“How often do you swim in there?” I asked. Even after my last experience with the ocean, the itch to swim hadn’t been knockedout of me. And in the bay, it’d be far safer than facing the riptides in the sea.
“Daily,” Arielle said without turning around. “Why else do you think we chose this property?”
“Does your whole family like to swim?” I asked.
“You could say that,” she said, a hint of a tease in her voice, like some secret danced beneath the surface. “The kitchen is right through here.”
She strolled through the archway into an open kitchen, also with an oceanic motif, the breezy, beachside feel present through the entire house. White latticed windows spread out across the back of the kitchen, displaying more of the stunning view. The bay sparkled, beckoning me to take a dip. The tan furniture arranged by the windows complemented the pale sand-colored flooring and the cream walls. The blue accents were purposeful, symbols I recognized as belonging to the settlements in New Atlantis.
The blue tiles shimmered along the back of the burners and framed the kitchen counters. The multiple ovens and extensive ranges made it clear some of the cooking was done here, even though I had the feeling they also had a private kitchen as well. Most places like this did.
“You never answered my question, you know,” she called over to me from where she stood by the window. “If you don’t have hobbies, you’re going to go insane here. Unless you want to give dancing another try and hit the clubs with me.”
“Do you have anywhere I can paint?” I’d bought some basic supplies this week, since I was no longer in my parents’ estate where they’d forbidden it. If I could do that…maybe I’d survive this after all.
“We’ve got studio space,” she said. “It’s by the music room. Our parents always encouraged pursuits in the arts, but none of us had much talent or interest.”
My mouth dropped. “Studio space?”
Arielle wrinkled her nose. “Yeah, a whole messload of brushes, paints, whatever artists use. Is that your thing? My father will be thrilled. He purchases a lot of art.”
“Do you mind showing me over there?” I asked, the itch to create prickling along my fingertips. The glitter of the bay under the late afternoon sun caught my attention, the sight sparking inspiration like nothing else. Water had always lured me in, a constant font of creativity flowing when I was near it. If I could take a canvas down by the bay to paint, I’d be able to tap into that.
“If you want to,” Arielle said. “I think painting’s boring as hell. It’s the sort of stuff I was forced to do as a kid, and since the second I didn’t have to anymore, I haven’t picked up a paintbrush again.”
“If it’s not your passion, I understand that,” I said. “Doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate the end result.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Like galleries? Gag.”
I shook my head, even though I didn’t take her dislike personally. She’d stated from the outset we weren’t compatible. “Or just a painting that strikes you. Art can hit people in so many different ways.”
“Maybe if I got drunk enough,” she commented, leading out of the kitchen. She led me through a few different hallways, turns I memorized as I’d be heading to this area the most.
When Arielle stopped outside the open studio door, I strode past her.
The space smelled like paint and turpentine, and I savored the inhale, a hint of familiarity I’d craved. Unlike Jason’s cozy studio space, this aimed for cool yet functional, and the white walls, the extra lighting on the ceiling, the countless drawers lining the side wall, all suggested this was designed for an artist.
“If you need to romance the canvas or whatever you plan on doing, go ahead,” Arielle said. “I’m going out for dinner and drinks tonight with my friend Sandra.”
My chest twisted at that. Not like I’d expected an invitation, but part of me had hoped Arielle and I would at least find solace in companionship through this. But she seemed to have her own agenda that she didn’t plan to stop just because she was engaged.
“Yeah, I think I’ll work on something in here,” I said, rooting through some of the cabinets. I tugged out a fresh blank canvas, the sort of pure white that begged for splashes of color. Already the swirls of water in the glittering bay flashed in my mind. I found a palette, as well as acrylics and paintbrushes, neatly organized.
“Enjoy,” Arielle called to me, heading for the door. Her easy dismissal stung a little, but I didn’t fault her. She had her own life here, and I’d disrupted it, all because our parents deemed our marriage beneficial. I hadn’t heard what my father got out of the deal, but guaranteed he’d sell out a lot more than me to get a piece of the orichalcum trade Triton possessed.
As her footsteps faded, I set up a canvas on the easel and smeared some paint on the palette, the practice second nature. The motions soothed me, the measured preparation that came before setting color to the canvas.
I dipped the paintbrush into the dark blue, stepped up to the canvas, and placed the first stroke.
Comfort filtered through me like the first sip of hot tea on a winter morning.
The colors burst in my mind, my body taking over as I painted.
The blacks, the darker blues emerged, the splash of red from the ember of fury rising inside me amid the deep sadness. That I’d been pawned off, that my parents had never truly loved me, that the care I’d been searching for my entire life wouldn’t befound here. The strokes transformed into oceanic sprays, into wild waves and angry horizons. Into a truth and wildness boiling inside me that could only be unleashed here.
I surrendered to the feelings rushing through me, pouring onto the page, to the reprieve from the loneliness.
Even if it was temporary.
