2. Lucie
Sunlight filtered through the small attic window, and the soft breeze billowed the peony-pink silk curtains over Lucie Nightingale’s workspace.
She sat at her desk, her nose a breath away from the paper.
Curled pencil shavings crowned the edges of her new drawing.
Bright blues and lavender mingled with sandy yellows, swirling across the page.
Waves from the water seemed to ripple off the page; the gentle waves kissed the shore as the sky blossomed into a rosy sunrise.
Lucie could practically taste the salt on her skin from the sea spray, feel the cool breeze, and hear the distant cries of gulls. Each brushstroke and line of graphite was her escape—a safe haven.
She abandoned a watercolor still drying by her window—a pair of bright amber eyes—a dream of someone she had the night before. When she woke, the full image of the man was gone, except for his eyes.
She leaned closer to her sketchbook, a red curl escaping her bun, bouncing off the page as she imagined sinking her toes into warm sand. No walls. No chains. Endless possibilities.
Lucie grew up with just her dad. When her grandfather died, he’d left him a busted-up tourist shop, and since she could talk, she had been manning the register.
From sunup to sundown, she was in front of the store, restocking, checking people out, or cleaning up messes from upset toddlers.
It was the beginning of their busy season.
The summer brought a flood of tourists to the National Parks or to DC.
The place was a pit stop on someone else’s grand adventure.
Most people stayed no more than twenty minutes.
Lucie adjusted the cuffs of her cream-colored turtleneck, curling her fingers around the edges of the fabric. The humidity was awful, making her red hair curlier than usual. She had twisted it into a messy bun. It was too hot for her hair to touch her neck.
As she dipped her thin paintbrush into her glass cup of water, already murky from the other colors swirling around, she dabbed the dark bristles into the pink, then pressed them onto the page.
Still, Lucie refused to let the darkness take hold. There was light in her life—her paints, her dreams, and the simple joy of being alive. She was grateful for what she had, and for the small moments of beauty she could create.
Heavy footsteps clobbered up the stairs. Anxiety twisted in her stomach. Her eyes flicked to the clock. She still had ten more minutes left on her break.
She had grown to understand each emotion tied to the specific pounding up the stairs. Her heart leaped into her throat. Without thinking, Lucie flipped over the still-wet page, hiding it under a stack of papers, wincing as the colors smeared. It’s okay. She could fix it later.
As much joy as her art brought her, the opposite was true for her father, tenfold. Lucie scrambled to tidy up her space, throwing tubes of acrylic paint under her pillow, mixing paintbrushes with her makeup brushes, and tucking reference books under her bed.
The smell of mint mouthwash, masking the stale scent of cigarettes and alcohol, hit her before her door burst open, pushing out her wildflower-scented candle.
“What the hell are you doing up here?” he barked, limping into her room, his voice gruff and impatient. He had all the tact and slickness of a used-car salesman.
“I—I was just on a break,” Lucie stammered, trying to keep her voice from wobbling. “I’ve been working all morning. I was just taking a lunch break and—” She motioned to her half-eaten peanut butter sandwich, quickly forgotten after her first brushstroke.
“Your break is over,” he cut her off, his eyes burrowing as they swept across her room.
“What have you been doing? The register has been unmanned this whole time. What if someone came in and stole something? If anything is missing, I swear—” His eyes darted to her newest project.
“What do we have here?” His hand fell on her hastily stacked papers.
Lucie flinched. With a swift, angry motion, he snatched the wet painting from beneath them.
“No, please—” Lucie’s voice caught in her throat as he held up the painting, its colors still glistening in the light.
Tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill over.
But she bit them back. She got into more trouble when she cried.
Instead, she painted over those bad memories in her mind with bright flowers.
It was easier that way.
His face twisted in disgust. “These are horrible. Ugly. I can’t believe you wasted my money on this.”
“It’s mine?—”
He tore the painting in half.
Rip.
Rip.
Rip.
Each sickening sound drove a knife into her back.
The pieces floated to the floor.
“Get downstairs,” her father ordered, pointing his sausage finger down the stairs. “Don’t let me catch you wasting time on this again.” His voice was cold and final.
Lucie nodded numbly, her hands trembling, and was forced to leave her artwork for tonight, when she could mourn alone.
He was right. The colors weren’t right for the ocean.
The birds were flat, lacking fluid motion.
She probably would have thrown it away later.
He saved her time and frustration. She knew her father loved her, just not the way she wished he would.
If she didn’t daydream so much, maybe he wouldn’t be frustrated.
The faint scent of paint and gasoline drifted up as she neared the bottom of the steps into the shop.
Her father’s roadside business was a conglomerate of a gas station, souvenir shop, and small grocery store, cluttered with shelves of canned goods, snacks, and outdated magazines.
It was a wide net to catch tourists passing by.
It was the kind of place travelers stopped at out of necessity, not choice.
She dreamed of boarding one of the many buses and finding a place where she could paint without fear.
But no matter where she went or how far, she knew her father would find her.
And she didn’t want to leave because he needed her.
He couldn’t run this place on his own. The least she could do was be there for him and help when he couldn’t.
The bell above the door jingled as a family of four walked through. For now, she was here, and she was going to make the best of it in this small, dusty shop, trying to be the sunshine she desperately longed to feel.
“Welcome to Daryl’s Dash and Fast,” Lucie said, her voice surprisingly chipper. She plastered on a smile so wide she believed she was genuinely happy. “How can I help you today?”