It still stunned her that her easel was right next to the one that gave birth to masterpieces. She walked around the barn, looking at Rowan’s works with new eyes. Being surrounded by them every day normalized them. A sketch here, a forgotten painting there—they were just items that needed a description and number. But seeing his art in an important room in grand frames almost made her scared to walk among them in the Operculum.
She remembered seeing a study for Nightfall leaning against the wall in the portrait room and wanted to examine it now that she’d stood before the grand finished product at the museum. Rowan had taken to organizing on his own while she cataloged works on her tablet, though his version of organizing was more about shifting things from one corner to another. More than a few landscapes had migrated to the portrait room, even though she’d begged him to keep them separate. She worked her way through the stack that had materialized where she had last seen the Nightfall study, and the pile next to it. Landscapes on top of portraits on top of landscapes. More mess to organize.
Georgina scuttled from corner to corner, hoping to trap a mouse. She knew that once they went into the Operculum she had to entertain herself.
Elizabeth was ready to give up on finding the study when she noticed a half-hidden canvas in the farthest corner of the room, behind a support beam that ran low to the ground. It was covered with a brownish cloth. Rowan was a horrible caretaker of his own works, leaving them exposed to the tiny art critics who chewed holes and the dust from the ancient wood and stone, so she was surprised that he had taken the time to shield one of his paintings. She made her way back, brushing aside spiderwebs and bending over as the ceiling dipped lower, until she had no choice but to kneel and shuffle her way into the tight space.
No one had touched the painting in years. She worked her way out of the corner and back to the table they’d set up and placed the painting on top of it.
She remembered her gloves right as she was about to lift the cloth. The painting was sure to have suffered damage after resting in the vulnerable spot for so long, so rather than add the natural oils on her hands to the problems she was sure to find on the canvas, she slid on a fresh pair of cotton gloves. She took a deep breath and slowly lifted the cloth.
It was a portrait of a beautiful woman in profile, wearing a simple full white slip. Her head was down, and her raven hair spilled over her shoulders. Elizabeth flipped into registrar mode, studying the woman’s face so that she could summarize the painting’s mood. The woman’s expression was happy, proud, hopeful. She looked like she had a secret.
The rest of Rowan’s portraits were loose and expressive, but the one of the woman was painted carefully, as if he wanted to spend more time than usual with the model. Rowan had mentioned that he always posed his subjects and that everything in the portraits, from the person’s clothing to the way they held their hands, held keys to the work’s coded messages. The black-haired woman was the first portrait Elizabeth had seen posed in profile. Her hands were clutched against her stomach, one on top of the other. Elizabeth traced the woman’s line of sight and realized that her downcast eyes fixed on her hands. She looked closer and noticed that the woman’s stomach was slightly rounded.
Goose bumps prickled the skin on her arms. The woman was newly pregnant. She looked closer at the raven-haired woman, then glanced at the portrait across from the door, the one Rowan had shown her on her first day in the Operculum.
The woman in the painting was Trudy.
Elizabeth tried to make sense of it as a thousand scenarios played out in her mind. Maybe Trudy had a twin sister. Maybe it was just the slip of fabric hanging at an odd angle. Maybe she was a little chubby the day he painted it. Because if it was Trudy and she had been pregnant, the painting’s legacy was heartbreak. Then she remembered what Trudy had said to her the night she came home from the hospital. “I wish you could’ve known your cousin . . . our little bird.”
It was true. Rowan and Trudy had lost their baby.
She looked back at the heartbreaking image and wondered how she was going to introduce it into the cataloging process. Rowan told her the backstory for every painting, so how could she transition from asking him about a fishmonger delivery driver painting to the image of Trudy? Should she tell him she found it while they took their morning tea, before they headed into the Operculum? Should she let him discover it in a stack? Nothing felt right, because the moment he saw it the story would be fresh again. And as much as Elizabeth wanted to understand what they’d been through, she was reluctant to reopen the old wound. She hated to see Rowan unhappy.
Elizabeth reverted to her typical avoidance strategy and crawled back to place the painting where she’d found it. Georgina scooted into the tight space with her, always at her side and ready to assist. They sat side by side next to the painting, each staring off into the distance as an owl hooted a melancholy soundtrack.
chapter thirty-four
The crowd at HiveMind was thinning as Elizabeth’s show came to a close. The fact that she’d even had a crowd was mind-blowing, but her three months in Fargrove had cemented her as a part of the community. She’d worried that people would only show up to gawk at Rowan, but he’d walked unnoticed through HiveMind the entire evening while she was the focal point.
“Eight paintings. I can’t believe I sold eight of them. To strangers! I don’t think there was one pity purchase.” Elizabeth felt like a millionaire.
Harriet propped her swollen feet up on the edge of one of HiveMind’s signature yellow chairs and scowled at Elizabeth. “Why would anyone pity-purchase? Your stuff is wonderful. I’m honored to have a Bess Barnes original hanging in my house. I can say I knew you when.”
The little red SOLD stickers next to her paintings looked like lipstick kisses. She’d sold two paintings of the happy cows that she passed every day on the way to Fargrove, a six-by-six study of a rabbit she’d spotted in the field by the Operculum, a portrait of Floyd the black lab mascot from the Tups, a hedgehog in a knit cap, a sleeping fox, a close-up of a runaway rooster that ended up in the courtyard outside HiveMind, and the owl that she heard every night during late-night painting sessions.
“Where’s Georgina? I think you’ve painted every creature in Fargrove, but not your own dog. Why is that?” Harriet asked.
“I’m not sure. Maybe I’m too close to my subject?”
The truth was she was afraid to try.
Harriet closed her eyes and rubbed her stomach, and Elizabeth was reminded of the painting of young Trudy. They were about to begin work on the portrait room and she still didn’t know how to broach the painting of Trudy with Rowan.
Des walked up behind Harriet and massaged her shoulders. “Shall we?”
“I don’t want to leave, but it seems Ian does. He’s cranky tonight.” She placed her hands on her lower belly and huffed as she stood up. “Lovely evening tonight. I’m so happy for you, Bess.” Harriet leaned down and gave Elizabeth a kiss on the top of her head.
“Thank you, Harriet,” Elizabeth said, grabbing her hand before she could waddle away. “For everything.”
Elizabeth leaned back against the couch and scanned the stragglers. James was chatting with the band in the courtyard, Willard and Anna Tolbert were looking bleary-eyed on another couch across the room, and Reid and Nicky were gathering pint glasses and mugs. It was the first time that evening there was no one waiting to talk to her about her inspiration or process.
She took advantage of the momentary solitude and pulled her phone from a pocket hidden in her lemon print dress. She was surprised to see more notifications than she’d had in weeks. Her posting had decreased as her daily workload increased, but she knew she’d be back to optimizing her accounts with perfectly curated content soon enough. She’d make up for lost time.
She tried to imagine what she’d post about when she returned home. Shoes, of course. Cups of coffee. Filtered selfies. Inspirational q
uotes. The dog and sheep content was about to drop from eighty-five percent of her feed to zero.
A bunch of the notifications were tagged photos from the show by a photographer from the local paper. She surveyed the images quickly to make sure she actually wanted to be tagged in them. There was one of her in profile in front of her painting of a muntjac deer with a crowd of people around her. Another photo showed her standing between Rowan and Trudy, with Rowan’s arm draped around her shoulder and their heads bowed into one another, as if strategizing a play for a rugby match. Another showed her leaning against the counter in between Reid and Nicky holding champagne glasses, with Harriet and Des visible behind them. She hadn’t been aware of anyone taking her photo, so none of them had her wearing her practiced grin and head tilt. She looked so happy that her wonky eye wasn’t even noticeable.
Elizabeth reposted a few of the photos in the hopes that Cecelia would see them, then posted a shot of her field mouse painting, the one she’d painted for Rowan that referenced Sunset over Blenheim with her version of the twilight sky visible through the window of the Operculum. She hashtagged it #agoodnight and #RowanBarnesTribute. Then she checked Twitter and almost dropped her phone.
The top trending story was Entomon.
Elizabeth did a quick search and was horrified to discover that TechGeek had published the story without warning her, and worse yet, they’d done it while she was still in the land of spotty cell service! They’d sworn they’d wait until Elizabeth was home and employed before they went public. After all, her disastrous interview had been the first public mention of Entomon, and she was counting on the interview requests and gossipy lunches to come that would allow her to spin her firing. Yet there it was, her photo, breaking the internet without her.
She started to tremble.
“Hey, you okay? What’s going on?” James asked, sitting down across from her as if he’d been summoned by a distress flare.
Elizabeth pushed her phone farther away, like it was contagious. She was so upset she could barely speak so she pointed at her phone. “Bad news. I’m processing.”
“Do you want to talk about it?” He took her hands in his and it felt like she’d popped a painkiller. “You’re all red. What’s going on?”
Elizabeth shook her head and her eyes filled with tears.
“Bess, what? Is it me? Did I do something?” The telltale furrow appeared, along with a frown.
She shook her head again and blinked fast. “Work.”
“Oh.” He leaned back in his chair and his face relaxed. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
For a change she didn’t want him to play therapist and make her feel better. She wanted to seethe, hate-read every detail of Cecelia’s undoing and beat herself up for not being the one to make it happen. She was already drafting a raging email to TechGeek.
“Yes. No.” She slammed her hands on the table. “Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Just tell me. What’s got you this upset?”
Elizabeth shook her head, then rubbed the back of her hand along her nose to wipe away the snot. She stared down at the table.
“Fine, I’ll leave you alone.” James started to stand up. “But I think you’ll feel better if you tell me.” He hovered at a half stand.
“All right, all right,” Elizabeth snapped at him. “Sit.”
James plopped back into his seat.
“Remember how I told you I left my old job?”
He nodded.
“Well, that wasn’t the whole story. I was fired.” Elizabeth’s cheeks burned as she said the word.
His eyes went wide.
“Unjustly fired. I made a mistake during a live interview that cost me my job. Normally what happened would’ve gotten me a reprimand, but they fired me because my company was trying to cover up this potential story about the spyware in their latest release. Firing me was like their smokescreen, so they could divert attention from what was really going on. I was sacrificed.” Elizabeth felt herself winding tighter again. “She took everything from me. My career, my reputation, my money.”
Talking about it wasn’t helping at all.
“Who is ‘she’?”
“My boss, Cecelia. I actually thought she was my friend at one point.” Elizabeth barked out a laugh. “I knew nothing about friendship. She screwed me over, but I was planning to screw her back. Harder.”
“So what happened?” James asked carefully.
Elizabeth reached for her phone, scrolled to the article, and threw it to James. “See that photo of Cecelia at the top? That’s mine. I’m the one who was able to link everything together with that photo. I’m the reason TechGeek has an Internet-breaking story, but they released it before, uh,” she hesitated, reluctant to bring up going home. “Before I was ready.”
James cocked his head. “Now why would they do that?”
“No clue.” Elizabeth fell back against her chair. “Maybe they were tired of waiting for me to be ready.”
“Well, if you own the photo, can’t you sue them or something? Or come out publicly and say it’s yours?”
“My reputation is destroyed at home. It would make me look even more desperate if I got on Twitter and started crying about the photo.” She slammed her hands on the table. “Ugh, I want to punch someone!”
“Bess, it’s over. And maybe that’s for the best,” James said softly. “Why don’t you sneak out the side door for a few minutes. Look at the stars, take a breath, then refocus on all of these people who are here for you now.”
Her face flushed. James had a way of reframing situations with just a few words, and sometimes she hated him for it.
She grabbed her phone. “I’ll be back. Don’t tell anyone, okay?”
“Of course not. I’ll be packing up; come find me when you’re ready for a hug.”
She wanted to punch him for being so kind in the face of her anger.
Elizabeth snuck out the side door to the small courtyard near HiveMind’s bins. She sat on the upside-down bucket behind the door that Reid used when he needed to hide out from customers and immediately questioned his sense of smell. The odor of hot garbage was overwhelming, but she pulled out her phone and started to speed-read through the article. She was berating herself for not staying on top of her TechGeek contact when the door swung open and slammed into the wall next to her.
“Grrrahhhh,” Reid shouted, holding two massive bags of trash in the air above his head. “I . . . am . . . BIN MAN!” He shrieked and jumped when he saw Elizabeth. “Holy shit, you scared me! What are you doing out here?”
“‘Bin Man’? Awesome superhero persona.”
“Why is our star artist sitting out here among the spent coffee grinds?”
“I’m dealing with some stuff from home.”
“Fargrove is your home, so whatever it is can wait. Back inside, m’duck.” He pointed at the door.
“Reid, I just want to—”
“In. Now.” He gestured with two hands like an airport worker.
“Wow, someone’s been drinking tonight.”
“Indeed.” Reid held the door for her, then followed her back inside. He came to a stop in front of the painting she’d done for him, hanging in a place of honor near the counter.
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please.” Reid said. There was no one inside the shop. “Here we have an early work of Miss Elizabeth Barnes. This was painted during her red period”—he pointed at his hair and winked—“as a tribute to her favorite coffeeshop owner, who also happened to be a dear friend. You’ll notice a tiny bee wearing a crown and standing on the edge of the yellow mug. This pollen-collecting flying insect is the source of all life, and Barnes wisely made it the focal point of the work. Thank you for coming to my art talk, I won’t be taking questions.” He bowed to a nonexistent audience.
Elizabeth finally gave in
and smiled at him. It was hard to be unhappy in Reid’s presence.
“I love it, Bess, thank you so much,” he said sincerely, draping his massive arm around her shoulder.
“Did you notice the little secret in it?”
Reid stepped closer and examined the painting. “The mug! It’s all cracked and glued back together!”
“In honor of our first meeting.”
“Oh, did I hate you at first, you snobby American.”
“And I thought you were a clumsy, grumpy ginger. But look at us now.”
“Look at us now.” He smiled at her and touched his head to the side of hers. “And since you’re basically my sister you won’t mind me asking you to help me clean up some damn dishes.”
Elizabeth chuckled and started clearing off tables while he went outside to start putting the café tables away. Staying busy helped keep her mind off the news, so she loaded up a tray and headed for the kitchen.
James walked in behind her with a bucket filled with melted ice and bottles of beer. “That was a drinking crowd. I’ve barely anything left.” He watched her carefully, trying to gauge the level of support she required. “You okay?”
She nodded and walked to him with her arms out, and he dropped the bucket on the counter and hugged her tightly.
“I don’t want to talk about it right now,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t waste this perfect night. I’m fine for now.” Being in his arms made it so. “It was a good night, wasn’t it? Everyone had fun, right?”
“It was a perfect night,” James said. “I’m so proud of you.”
The word stopped her in her tracks. No one had ever said it to her. “Really?”
“Yes, really. Why wouldn’t I be? You’re incredibly talented.” He kissed the top of her head. “And hot as hell.” He leaned in and nibbled her earlobe.
“Don’t.” She squirmed and tried to move away from him as the James-fireworks exploded along the back of her neck. “You know what that does to me.”
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