by Rose Pressey
“When did you get here?” I asked as I reached out to hug her.
“You mean, how much of this scene did I witness? Enough to see that it’s business as usual for the Cabots.”
I blew the hair out of my eyes. “Welcome to my world.”
“I’m fully aware of your world, remember? It’s been this way for the total of all the years I’ve known you.” She handed me a pretty pink package.
She knew how much I loved the color pink. Pretty much everyone knew pink was my signature color when they spotted my old pink truck pulling the pink trailer.
“What is this?”
“A little something I thought might make you feel better.”
“You bought me a gift? Why did you do that? You didn’t have to do that.” I immediately untied the white ribbon.
“I know I didn’t have to, but it’s just that tomorrow is a big day for you. A whole new start to life.” She moved her arm in a sweeping gesture. “It deserves a celebration.”
I hugged her again. “Thank you. You’re such a great friend.”
“Hurry and open it. I want to see if you like it.”
I hurriedly opened the package. The suspense was getting to me. My mother had slipped over to see what all the fuss was about.
“Oh, you’re ruining the paper,” my mother said.
“We could reuse that.”
My mother wanted to keep every bit of gift wrap she saw. We’d exchanged the same gift bags back and forth for six years now. If one got smashed or ripped she grieved for days.
I eased the pink paper away from the box and handed it to my mother. She slowly folded it, as if it were a piece of delicate silk. I pulled the mug from the box. A self-portrait of Vincent Van Gogh was on each side.
“Do you love it? When you pour in hot liquid his ear disappears.”
I laughed. “It’s perfect.”
“Interesting,” my mother said.
The sound of a motor caught our attention. The man in charge of organizing the craft fair was driving a golf cart down the path in front of our booths. With his wide shoulders and hefty stature, Evan Wright barely fit behind the wheel of the vehicle.
“Who’s this guy?” Stevie asked with a hint of suspicion in his voice.
“He’s the guy in charge here,” I whispered.
“He seems shady if you ask me,” Hank said.
My brothers, mother, and father were suspicious of everyone. I tried not to be that way, although I supposed on occasion I succumbed to that attitude too.
Evan rolled to a stop in front of my booth. “It’s a bit late to be out, don’t you think?”
“There’s a curfew?” Sammie asked.
Evan eyed Sammie. “No curfew, but people are trying to sleep because they’ll be up early in the morning. I heard a lot of ruckus over here.”
“Ruckus,” Hank said with a chortle. “That’s a funny-sounding word.”
Stevie laughed too.
My mother smacked them on the back of the head with the gift wrap remnants. She meant business if she was jeopardizing her paper.
Evan tapped his fingers against the steering wheel while waiting for an answer. The gold ring on his finger clanked against the metal of the wheel.
“We were just wrapping up,” I said with a forced smile.
He scrutinized all of us for a bit longer before accelerating away.
“That was weird,” Sammie said.
“Well, it takes all kinds,” my mother said.
“Ta-da,” Papa said.
The string lights glowed in the night sky. They added just the right amount of coziness to the area. It didn’t feel quite as lonesome now. I’d worried that I’d get lonely once my family left. Yes, I couldn’t believe I’d thought that, but I had.
I hugged my father. “The lights are fantastic. Thank you, Papa.”
“Well, I should go and let you get some rest before your big day tomorrow.” Sammie raised her voice, hoping my family would take the hint and leave too.
She’d obviously noticed my yawning. The family didn’t catch subtle hints, or if they did, they ignored them. Tomorrow was Friday, the start of the fair. I needed to rest for the big event, but with my excitement, I wasn’t sure how I’d ever fall asleep.
My mother surprisingly picked up the clue. “Boys, it’s time to go.” She clapped her hands.
Somehow my mother rounded up my brothers and father. Sammie left too. I clutched Van in my arms. It was just the two of us. Tomorrow was the big day.
CHAPTER 2
Travel trailer tip 2: Home is where you park it.
“I want to return this horrible painting.” The tall, willowy, gray-haired woman placed the framed canvas down on the table in front of me.
Earlier, when she’d purchased the art piece from me, she’d been impeccably dressed and practically flawless. Now, just a few hours later, she was a hot mess. Her hair tumbled around her flushed face and dark circles colored under her icy-blue eyes. Her white blouse and navy-blue trousers were now in desperate need of an iron, as if she’d slept in the clothing. Who was I to notice such things, though? My outfit had fared worse. I peered down at my paint-stained jeans. Various colors decorated the front of my white T-shirt too.
“Is there something wrong with the painting?” I asked.
She placed her hands on her slender hips. “Is there something wrong?” Now she was mocking me. “Yes, you could say that something is wrong.”
Van Gogh yipped at the woman as he wiggled in my arms. He acted as if he wanted down so that he could chase her away. In reality, in the face of any danger he would run and hide in the trailer. She glared at him. He wouldn’t bite her unless she tried to pet him. Or if she turned her back and I let him down. Van had been protective of me since the day I’d rescued him from the animal shelter.
Claiming she had changed her mind wouldn’t be a good enough reason for a return in my opinion, but what else could be the problem? If she didn’t want it, I would have to give her the money back. I was happy with my sales so far at the fair, but a return would be a financial setback.
“What seems to be the problem?” I used the sweetest tone possible.
I’d never forget the evening I painted the aforementioned piece of art. Rain had battered against the windows of my cottage, almost in rhythm with each stroke of my brush. Thunder rattled the walls and lightning had caused the lights to flicker on and off. The dense trees surrounding my place acted almost as a comforting, earthy embrace. While at home, I always felt safe from the overwhelming and hectic world.
Oil paint had been my preferred medium to bring the portrait to life. The subject of my work had popped into my mind as clear as any living person. It was as if she was pleading with me to immortalize her on the canvas. I had no idea who she was, but I knew her beauty had to be captured. She wore an ornately trimmed red-and-gold Victorian era gown with her dark hair pulled up into a French twist. That was exactly how I’d depicted her in the portrait.
“The painting is haunted,” the woman said without batting an eyelash.
I surveyed my surroundings to see if anyone else was in on this joke. Fairgoers milled around the grounds with other artists selling their wares. No one was paying attention to me or my disgruntled customer.
“Did Evan put you up to this?” I asked around a laugh.
The lines between her stone-cold eyes deepened. “I don’t know Evan. Frankly, I’m insulted that you would accuse me of anything that devious.”
Uh-oh. Now I was riling her up even more. Apparently, she was completely serious. She was a few strokes short of a finished portrait.
“Why do you think the painting is haunted?” Curiosity made me ask this question.
“Right after I bought it, I took it home and hung it up. Immediately, strange things happened. Things that had never happened before, so I knew it had to be this painting causing the chaos.” She gestured toward the canvas.
I frowned. “What type of strange things?”
&n
bsp; She tossed up her hands in frustration. “Doors slamming, unexplained footsteps, and the painting was knocked off the wall and landed on the floor all the way across the room.”
That sounded like something out of a scary movie. Still, I had my doubts that this woman was telling the truth. I didn’t believe in ghosts.
Grabbing my bag, I pulled out the cash she had given me less than four hours earlier. “Here you are. One hundred dollars.”
It pained me to let go of the money. I had big plans for those crisp twenty-dollar bills—like buying food.
She counted the bills to make sure I hadn’t stiffed her. What kind of operation did she think I was running? After all, she was the one who thought the painting was haunted. What a crazy idea. I pushed my shoulders back and held my head high. It would be all right. Another buyer would come along who appreciated my work.
I wanted to ask her more about this “haunting,” but I thought better of it. Clearly, she was just making this up in order to return the painting. Plus, even if I changed my mind and decided to ask, it wasn’t an option now. She turned and hurried away before another word was exchanged. At least that tête-à-tête was over, and now I could go back to work.
After placing the painting back on the easel next to the other canvases, I picked up my brush to add a little more detail to my current project. While I waited for other customers to come by, I painted. I’d done fairly well at this show so far, selling four paintings already. Since this was Friday, I had the rest of the weekend ahead of me and, with any luck, I’d sell even more. My fingers were crossed I wouldn’t receive another return.
This time I was working on a portrait of a young woman and her horse. The inspiration had come from a woman I’d seen riding at a nearby farm. I thought it would make a lovely painting. Now I was creating it from memory.
For most of my paintings, I used oil paint. In my opinion, the oil made it easier to get just the right look. My interest with art had started at the age of fourteen. It was hard to believe that had been over ten years ago now. The only time I’d had any art training was a class in high school. That changed a few years ago, when I’d decided to take classes at night. Things had come up that prevented me from attending college—things like no money—but as the years slipped away, I’d decided it was now or never. I’d taken a job at my Aunt Patsy’s diner and worked there up until two weeks ago. I figured six years was enough and it was time for a change.
“I’m quite impressed by your work.” The female voice snapped my attention away from the colors in front of me.
The woman studied the canvas. Her hair color reminded me of the chocolate-brown paint color I used often. A rich brown with earthy gray undertones. She stared at the portrait the other woman had just returned. A potential new customer? Could I get that lucky? The woman was even shorter than me, at probably five foot. Her long, straight hair reached past her waist. In some ways she reminded me of my mother. They were probably close to the same age.
“Thank you,” I said, putting down my brush.
Her comment was just the boost I had needed after the earlier encounter with the unhappy customer.
The woman studied the portrait through her thick black eyeglasses. “Did you add the skull in her dress on purpose?”
I frowned. “I’m sorry. What do you mean?”
She pointed. “On the woman’s dress there’s a skull. It’s an interesting touch. Quite haunting.”
I moved around the table and now stood beside her. The earthy scent of patchouli encircled her. Staring at the portrait, I still couldn’t see the skull. Was she just as nutty as the other customer?
“You don’t see it, do you?” she asked.
“No, I’m sorry.”
She removed her eyeglasses and examined the portrait again. “That’s odd. When I look at it without my glasses, it’s not there.”
“Maybe there’s a reflection or smear on your glasses,” I said.
After wiping them with the edge of her bohemian-style shirt, she placed them back on her face. “It’s still there.”
I wasn’t quite sure what to say.
She removed the eyeglasses once again. “Here, you put them on and tell me what you see.”
This was the second odd experience I’d had in less than an hour. My life had always been uneventful. Apparently, I was making up for that now. Nonetheless, I took the frames and put them on as she’d asked. Whoa, I’d get a headache quickly wearing them. Once my eyes adjusted, I peered at the portrait. It was exactly as she’d described.
“Do you see it?” she asked excitedly.
“I see it now. I never painted that. At least not on purpose.”
“Maybe it was just a trick of the strokes,” she said.
“I’m sure no other paintings would have this.”
Keeping her eyeglasses on, I moved to the right a couple of steps. Her Birkenstocks squeaked with her movement. Peering at another painting, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Another image was in this painting. This time it was a skeleton, not just a skull. A shiver ran down my spine. I pulled the eyeglasses off.
“What do you see?” the woman asked.
The skeleton wasn’t visible without the eyeglasses. I handed them back to her.
‘It’s a skeleton.” My voice was barely above a whisper.
She put on the black-rimmed eyeglasses and studied the painting. “Oh, I see it too. You didn’t do that on purpose? That’s amazing. You have such talent.”
I shook my head no, still in shock. The woman stepped around me to examine the other artwork I had on display. “Oh, there’s a hidden image in all of them.”
I couldn’t wrap my mind around how this had happened. If it had occurred only once, I would think it was a fluke, but that couldn’t be the case when it occurred in all of them. Was it just her eyeglasses? Yes, that had to be the case. This was another joke. The woman claiming the painting was haunted was a joke, and now someone was playing another trick on me. I wanted to identify the prankster.
“Who put you up to this?” I asked.
She furrowed her brow. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but I’m not fooling around. I have the booth two down from you. I make jewelry.”
I peered down the lane at her table, full of jewelry on display. It was hard to see from this distance, but her jewelry seemed as if it was made with various stones.
She caught me studying her pieces and said, “I use sliced gemstones like agate, jasper, onyx, and more.”
“Sounds lovely. Back to the painting, though. I’m sorry, but it has to be your eyeglasses,” I said.
“Do you have anything else glass?” she asked.
“I have ajar I use to clean my brushes.” I gestured toward the picnic table where it sat.
“I wonder if you could see the image through that too? Or if it has to be magnified?”
I rushed over and retrieved the jar. Lifting it up to my face, I peered through the glass at the painting. A gasp escaped my mouth when I spotted the skull.
“See. I told you it wasn’t my eyeglasses. You should be happy. This is a true talent and a work of art. Embrace it.” She patted me on the back.
Moving from painting to painting, I examined each one. They all featured some kind of hidden image. I suppose I had to believe it now because I was seeing it with my own eyes. How did this happen? I hadn’t planned it. I suppose I had painted the images with my subconscious.
“My name’s Ruth Gordon, by the way.” She stretched out her hand toward me.
I shook her hand. “Celeste Cabot. Nice to meet you.”
“Are you okay? I still can’t believe you didn’t know about this.”
“No idea,” I said, still eyeing the painting.
The more I looked at the woman in the portrait, the more I noticed her eyes. They seemed different now somehow, but I couldn’t put my finger on why I thought that. The hum of the motor cart returned. Evan cruised down the path toward us.
“Good morning, ladies. I guess y
ou’re not having any luck with selling your wares, if you have time to hang around and chitchat.” His loud, boisterous laugh carried across the summer air.
Evan didn’t wait for an answer. He punched the pedal, jerking his head backward. His laughter continued as he drove off.
“I don’t like that guy,” Ruth said with disdain in her voice.
“He’s not pleasant, is he?” I asked.
“I’ve overheard quite a few vendors talking about how much they don’t like him. As a matter of fact, I might not come back next year if he’s still here.”
“I certainly understand why you feel that way,” I said. “Like my grandma always says, he’s as useful as a pogo stick in quicksand.”
“Oh, it looks as if I have customers. It was nice meeting you, Celeste.” She tossed her hand up in a wave and rushed away to help her customers.
Now I was alone, staring at the woman’s portrait. Or was she staring at me?
CHAPTER 3
Travel trailer tip 3: Explore your campgrounds. Make note of areas of interest—such as the ice cream vendor.
Late in the afternoon, things slowed down at the craft fair. Ruth agreed to watch over my booth while I took a stroll around the grounds to check out the other vendors’ wares. I’d do the same for her. Rumor had it that a lot of artists working with acrylics would be at the fair. That meant stiff competition for me. How would I compare? I had no idea if my prices were competitive or if my work would be half as good as theirs.
I carried Van in my arms, although I had his leash in case he wanted to walk. His tiny legs got tired easily. I totally understood. At five foot two, my stride wasn’t big either, and I never got anywhere quickly.
Right away, I passed three vendors whose paintings were stunning. Thank goodness I felt my prices were in line with theirs. I questioned whether my work was good enough, but my mother always reminded me that I was my own worst critic.
I stopped at a vendor who made leather items. Things like belts, bracelets, and key chains. A caged leather bracelet with tiny faux pearls caught my attention. The artist eyed me first and turned her focus to Van. Spikes of strawberry blond hair topped her head. She wore a white tank top and light beige linen pants to no doubt help fight the heat.