Chapter 12 Cracks
Cracks
On Saturday afternoon, Penelope pulled up in front of the address Lucia had texted her.
Rarely were two impulses satisfied with one and the same act: she wanted to see Lucia’s art because it was Lucia’s art, but she needed to see Lucia’s art to confirm she was the forger behind the Bellini and Alessi pieces.
Why? Leverage.
Valentina was her goal, and if Lucia belonged to her world, she could lend a hand. Alternatively, if she refused, Penelope could still report her, though the notion left her with a bitter aftertaste.
Unless she unearthed real evidence, it would be moot anyway.
She sighed and turned off her car engine. As plans went, she’d definitely had better ones, though she wasn’t sure she’d indulged in worse. The sound of her car door closing rang unnaturally loud in the air.
At first, she just stood there, staring at the small cottage ahead.
A soft breeze rustled the leaves in the surrounding magnolia trees—the silence broken by the shouts of children riding their bikes out of the open garage door two houses down.
Taking a deep breath, Penelope locked her car and headed toward the cottage: a lovely old construction with pale-blue shutters, ivy creeping along one side, and a brick path lined with lavender and thyme.
Lucia’s job, one way or another, must pay well for her to afford a residential cottage as an art studio.
She touched the shimmering silver windchime before ringing the doorbell.
Heavy footfalls approached. The door opened.
“Hi. I’m so glad you made it.”
Penelope clutched her purse strap and managed a tight smile. “Hi.”
“Come on in.” Lucia gestured for Penelope to follow her, which she did, only to stop and gape at the sight greeting her.
The cottage had been gutted.
What must have once been a standard setup with a living room, dining room, and kitchen was now a single open space. Huge windows lined the back and one side, while wide skylights flooded the room with natural light.
Easels with canvases, more stacked against the walls, and assortments of paints, charcoal sticks, jars of brushes, and rags smeared with color filled the space.
In short, it was every painter’s dream.
“This place is amazing.”
Lucia smiled, standing straighter. “Thanks. I’m often tempted to live here. There’s actually a small bedroom in the back with a half bath and a kitchenette. So, I’m afraid I’ve spent some nights here.”
“Understandable.” Penelope’s gaze traveled to several completed paintings stacked against the wall in the back. “May I?” She pointed in their direction.
“Yes, of course.”
Penelope padded closer, her knuckles white, fingers tightening at her side.
The first painting depicted the sea—a raging, angry, blue-gray wave about to swallow a narrow strip of beach. It looked as real as a photograph. Next to it was a close-up of the moon, depicting craters and fine shadows with such precision that she felt she could reach out and touch the cold dust.
“You like nature. I must admit, after our talks, I expected more portraits.”
“I love both,” Lucia said. “Though I tend to use different materials for each.”
Penelope closed her eyes. She’d held back so far. Not allowing herself to truly see the paintings because what she’d see would make it real, no longer a suspicion, but a cold, hard fact. And a part of her trembled at what it would mean, at how much it would hurt.
When she opened them a moment later, she let her gaze soften to fully take in one of Lucia’s paintings, barely suppressing a gasp, yet unable to ward off the sting in her eyes.
The colors blurred: soft, acidic, unmistakable.
The same flavor she couldn’t unsee. All those lines, drawn by the same hand.
Lucia was the forger.
She’d created both the Bellini and the Alessi pieces—along with the Santini painting and God knew how many more.
Penelope almost stumbled back, her breath hitching in her throat.
“Hey, are you all right?” Lucia’s fingers on her arm, soft yet firm, both steadied and shattered her.
She could only nod.
Penelope looked away and froze. Was that…
She took a few steps toward the hallway to an easel holding a canvas with a familiar face.
Her face.
“That’s…” She stepped closer, Lucia’s hand sliding off her arm in the process.
“Oh, wow. Yes. That’s… I told you I like to draw faces.” Lucia stuffed her hands into her pants pockets.
Penelope had no words.
She’d obviously seen quite a lot of herself, from mirrors to pictures, but she’d never seen herself like this.
The woman in the picture looked powerful but also soft. It was hard to describe, and her mind was still in the spiral of Lucia, the forger, Lucia, the woman who made her heart speed up and her stomach clench. All of it together stole her words, leaving nothing but an empty ache in her chest.
“I couldn’t get you out of my head,” Lucia whispered after a moment of protracted silence. “You’re beautiful, obviously, but it was your eyes that stuck with me and wouldn’t let go.”
“Is this…” Penelope bit her lower lip. “Is this how you see me?”
“Yes.”
Lucia stood so close.
When had she moved? And how had Penelope ended up right in front of the canvas, away from the sea and the moon where they’d just stood?
“I’m sorry if this upsets you. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
Penelope shifted her gaze from the image and found Lucia’s instead. Her heart and brain did not congratulate her on that decision because while Lucia’s art stunned Penelope, her face undid her.
“Lucia, I…” She faltered, her eyelids fluttering when Lucia drew closer. Penelope’s gaze dropped to Lucia’s full lips, and she wondered what they’d taste like. She leaned forward. If only she’d—
“Why do you do it?” Penelope blurted.
Lucia halted, blinking rapidly. “Do what? The painting? I just—”
“No. Why do you forge paintings and launder them through museums?”
Lucia stumbled back, her eyes wide as her lips parted—lips Penelope had almost tasted.
“What? I don’t—”
“Don’t lie to me. I…” She paused. “Is anything you’ve told me true?”
Lucia recoiled as if Penelope had slapped her. “Yes. Every word about myself is true, well, every word about who I am personally.” She shook her head. “How did you…”
“Colors have flavors.”
“Come again?”
Penelope pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ve always been able to perceive colors differently than most people do, though to be fair, I don’t know how others see things.”
“OK,” Lucia drew out the word. “But flavors?”
Penelope sighed. “It’s difficult to explain, but I don’t just see colors. I feel them, taste them. They almost have a scent.”
“Chalky?”
Penelope huffed a laugh despite herself. “You’d think so, but no. Anyway, that’s how I know. Every artist has a unique signature, like a fingerprint. I’ve not encountered two artists who paint with the same flavor.”
Lucia’s brows furrowed. “Oh, what you’ve seen here compared to—”
“The Bellini and Alessi pieces, yes. Also, the Santini. Even your art from middle school. I couldn’t be sure because the image quality was awful.” She halted.
“Grace Emerson.” Penelope raised her chin.
The name hung in the air, heavy, with pressure that deepened the fault line between them.
Lucia’s face hardened. “I see. Looks like I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets.”
“You can hardly compare the two! I only researched you because I recognized the same hand had created the Alessi and Bellini pieces, even if our assessment team was fooled by your Bellini.”
Lucia’s expression flickered with something dangerously close to pride.
“Seriously?”
“Sorry.” Lucia sighed. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You could explain.”
“That easy?”
“Most things are. We just tend to complicate them.”
Lucia chuckled. “All right.” She held Penelope’s gaze, hesitation flickering behind her eyes. “Wanna go to the bedroom?”
Penelope arched a brow. “I’m sorry—you want to do what?”
“Oh, no! To sit. Like, there’s no place to sit here, and I…” Lucia rubbed the back of her neck. “I could make us a cup of tea, and we could talk? I only have black and herbal—chamomile and some kind of red tea.”
Penelope only stared at her. The tension of these last few weeks, of today, ebbed in the face of this ridiculous moment.
“Sure. I’ll take ‘some kind of red’ tea. No sugar.”
And with that, she marched along the hallway toward the back, praying she wouldn’t embarrass herself by landing in the bathroom.
Luck stayed at her side, and the first door she tried led to the bedroom.
Lucia’s bedroom.
Penelope halted at the threshold before stepping inside. What are you even doing, Pen?
“Beats me,” she mumbled, spotting an armchair in the corner and sinking into it.