Chapter Nineteen
Diana
Diana squinted as the sun poured through the windows and raised her arm to cover her eyes.
Riley was gesticulating wildly as she walked the length of her studio, but her words didn’t reach Diana’s ears.
Though she hadn’t left Faye’s side until she was completely satisfied she would be alright, she couldn’t stop the image of her bloody and dirt-stained face popping into her mind.
They’d gone to Riley afterwards, Faye adamant that the man she’d chased through the woods had something to do with the poaching on the island.
While trying to find Faye’s borrowed pineapple sunglasses, lost somewhere along the way, they’d uncovered a messy annotated map of the island and a penknife with the initials DS carved into the wooden hilt.
Riley admitted the behaviour was suspicious, and she’d have her team look into it, but Diana had also seen the way her cool eyes had fallen on them both, curious, questioning.
The two of them had hardly been subtle that night, dancing in the courtyard, but were the two of them that obvious?
She swallowed, trying to steady her breath and focus on Riley.
She hadn’t heard a word she’d said. She glanced at Molly, perched on a stool to her left, engrossed and nodding, paintbrush in hand.
The others in the small class mirrored Molly’s enthusiasm, leaving Diana feeling like a misbehaving schoolchild.
Since when had she been so easily distracted?
She knew the answer, of course. Ever since that beautiful brunette had walked into the tiny little bar by the docks—nervous, and windswept by the storm—and her striking eyes found Diana’s.
The same woman who had continued to push and pull Diana like the moon captured the tide.
Who continued to surprise her and challenge her, threatening to tug at the bonds of control Diana worked hard to keep close.
She’d loved the nights they spent together, when the world outside fell away, leaving them caught in this dance of Faye panting and cursing and Diana eating up every second of it.
But every second more chipped at her resolve, and she was afraid of what that might do.
Riley’s gaze flicked to hers. She hoped she hadn’t missed something important. But then Riley brought her hands together, her attention moving to the rest of the students.
“With all that being said…” She grinned, popping a dimple in her cheek.
“Painting is so much more than studying all the different techniques. It’s about emotion.
Passion. About finding something inside that can only be expressed through colour at the end of a brush.
You might just surprise yourself with how cathartic you find the process, and what you might discover.
” Her eyes landed on Diana again before moving away.
Was that intentional? Or was Diana becoming paranoid now, too?
She pressed her lips together. Riley was probably worried about the poacher situation. Why would she care who Diana was sleeping with? The only person who would care was sitting to the left of her, and there was no way she was ever going to find out.
She uncrossed and crossed her leg, lengthening her spine. She had it under control. Everything was going to be fine.
When she tuned back into the room, the swish and scrape of brushes filling her ears, she realised she needed to start doing something—but what exactly was she supposed to be doing?
Her eyes flicked to the whiteboard, where Riley must’ve scribbled some tips during her speech. Reading the title, she tried to hide her scoff.
Painting from the heart.
This was the precise thing she’d wanted to avoid.
Unlocking that trapdoor and diving into all the parts of her life she didn’t want to think about had already roped her into deep and meaningful sessions with Dr Marcos.
Anything “from the heart” threatened more complication—and she still needed to write that bloody letter to her mother.
Though what good it would do, knowing her mum would never read it, she didn’t know. It sounded like unnecessary torture.
From the heart. She chewed her lip. Her paintbrush hovered over the canvas. The swishing movements of those around her, clearly not suffering the same predicament as Diana, only irritated her further.
She dipped into the blue paint. Why was this so difficult? Why couldn’t she think of anything?
She closed her eyes. The darkness morphed into the familiar sight of dark lashes framing dreamy pools of turquoise and green.
The most beautiful colour, which, try as she might, Diana could never replicate with a brush.
Nor that perfect, soft mouth parting as her eyelids fluttered closed, words spilling like prayers from her chest. “Oh, yes—Diana. Like that. Just like that.”
Heat flushed between her legs at the memory. Crossing and uncrossing them did little to dull the ache in her pelvis, and she cursed. Is this what a midlife crisis feels like?
She’d clearly defined anything that had to do with Faye and her heart. So why was Faye’s face the first thing she thought of?
That wasn’t from the heart, she argued. It was from a more promiscuous and demanding body part that pulsed between her legs.
When Riley had questioned Faye about the man in the woods, Faye had insisted “she had a feeling”.
She was so sure, trusting her gut instinct, and Diana could hardly argue with that.
Perhaps because the young woman was so determined and passionate, or perhaps because the same feeling, although for different reasons, echoed in her own body.
A feeling that whatever was happening between her and Faye had the ability to consume her in ways she hadn’t thought possible.
Call it gut instinct. Call it sheer human stupidity. The feeling lingered all the same.
You’re getting weak in your age, a voice with the same bite as Jason’s warned her.
She scoffed, not hiding the sound as well this time, judging by the curious glances from her classmates. But she wasn’t going to start listening to any voice resembling that grumpy, narcissistic fart’s. She hadn’t listened when they were married, and she wasn’t going to start now.
Annoyed by the reminder of her balding ex-husband, she squeezed the paintbrush between her fingertips, finally pressing it to the canvas.
A blue splodge marred the white, a blemish on an otherwise pristine surface.
She spread it from side to side, then in circles, expanding the mess outwards.
The swirls made her think of Faye’s eyes again, and her hand stilled.
Faye held so much power in the way she looked at her, like she’d hung the stars in the sky herself.
It disarmed her, flattered her, touched a place that Diana kept locked away.
But Faye, in all her innocence and passion, had breezed past her barriers without her realising.
She dipped the end into the paint again, adding more blue, more circles, until they no longer resembled Faye’s captivating irises, but ocean waves.
She pressed harder, and her strokes darted across the white, frenzied and choppy.
She could feel the froth lapping at her ankles, hear her mother’s joyful cries as they galloped towards the sea.
It didn’t matter if Diana’s dress got wet or how loud she screamed, her mother held her hand. She was safe.
Taking a step back, she narrowed her gaze at the blue monstrosity in front of her.
God. She hated the sea.
Except she didn’t, not really. She hated everything it reminded her of, everything she’d lost. Ever since her mother’s hand had been ripped from hers, along with her warmth and love, she hadn’t felt safe. Not with her father. Not with Jason. Not even with work.
That realisation rocked her, and tears pricked her eyelids. But she wasn’t about to start sobbing in front of people, so she gritted her teeth and continued painting.
When Riley called the end of the class, Diana’s wrist and fingers ached. She released the paintbrush from her iron grip and flexed her joints.
“Don’t worry if you haven’t finished yet,” Riley said, tucking her long blonde hair behind her ears. “You can come and work on your masterpiece in any of your free afternoon slots. If you’ve finished, leave them here to dry, and you can collect them later. Don’t forget to sign them!”
“Whoa. Mum.” Molly stepped towards her. “That’s awesome. A bit scary but…awesome.”
Diana pressed her lips together, hoping she wouldn’t pry further.
She didn’t want to talk about the giant wave-turned-monster blocking out the sun or the thick darkness filling the sky.
She wasn’t even sure people could see what she intended through all the hurried strokes and blurs of colour—not that it mattered, anyway.
So she misdirected, leaning over towards Molly’s work, where a giant sun took centre stage, beaming its golden light on a girl lying on a doughnut-shaped lilo.
Her daughter had a talent for the paintbrush; the layers of colours shimmering on the water were truly impressive—but painting from the heart?
She wasn’t sure if she’d hit the mark. One thing not up for debate was the complete contrast to Diana’s doom and gloom.
A gnawing feeling itched at her, making her want to cover up her painting or flip it over. She didn’t want others to see it—to see her—but luckily Molly continued talking.
“I’m always happier in the sun. You were right about that. Everything feels better here, doesn’t it?” Molly glanced at her, and Diana gave her the most genuine smile she could muster. “I think everyone’s heart wants them to be happy. And I think being in the sun makes me happy.”