studio.
She stood before the painting she’d been working on and took a deep breath. It was early afternoon, and she and April had anillustration class in about an hour, so it was the perfect time for Daphne to work on her own piece for the Devon. April was…well, she didn’t know where April was, and that was probably for the best.
For the last few days, they hadn’t spoken again about the Devon. April hadn’t asked her any more questions about her painting or plans for any future pieces, and Daphne hadn’t asked April about her own ideas.
Though she was dying to know.
Daphne had only seen April’s art on her Instagram, which was mostly shots of people’s arms and legs and torsos covered in ink. It was all beautiful, and she loved April’s style, but she’d never seen anything on paper or any other medium, a medium that could hang in the Devon, and she was beyond curious.
Hang in the Devon.
Her eyes roamed over her own painting, trying to picture it in the Devon. She’d never been there, of course—she’d never been anywhere; despite the few times Elena had gone to London for work, she had begged off taking Daphne, claiming she’d be too busy to keep her entertained—but she’d studied the museum enough online over the course of her life to be able to picture it clear as day.
Goose bumps erupted along her arms, thinking about how she might fit into that place.
Even the opportunity felt unreal and dreamlike.
The girl in this painting would never have believed it, that was for sure. Daphne tilted her head, trying to find the girl’s expression even under the blurry mess she’d intentionally painted.
Unseen.
That was what Daphne had named the painting. It was done—the flowers were bright and full of motion, as though swaying in the breeze; the sky was packed with different shades of blue, deeplysaturated and textured; the farmhouse in the background a fortress of white, the outline of a woman watching the girl in the field from the porch.
But the girl.
Her colors were less vibrant. Her blond curls were nearly gray, the white of her dress washed-out and dingy. And, of course, her face, a smeared slash of peach with a bit of green and pink right where her eyes and mouth should be.
Daphne stood staring at the girl, knowing the painting was finished, but still feeling unsettled.
She closed her eyes, saw the rustic sanctuary of the smaller chapel that stood on her church’s property. It was old, built in the late 1800s as the church’s first gathering place. When the congregation expanded over the decades and electricity and running water became available, a new sanctuary was built, which eventually became the bright white space the church used today. But the little chapel, all rough wood floors and bench-style pews, remained as a history marker.
Daphne saw it now, saw herself as a slightly older girl standing in the aisle, that rugged wooden cross looming above her in the pulpit, and—
“Daphne?”
A voice yanked Daphne from her thoughts. She flipped her eyes open to see Nicola standing behind her wearing another cute pair of shorts and a black sleeveless blouse.
“Oh. Hi,” Daphne said. She folded her arms but then let them drop as the motion didn’t feel too friendly. But then she didn’t know what to do with her hands, so she tucked them behind her back. Cleared her throat.
Predictably, her cheeks went red and hot.
Nicola smiled kindly.
