Chapter 22 #2
With a chuckle, Christian turned and started back toward the second barn.
It was a little smaller, so I hadn’t given it much of a look earlier, but it was pretty and warm in the darkness.
It was newly cedar-shingled with arched windows and copper trim.
I wondered if he’d designed it himself. Meredith said he’d been an architect, right?
THE WORKSHOP, its sign read when I’d hit ninety-nine and reached for the doorknob. Connor said he’d join me after helping Wit put the John Deere to sleep, fascinated with it.
“Ready?” I asked before pushing open the door.
“All set,” Christian answered. “Welcome…”
I immediately blinked upon crossing the threshold, expecting to walk into a large garage space; instead, I’d been transported to a whole other world.
Wood-planked walls with old beams for rafters, the entire room had a golden glow that begged you to sit down and stay a while.
Weathered brass pendant lights and salvaged lamps lit the room, and art was everywhere.
Majestic framed oil paintings kept company with unframed watercolors, pencil sketches, and black-and-white photographs.
I couldn’t help but think how wonderful Erica would think this studio was; she always wanted her office to be homier but could never find the right Pinterest inspiration photo.
Andrew’s studio, I realized with a twinge. The Workshop belonged to both brothers.
“All of this is incredible,” I said, slowly walking around the space.
My gaze hooked on an intricate charcoal sketch of a horseshoe crab, and then a monstrous painting, one that truly had to be as tall as me and must’ve taken ages to paint.
The watercolor was set by the sea, a vignette of a woman sitting on a jetty and staring down into the water.
Her feet were bare and her linen pants cuffed, but you couldn’t see her face; it was like a picture that had been snapped from behind…
But from the way her blond hair fell, I knew. Andrew Fox was not only the artist of Annie’s artwork but also her long-ago island love.
“I call that one Girlhood,” Christian offered, a seemingly casual comment that turned my world entirely upside down.
“What?” I truly felt like I’d been clocked in the head. “You call it Girlhood ?”
“Yes,” Christian said. “It was the title from the first brushstroke.”
From the first brushstroke.
Blood pulsed in my ears, keeping time with my frantically beating heart. “Andrew didn’t paint this?” I waved my hand around. “Any of this?”
Christian opened his mouth then covered it with his hand, as if to hide a laugh. But the crinkling corners of his wrinkled green eyes gave him away. I squinted at the inky, pungent pigment still smeared across his knuckles.
Not motor oil, it dawned on me. Oil paint.
“No, most of this is my work,” Christian confirmed, but he reached for a sketchbook resting on his drafting table. He handed it to me. “Here is a representation of Andrew’s.”
I flipped over the cover to see a watercolor on the first page, and while I was neither an artist nor qualified art critic, it was…
Half-finished and not good.
Was I looking at a sunrise or a sunset? And was that a whale or a dolphin? There were no dolphins on the Vineyard, right?
“But he’s everywhere,” I mumbled. “The bridge, the Fourth of July, the beach… He’s always painting…or sketching…” I gave Christian a confused look. “He’s so dedicated.”
“Yes, because he’s been unusually bored this summer.” Christian shrugged. “I suggested he take up art.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well, he certainly plays the part.”
Christian chuckled, then he let a beat of silence pass between us before he murmured, “You look so much like her.”
Heat rushed to my cheeks. Like who? I could’ve asked, but I didn’t see the point.
“You’ve known?” I said softly. “This whole time?”
Christian shook his head. “No, not at first. After meeting you and Connor at the bridge, I told myself I was greatly exaggerating the resemblance—maybe even seeing things. You were a Carmichael; you couldn’t look that much like Annette Clark.”
The way he said her name.
Annette Clark.
He coughed. “And then I found out you were adorable little Erica’s stepdaughter…” He took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his white hair. “Well, I’m not particularly proud of what I did next.”
My silence begged the question: What did you do you next?
“I asked my grandson to find your Instagram.” He blushed a bit. “I recognized a blouse you were wearing in one photo; I remember her sewing it. And you write the most beautiful birthday tributes.”
I swallowed hard. Annie had never been the most technologically savvy—“I am not meant to live in the age of the smartphone!” she often lamented—but she had gotten the hang of Instagram before her diagnosis.
And I’d loved posting throwback photos of her on her birthday, some that made her smile, some that made her laugh, and others that made her say, What was I thinking with that haircut?
“She has three grandchildren,” I finally said. “I’m the oldest. She is the most wonderful person in the world.”
Christian nodded. “I always thought she was astonishing.”
Then what happened? I wondered, deep in my soul. What were you to each other and what went wrong?
And why does she still think about you?
Because, spotting his bitten-down fingernails, a theory was suddenly unspooling in my mind. “Chris’s nails were nothing more than nubs,” I vaguely remembered Annie saying, and I’d thought she meant my dad. In fact, every time Annie mentioned “Chris,” I assumed she was talking about my dad.
Maybe she hadn’t been. Maybe the Chris who was never there for her wasn’t and had never been my dad. Chris might’ve been a nickname.
We had to start at the beginning, though.
“When did you meet Annie?” I asked, hands clasped so that I didn’t start biting my pinkie nail. “How did you meet?”
“It was the summer before college,” he said. “I introduced myself to her on the ferry.” He smiled softly. “She and her friend were sharing a pair of binoculars.”
Kathy Ryan, I didn’t need to ask. Her forever travel buddy.
“Her hair kept blowing in the wind, and after every bluster, she tried smoothing it down. I mustered up the courage to go over and offer her a rubber band to tie it back.”
I smiled a little. Annie always had a hairband handy in her purse in case I forgot one. “Did she accept it?”
Christian nodded, but before he could say anything else, the studio’s door opened and Connor slipped inside.
“Wow…” His eyes widened, then darted around the room. My heart ached; I loved his innate sense of childlike wonder. “Where do I start?”
“Here.” I pointed to the big watercolor. “This is called Girlhood.”
“It’s amazing,” Connor marveled, moving closer to the painting. He studied it, then side-eyed me. “It actually reminds me of you.”
“Thank you.” I smiled, warmth building in my chest. “You know everyone says I look just like my grandmother.”