Chapter 7 Willow
WILLOW
The snow outside looks like powdered sugar, soft and clean, layering itself over the cobblestone path that leads to the gallery.
Ten days until Christmas, and the whole street looks like something out of a snow globe: lamps dressed in red ribbons, shop windows glowing gold, faint music drifting from somewhere down the block.
Inside, the air is warm and rich with pine, turpentine, and the faint sweetness of beeswax from the candles I keep burning near the counter.
I should be thinking about gifts. Wrapping paper, bows, what to get Vincent’s mother this year that doesn’t look last minute or like another one of my paintings.
I should be making lists, or at least pretending to feel festive.
But all I can think about is this piece.
The last one before the holidays. The one Cast stood over last week, tracing the brushstrokes like veins.
I wanted it finished for Christmas, wanted it to feel right. But it doesn’t. Not yet.
By noon I’d given up on it again and started another, and now I’m touching up the final edges—blending warmth into the woman’s skin, softening the shadow that falls over her throat.
She’s familiar in a way that unsettles me, too close to something I haven’t said out loud.
It’s like she knows something I haven’t admitted to myself.
The world outside moves without me. Cast took Theodore and Rose to the arcade, Damien’s at the ballet studio with Elise for her “Daddy-Daughter Rehearsal,” and Vincent’s “running errands,” which probably means his usual last-minute shopping sprint.
I try to focus on the canvas, but my nerves won’t settle.
It isn’t just the painting; it’s me. The same flutter of nausea that hits when I open the turpentine, the faint pull low in my stomach.
I haven’t had my period in almost two months.
I keep blaming stress—the holidays, the long hours, the constant noise—but the thought keeps circling back anyway, steady and insistent as a heartbeat.
My cycles have never been perfect, yet every time the scent of cinnamon turns my stomach, I can’t help wondering if this time the reason is different.
So it’s just Penny and me here, wrapped in the hush of the gallery—the first real peace, or time I’ve had in days to be an artist..
I pull back and look over the painting in front of me. The wet paint from my hands staining my chin.
“Mom?”
Her voice cuts through the stillness. I look up and see Penny standing there in one of my old paint shirts, sleeves rolled halfway up her thin arms, hair escaping its braid.
There’s turquoise streaked across her cheek and something like pride—or maybe nerves—in her eyes.
She’s holding a small canvas with both hands, careful not to smudge the edges.
“Can you look?” she asks.
I wipe my hands on a rag, already smiling. “Of course, sweetheart.”
She skips over, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth the way I used to do when I was little.
She holds out the painting. It’s a girl under a snow-covered tree, her face tilted up toward the sky as if she’s listening to something only she can hear.
The proportions are uneven, the horizon line dips, but the emotion is there, and vibrant.
“Oh, Penny.” I crouch down to meet her eye level. “This is beautiful.”
She studies my face, searching for honesty. “Really?”
I nod, tracing the air above the canvas. “See how you used blue here? It makes the snow feel cold, even though you didn’t use much white. That’s how you know it’s good—it feels right, not just looks right.”
Her cheeks flush pink. “I wanted it to feel like the day after it snows, when it’s really quiet. When it feels like the world’s still asleep, and all you can think about is how happy you are to have your family.”
My heart stutters at that. “That’s exactly what it feels like.”
She beams. There’s paint under her fingernails and a tiny smear on the bridge of her nose. I brush it away with my thumb. “You really think I have the same kind of… you know, gift?” she asks softly.
“You have something better,” I say. “You have heart. That’s what people forget art really is—it’s just love, disguised as color.”
She leans against me for a second, warm and small and entirely too precious. I breathe in the scent of her hair—lavender shampoo and acrylic paint.
“Daddy says you can paint anything,” she murmurs.
I laugh. “He’s biased. But I think you’re catching up fast.”
She grins at that, her pride blooming big and bright.
For a moment, I just watch her. The way she squints at her own work, the way she hums under her breath as she studies every detail—it’s like looking backward through time at a younger version of myself before the gallery, before the name on the door meant pressure instead of freedom.
“You should sign it,” I say. “It’s yours.”
“Really?”
“Really. Every artist should claim what they create.”
She grabs the smallest brush from my table, dips it into black paint, and carefully signs her name at the bottom in looping letters that trail off the edge. I bite back the lump in my throat.
“Okay,” I say finally, voice softer than I mean it to be. “Now go wash your hands before you ruin your shirt—and don’t forget the sleeves.”
She giggles and darts toward the back sink, leaving a trail of tiny painty fingerprints along the counter’s edge.
I straighten, wiping my palms on my apron, when the bell over the front door jingles.
“Coming!” I call, tugging off my apron and smoothing the front of my sweater before stepping toward the main room.
The front gallery smells faintly of cedar and cinnamon.
A man stands just beyond the glass door, half-shadowed by the awning lights, his shape a blur against the pale wash of snow.
When I open the door, the bell gives a single, brittle chime, and he steps inside like he’s crossing some invisible threshold.
Up close, he smells faintly of old wool and winter.
His coat is worn, edges fraying, the color somewhere between gray and brown—the kind of fabric that’s been through too many winters.
He rocks on his heels, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he can’t quite stand still, the movement rhythmic but wrong—off by half a beat, too studied to be nervous, too calm to be normal.
His gloves are still on, damp from the snow, fingers flexing against the leather as though his hands need something to do.
He doesn’t say anything at first. His eyes drift, darting over the room—past the smaller canvases, the sculptures, the photographs—to the far wall where my newest piece hangs under a cone of warm light.
His head tilts, just slightly, like he’s listening to the painting breathe. The muscles in his jaw tighten. He steps closer, clumsily, and unblinking, until his breath fogs faintly against the glass of the display frame.
“She’s… remarkable,” he says finally, his voice too soft, almost reverent. “It’s like she’s waiting for someone.”
He doesn’t turn toward me when he speaks. He just stares at her—the painted woman’s half-shadowed throat, the ghost of light over her shoulder—as if he knows her, as if she’s whispering something to him that I can’t hear.
His gloved hand lifts, hovers in the air an inch away from the painting’s surface. “You caught it,” he murmurs. “That moment before someone speaks. That ache.”
When he finally glances back at me, his pupils are wide, his smile too careful, like he’s afraid to break whatever spell he thinks he’s under. “You made this,” he says, almost accusingly. “You had to be the one.”
The heater hums in the corner, but suddenly the room feels colder.
I nod, masking the faint chill that moves through me. “I’m sorry, I didn’t greet you. I’m Willow. Welcome to Willow’s Garden. Can I help you?”
His grin stretches wider, almost boyish. “Help me? I can’t believe I’m even here. I’ve followed your work for years—online, at exhibitions. The way you paint light—it’s like it’s alive.”
I laugh politely, keeping my voice light. “Thank you. That’s kind of you to say.”
He steps closer, eyes flicking toward the back wall—toward her. The new painting. “That one,” he breathes. “That’s her. She’s perfect.”
I hesitate. “She’s not technically for sale yet—”
“I’ll take it,” he cuts in, pulling a checkbook from his coat like he’s been waiting for this moment. “I don’t care what it costs. She belongs with me.”
His enthusiasm edges on strange, but I’ve met plenty of passionate collectors. December brings out the intense ones. I smile, trying to keep things smooth. “Alright,” I say gently. “Let’s write it up, Mr…?”
He hesitates. “Justin. Just Justin.”
He writes the check fast, his hand trembling slightly, his eyes never leaving me. When he hands it over, his fingers brush mine—cold, clammy.
“She’s perfect,” he murmurs again, voice low. “You’re perfect.”
“Well,” I flip my hair over my shoulder. “I try, but I am serious, Justin. This piece is still drying, won’t be ready until the new year, I’m afraid.”
“Well I guess--”
The sound of small feet pattering across the wood floor cuts me off. “Mom!”
I turn just as Penny appears from the back hallway, sleeves damp, streaks of turquoise still bright across her palms. “The blue won’t come off,” she says, holding her hands up, face scrunched in concentration. “I used the soap and everything—”
Justin flinches like she’s shattered his trance. He turns his head sharply toward her, that too-wide smile faltering. The change is subtle but sharp, something ugly flickering through his expression. “Is this your child?” he asks.
The question isn’t curious—it’s clipped, almost reprimanding. His tone carries something sour underneath it, and his gaze pins her like she’s an interruption he doesn’t forgive.
Penny hesitates, instinctively moving closer to me, her paint-slicked fingers curling into my apron. I can feel her heartbeat against my thigh.