“Love you guys, too.”
Then the line goes dead, and I swallow down the reaction I’ve felt too many times after phone calls like this. Placing my phoneon the nightstand, I pad across my floor to go back down and join the twins, Elena, and Tristan since it’s a Friday night and the kids don’t have school tomorrow.
Rossco follows me down to the first floor, but the chatter from the kitchen is accompanied by music from the opposite end of the house. The soft sound of a piano drifts through the foyer. Curiously, I turn left, heading toward the living room and hallway leading to the master bedroom.
Cameron’s room.
As I amble down the hallway, I notice the music isn’t coming from his room but through a cracked door at the end of the dark hallway that is always locked. Delicate yellow light creates a line across the wood floor, drawing me closer. When I reach the door, I stand and listen to the ballad playing over speakers momentarily before nudging it open.
My head tilts as I absorb the office-like space. It’s not an office, though. I stand still, my eyes scanning the wooden table filled with tubes of paint and jars of brushes in various sizes. The light from the sconces on the wall casts a warm glow against the black walls and dark wood finishes. On the other side of the room, an easel stands with a dark canvas covered in shades of red, dark green, and black.
I know I shouldn’t be in here, but I can’t stop myself from entering the room. The scent of oil paint hangs heavy in the air, pulling me in. The three walls that aren’t windows facing the yard are covered in framed paintings against the dark walls, and suddenly, the recognition hits.
The artwork in this room is in the same style as the masterpieces hung throughout the house and the paintings displayed above Colten’s bed and in his living room. As I walk toward a wall, my eyes drop to the cursive handwriting—a signature I never bothered to seek out whenever I passed the canvases.
But now, the barely legible cursive is recognizable.
Cameron Lindenvale.
I analyze the room, my body moving from painting to painting. His style is abstract realism, all of them landscapes or plant life.
It’s breathtaking.
It is the kind of talent that has your jaw dropping and eyes watering because it evokes emotion.
“Of course, the one time I leave the door open to go to the bathroom, you find your way in here.”
Cameron’s raspy voice from the doorway startles me, but I can’t stop staring at the painting of a forest before me, featuring what looks like a young girl standing in the middle of a dirt road. She has light blonde hair and is wearing a black dress that contrasts beautifully with her pale skin and the deep greens of the trees. It’s dark. Eerie. Hauntingly striking since it’s the only painting that depicts a person.
There’s something about this one. But I can’t quite put my finger on it.
“Sorry. It’s just— These are incredible, Cameron. Why have you never mentioned that you paint?”
He walks up beside me, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Because it’s personal to me.”
My gaze finds his. “But they hang throughout the house.”
“But you would’ve had no idea I created them unless you found this room,” he contradicts.
True. My lips twist to the side, my eyes magnetizing to the painting again. “This one is my favorite. There’s something about it.”
He shifts his weight, both of us gaping intently at his artwork. “It’s my favorite too.” And I believe him. His voice is lighter. Brighter. Proud.
I study the brushstrokes across the canvas, some messy and some not, to create that abstract realism look. But each stroke is perfectly placed.
“Who is she?” I can’t help but ask.
His lips lift. “My muse.”
The silence stretches, and classical music fills the void. Although I never considered him a classical guy, I can see why it accompanies him while he creates these masterpieces.
He steps away from me, wandering to the unfinished canvas he’s working on. When I turn to look at him, I realize he isn’t wearing a shirt. Random splatters of paint cling to his muscular chest and arms.
“Why are you in here, Taryn?”
“I was curious, I suppose. But also—” I swallow, considering whether this is the right time for this conversation. However, it must happen eventually, so I see no reason to prolong it and complicate the situation more.
He tapers a brow.
