I giggled into his shoulder.
“Here we are!” Wit announced a few beats later, as we pulled into another whorl of darkness. But this one had bright spots of light. Two cedar-shingled barns squared off in a wooded clearing, one much larger than the other. THEBARN, a carved sign read in the lamplight. Connor helped Wit roll open the wide doors, welcoming the tractor back home. I peeked inside to see a smaller red tractor, as well as a Kawasaki mule and a pair of dirt bikes. The enormous American flag from the Fourth of July party hung on the back wall.
Then I turned back to the John Deere.
“I know,” Wit said. “She’s a stunner.”
“Absolutely.” I nodded, then I took a deep breath and asked if Connor could take a picture of me next to the tractor. He’dalready fished his phone from his pocket. “I know it sounds silly, but…”
This was the final photo I needed, the one I thought I would never get the chance to take.
Wit grinned. “Not at all. I take a picture of Claire with the tractor every summer.” He offered a suggestion as Connor framed me in his crosshairs. “Maybe rest your arm on the back wheel?”
I did, since I had no glass of white wine to hold.
“Say cheese!” Connor smirked.
“Feta!” I smiled wide when he laughed.
“Good turnout tonight?” someone asked, and the three of us turned to see Christian Fox step into the Barn’s lamplight. Baseball hat atop his head, he wore a pair of faded jeans and frayed crewneck sweatshirt. There were dark stains on it, some faded, others fresh. He was wiping his blackened hands with a rag, which smelled to the high heavens.
Motor oil?I wondered, the scent taking me back to a catastrophe in our garage. My dad used to love tinkering on his college Saab, determined to bring it back to life. (After the sludge had been cleaned up, Erica had gently encouraged him to give up on resuscitation.)
So Andrew’s an artist, I thought.And Christian is a motorhead.
“A new record,” Wit bragged. “I cleaned out every house.”
Christian smiled and shook his head, bemused. “I’m sorry I missed it.”
“What are you working on?” I asked despite not having much of an interest in cars. “Someone mentioned—”
“I’d stop right there, Olivia,” Wit warned. “Grumps doesn’t unveil his genius until it’sgenius.”
“He speaks the truth, I’m afraid,” Christian said, with a hint of bittersweetness. He hesitated. “But if you count to a hundred so I can hide the current bane of my existence, I’d be happy to show you some of my finished pieces.”
Finished pieces? How many cars did he have?
“One…” I responded, keeping it light. “Two…”
With a chuckle, Christian turned and started back toward the second barn. It was a little smaller, so I hadn’t given it much of a look earlier, but it was pretty and warm in the darkness. It was newly cedar-shingled with arched windows and copper trim. I wondered if he’d designed it himself. Meredith said he’d been an architect, right?
THEWORKSHOP, its sign read when I’d hit ninety-nine and reached for the doorknob. Connor said he’d join me after helping Wit put the John Deere to sleep, fascinated with it.
“Ready?” I asked before pushing open the door.
“All set,” Christian answered. “Welcome…”
I immediately blinked upon crossing the threshold, expecting to walk into a large garage space; instead, I’d been transported to a whole other world. Wood-planked walls with old beams for rafters, the entire room had a golden glow that begged you to sit down and stay a while. Weathered brass pendant lights andsalvaged lamps lit the room, and art waseverywhere. Majestic framed oil paintings kept company with unframed watercolors, pencil sketches, and black-and-white photographs. I couldn’t help but think how wonderful Erica would think this studio was; she always wanted her office to be homier but could never find the right Pinterest inspiration photo.
Andrew’s studio, I realized with a twinge. The Workshop belonged to both brothers.
“All of this is incredible,” I said, slowly walking around the space. My gaze hooked on an intricate charcoal sketch of a horseshoe crab, and then a monstrous painting, one that truly had to be as tall as me and must’ve taken ages to paint. The watercolor was set by the sea, a vignette of a woman sitting on a jetty and staring down into the water. Her feet were bare and her linen pants cuffed, but you couldn’t see her face; it was like a picture that had been snapped from behind…
But from the way her blond hair fell, I knew. Andrew Fox was not only the artist of Annie’s artwork but also her long-ago island love.
“I call that oneGirlhood,” Christian offered, a seemingly casual comment that turned my world entirely upside down.
“What?” I truly felt like I’d been clocked in the head. “Youcall itGirlhood?”
