“Christ.” The last thing I need is my older brother trying to make amends. Some things can’t be repaired. Once you take a knife to canvas, it doesn’t matter how well you paint over the gash—it will never be the same. “You don’t think he’ll try to stay with me?”
“Why?” Will mocks. “Is your eight-thousand-square-foot beach house not big enough for the two of you?”
No. It’s not, but I can’t tell my brother that. We grew up in the same situation, but the three of us—we’re not the same.
They like open spaces.
Chapter Four
Daphne
The lights are on early in the security apartment when I order the Uber. They’re changing shifts, probably. Or watching. I ignore them when the car pulls up to the sidewalk. I check the license plate, check the driver’s face, and get in.
“It’s cold out for the beach.” He glances at my sketchpad in the rearview mirror.
“I have a commissioned piece,” I tell him, and I can’t keep the smile off my face. “They picked the place. I have to paint it. It’s a pretty big deal.”
“Good for you.”
I open my mouth to tell him more. Then—“Thank you. I love this song. Can you turn it up?”
It’s best to err on the side of keeping information to myself. Staying quiet, in my experience, is safer than spilling your guts to anyone who seems ready to listen. And it’s not that I don’t want a voice—I do. But part of being an independent woman is knowing when not to speak.
This Uber driver doesn’t need to hear about my feelings, anyway. I’m excited about the commission, and torn. I should definitely ignore the note. But I’m too curious about this rich old guy who bought my painting. He probably has white hair. Or is balding. In his fifties, or even older. Those are the kinds of men who have money to buy paintings like mine in a casual way. An old man would probably like this stretch of beach and find it interesting. We listen to music all through the ride, which is where I make a compromise in my head.
Leo wouldn’t want me to be here. The security team didn’t follow me in their black SUV, but I bet they took down the license plate of the Uber. I climb out and go around to the driver’s side window. “Can I pay you to stay here and wait for me? I shouldn’t be more than an hour.”
I have money for this. A hundred dollars left over from the sale of my painting. I also have an emergency credit card from Leo, but I won’t touch that.
“Hell yeah,” he says. He’s younger than I thought and peers dubiously at the beach behind me. “Just order another ride when you’re done. I’ll stay right here.”
“Fifty now, fifty when I get back.” I hand him the first bill and he gives me a thumbs-up.
The road where he’s parked is raised above the beach. A stone staircase bisects a retaining wall. A cold salt taste saturates the air, with more frost packed into the sand. The snow’s not sticking yet but chill radiates through my boots. Pale sunlight sinks below a cool purple sky.
Crescent Cove beach at twilight
Waves roll against the sand in time with my footsteps. The sand crunches like snow under my feet. A lone beach chair has been left out, and that’s where I go.
My phone buzzes.
Eva: Free for dinner?
Daphne: Painting tonite. What about Saturday?
I should have brought a blanket. If that Uber driver keeps his word, he’ll make a hundred dollars for way less than an hour. My heart hammers under my layers. The breeze toys at the winter hat Eva gave me for Christmas last year—a cashmere beanie that’s good for walking from class to my apartment. Not quite enough for drawing on the beach when it’s this cold.
Eva: It’s a date! My place at 7?
Daphne: Bad movies ONLY
Eva: ;)
Okay. Bag. Pencil. Sketchpad. I open my book to a fresh page. At least my coat is warm enough to do a quick sketch. I need a sense of the place before I can paint.
So this is going to be the hard part of a commissioned piece. Keeping the Collector out of my head when I paint. Whoever he is, he wants my interpretation of it. My graphite tip hovers over the page. Mine. No one else’s. No asking for instructions. No assignment rubric, the way they had in school. Just me, my sketchbook—
And someone else.
A surfer out in the water.
I don’t surf, so I can’t compare the size of the waves. Medium-sized. He’s a tall silhouette against the purple-gold twilight sky. My pencil moves, capturing the shape of the wave, the movement. It’s carrying him toward the shore. Toward me. And then his body shifts backward, no hesitation, all grace, and he’s under the water.
Oh, god, it has to be so cold. Cold enough to freeze a person, wetsuit or not. Right? But he’s back up before I can wonder anymore. Paddling out and out and out so he can catch another wave.
This one, he takes all the way back to the sand.
I make a few more sketches, but it’s not the shape of the waves I’m drawing anymore. It’s the loneliness of a man out there by himself in all that water. The aching sweep of the sky. Dark water. Dark wetsuit. He could have disappeared, if he wanted.
The man unhooks himself from the board and tucks it under his arm. It’s hard to breathe, with his body in a wetsuit. Shit—he might think I’m drawing him in his wetsuit.
“I wasn’t drawing you,” I blurt out when he reaches my chair.
He stops. Looks down at me. It’s hard to tell what color his hair is in this light, and when it’s wet—light, but not very. Maybe a sandy blond. Can’t tell the color of his eyes, either. He’s all shape and form. Strong shapes. Sharp forms. “What are you drawing, then?”
“The ocean.” I turn the sketchbook around to show him. To prove it. My face heats. It’s meaningless swirls at this point. The feeling of it. The sensation. Notes on the sensation, really—reminders, for when I start painting. Color is what adds depth. The pencil swirls probably look ridiculous, but he considers them seriously. “It’s for a commission.”
“You’re an artist.”
I shrug. I never know what to say to this question. The answer is yes, but if I say that, he’ll ask if he’s seen my work. He’ll want to know if I’ve been featured anywhere, which—no. I’m a starving artist with a full stomach thanks to my brother and my sister. “I like it.”
“It’s good.”
My laugh comes out as more of a snort. “It’s preliminary sketches. It has to be good when it’s done, though.” For the first time, I feel the pressure of this moment. Of the Collector loving my piece. ‘This is my first commission. No one’s ever ordered one before. In a way it’s the most important painting of my life, so I’m here trying to get the idea.”
Another glance at my sketchbook, and then he looks back to the ocean. “You captured the mystery of it.”
This tiny praise makes my chest light up. This man has no idea who I am. He’s not saying it because I’m Leo’s sister or Bryant’s daughter or part of a family dynasty with a surplus of power. “I think it’s more mysterious that you’re out here surfing. I thought people did that in, you know, warm weather.”