I catch up to her as she’s walking in the door of the shop, and I have to stop myself from asking her to wait. I want a break. I want to get back in the van and turn on my recorder and ask her to say that exact thing again. I want to ask her to compare a hundred other things from my life to something else—whatever her mind offers up.
But already a blast of air-conditioning is hitting me in the face, and I know I have to focus enough to get through this last dead end. The previous four shops we visited were pretty densely stocked—lots of aisles and displays to get through on the way to whatever point-of-sale counter was set up. In those places, I’d make my way straight there, while Jess hung back among the merchandise for a while.
In here, though, Jess and I both stop right inside the doorway, taking it in. It’s bright and uncluttered, and there’s not really an aisle in sight. Instead, the room we’re in is set up similarly to a museum space: large and small frames holding abstract art hung on the white walls, a few pedestals with sculptures of what I think are waves. There are three shelving units along one wall lined with colorful blown glass. Another shelving unit with delicate, handmade jewelry.
“No shells,” Jess whispers.
It’s so quiet in here—a soft, mechanical bell sound played when we came in, but so far, no one’s come out to greet us. Obviously, talking to someone is what I’m here for, but honestly, some of this stuff looks pretty cool. I might as well look around uninterrupted while I have the chance.
Jess must have the same idea, because she wanders away from me, back toward where the jewelry is. I get lost in a couple of those wave sculptures, which, when you look up close, have the tiniest pieces of gold foil set into their crests, like sunlight. I don’t know how long I look, but it’s long enough that I consider calling Jess over. I want her to see this, too.
She beats me to it, though.
“Adam?”
When I turn I don’t see her by the jewelry anymore. I feel a strange pulse of unease in my gut, both because I can’t see her and because when she says my name, there’s something different about her voice. It’s certainly not the sound of someone who’s found secret gold foil in a sculpture.
I move toward the rear of the space and realize there’s an entrance to a back room here—more of a studio than a display area. There are metal drawer units, long tables, shelves full of supplies. A sign hanging on the back wall saysART IS FOR EVERYONE.
Jess stands with her back toward me, facing another wall. I don’t know how I can tell something’s wrong, but I can. The set of her shoulders. The way she holds her hands at her sides.
I come closer, until what her back has been blocking me from seeing is revealed.
I stare at it in dumbfounded shock. The only words I can think of aren’t my own.
In fact, they’re words that just yesterday, I was ready to do battle over.
Remarkable resemblance.
If I didn’t know better, I’d say I’m looking at a painting of Jess Greene.
But I do know better.
And this is a painting of her mother.
Chapter 11
Jess
“Is that better?”
Adam’s voice is low and soothing, the hand he has on my back warm and perfectly weighted. I take another sip of cool water and nod, staring out of the front window of the shop we’re still in, waiting for Salem and Tegan to arrive.
In a back room only a few feet away from me, there still hangs a gorgeous, photorealistic portrait of my mother, the artist still—for the next few minutes, at least—unknown to us.
But right now, the only thing I seem able to think about is the man standing beside me, and all the things he’s done for me in the moments since I first saw it.
First, the calloused hand at my elbow, steadying me against the unexpected rush of dizziness I felt looking into her face that way, painted and unsmiling.
Second, the soft way he whispered two simple words—Hey, now—as he’d taken in whatever expression I’d been wearing, using that hand at my elbow to guide me back a couple of steps.
Third, how he smoothly and so calmly handled the young, frazzled studio employee who’d emerged from a rear break room, apologizing profusely for leaving us waiting alone.
She’d taken one look at me and snapped her eyes to the painting. She said, “Wow,” and Adam took care of everything after. A succinct and carefully vague explanation of our presence. A question about the painting’s artist. A request for a glass of water for me. A quick text to Salem, and, ever since—steady, patient waiting at my side.
“I’m sure it’s the heat,” I say curtly, which we both know is a lie. But he doesn’t call me on it. He only moves that hand in a soothing, small circle on my back.
I don’t just feel it there.
