Chapter 35 Penelope
Penelope
There wasn’t any parking outside the gallery, but I found a spot a couple blocks up the street. Dark gray clouds hung low in the sky, almost as if they were pressing on the town, and a bitter wind cut through my jacket. I crossed my arms and walked quickly so I could get out of the cold.
The gallery looked different, even from the outside—empty and devoid of life.
It reminded me of the time I saw my pet hamster after it had died.
I’d been about nine years old, and the little ball of fluff had been unrecognizable, as if without the spirit of life animating it, it had turned into a different sort of thing. Not a pet at all.
Whatever life had been in the Painter’s Loft, it was gone.
With that unsettling thought, I tried the door. Locked. The windows were dark and curtained, making it difficult to tell if anyone was inside. But Curt had said he’d meet me, so I knocked. A gust of wind blew, and I shivered, hunkering down in my coat.
A man I recognized as Curt Redfern opened the door. He was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt and khakis, and he was taller than I remembered.
“Ms. Fallbrook?”
“Yes, that’s me. Penelope is fine.”
Gesturing for me to come in, he stepped aside. “I’m Curt. Thanks again for stopping by.”
“No problem. I appreciate you reaching out.”
“You do very nice work,” he said. “I’m glad we’re able to return your piece.”
He shut the door, and the warmth of the gallery was a relief after the cold wind outside. The walls were bare, and the space was cluttered with boxes. Sheets of canvas covered the windows, blocking out the rapidly waning daylight.
“Thank you, Curt,” a woman’s voice said.
Gina Morris emerged from the shadows at the back of the gallery.
Her silver hair was styled in a smooth chin-length bob and her red lipstick stood out against her skin.
She was dressed in a formfitting black shirt with long sleeves and black pants, and her matching black heels clicked on the wood floor as she walked toward us.
Curt smiled at her and walked away, disappearing into the back.
“Ms. Fallbrook.” Gina held out a long-fingered hand. “So nice to see you.”
I took her hand, although she let go almost before we’d actually shaken.
“Hi, Mrs. Morris. Um, thanks for reaching out about my painting.”
She waved that off, as if it was of no importance. “Of course. It’s been quite the process, getting ready to close.”
“I’m sure it’s a lot of work.”
She glanced around. “Indeed. This place was Edwin’s baby, not mine. I thought about keeping it open, but in the end, I realized it’s time to move on.”
“That’s understandable.”
“Are you married?”
I blinked in surprise at her question. “No, I’m not.”
She nodded slowly and seemed to look past me. “It has its advantages, I suppose.”
I tucked my hair behind my ear, not sure what to say.
“I’m so sorry,” she said after a brief pause. “I’m being rude. Forgive me, it’s difficult not to be preoccupied these days.”
“You don’t need to apologize. You’ve been through a lot.”
“I’m sure you remember the classroom.” She gestured toward the back of the gallery. “We’ve been using it as a staging area as we sort through everything. Your painting is back here.”
She turned and walked away, so I followed. The classroom was much as I remembered it when Theo and I were there last, with stacks of paintings against the walls and others on display easels covered with canvas cloths.
Gina paused and looked around wistfully. “Believe it or not, this was Edwin’s favorite place. I think he enjoyed teaching even more than painting.”
That made me smile. “I can relate to that. I’m a high school teacher.”
“Are you? How nice. What do you teach?”
“Art, actually. And I manage to throw in a bit of art history.”
“That’s lovely.” She hesitated, as if a thought had occurred to her. “I was just about to pour myself some tea. Will you join me? I don’t have proper mugs, just paper cups. But I do have lids, so you could take it with you.”
“Sure, that would be great. Thank you.”
An electric teakettle and a ceramic teapot that had been used for beverages and snacks during Edwin’s classes sat on a side table. She poured tea into two cups and handed one to me.
“It’s English breakfast,” she said. “If you’d like sugar or a lid, every-thing is on the table there.”
“Thank you.”
She took a sip of her tea. I tried mine and it had already cooled enough to drink. She’d brewed it stronger than I usually did, but it wasn’t bad.
“Do you mind if I ask about the gallery?” I said. “Is someone going to reopen it, or do you know yet?”
“It’s possible. I have an interested buyer who’d like to reopen.”
I took another sip. “I hope so. We need an art gallery in Tilikum. And this classroom is such a wonderful space.”
She gestured to a wooden folding chair that was already open and unfolded another for herself. I lowered myself into the seat.
“His classes were very popular.”
“I loved his class. He had such a gift. Not all artists can convey what they do in a way that encourages their students the way he did. I learned so much from him.”
She smiled, but there was something odd about it, like her mouth smiled but her eyes didn’t. “That’s nice to hear.”
A hint of discomfort crept through me, and I took another sip of tea, more to give my hands something to do than because I wanted to keep drinking it.
“He was good at teaching technique,” I said, feeling the need to keep the conversation going. “But it was more than that. He made his students believe they could be more. That they could be artists.”
She nodded along as I spoke but didn’t reply.
I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Maybe I was upsetting her by talking about her late husband. I adjusted my glasses nervously and it took me a second to realize there was something off about my vision. I moved my glasses again, but it didn’t go away.
That was odd.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to talk about something…something…” I couldn’t seem to find the word.
Gina tilted her head, looking at me curiously.
“Sorry. Something painful.”
“It’s all right. I know Edwin was…special to you. And to many of his students.”
I nodded, and a second later, I realized my eyes had closed. When had that happened? And why?
“I think I should go.” I tried to stand but my head swam, and the room seemed to tilt sideways. “I don’t feel well.”
Gina didn’t move. Just sat in her chair and watched me try—and fail—to stand.
My legs felt weak and shaky, and the cup slipped from my hand, splashing tea all over the floor. My eyes were so heavy, it was hard to keep them open. And when I tried to speak, my voice sounded far away, as if someone else were speaking.
“What’s…? I don’t… Can’t…”
As fuzziness crowded my consciousness and the edges of my vision went gray, I wondered with a detached sense of horror if I’d been drugged.
Gina rose from her seat. I swayed, almost falling to the floor, but she caught me. Sliding her arms around me, she dragged me off the chair. I tried to move, to at least bend my knees and attempt to stand, but I had no strength. My legs wouldn’t respond.
“Why?” I managed to get out, although my voice barely worked.
She didn’t answer. Just kept dragging me across the floor. Fear tried to seize me, bubbling up from deep inside, but it wasn’t strong enough to cut through the haze. Blackness crept in, and the last thing I remembered was a blast of cold air from outside.