Chapter 55

It was one of the most beautiful things I'd ever seen. The colors were perfection. The composition made me feel like I was part of it. The scene was so enchanting that I couldn’t look away.

I called out to Joel, "Who did this? Do you know?"

He was outside the cluttered storage unit, rummaging around in the trunk of his car. "Who did what?"

"This painting. I checked for a signature, but I didn't see any."

I was still staring at it. If I had to classify its style, I'd say it was realism – except the reality was somehow more beautiful, like the painter was seeing things the way they should be, rather than the way they were.

Joel still hadn't answered my question. I turned to look and was surprised to see him standing directly behind me.

He gave the painting a cursory glance. "Why?"

"Why do I want to know?" Again, I turned to look. "Because it's beautiful."

It was an oil painting of a dark-haired woman with a couple of small children, all walking along the beach. She was in the center, wearing a yellow sundress and holding the nearest hand of each child. Both were boys. Each wore navy shorts and a short-sleeved, classic white button-down shirt.

Was it a mom and her kids? That was my guess.

The concept wasn't unusual. And yet, for some reason, I couldn’t look away. Why was that? Maybe it was the facial expressions that drew me in. They conjured up feelings of love and absolute security – emotions I'd found sadly lacking ever since the death of my parents.

I was still looking at the painting. "Do you know if this was painted recently?"

While waiting for his answer, I gave the subjects' clothing a better look. The outfits weren't exactly modern, but they weren't terribly old-fashioned either.

It was the same with the hairstyles. The woman's hair was long and flowing. As for the boys, their hair looked delightfully disheveled, like they'd just been caught in a summer breeze.

Based purely on the clothing and hair styles, the painting had to be less than fifty years old, but its exact age remained a mystery. There was a timeless quality that made it impossible to place.

Even now, I couldn’t stop staring. "You don't know who painted it, do you?"

When he still didn't answer, I turned to give him a questioning look.

He asked, "Why'd you uncover it?"

Instantly, heat flooded my face. Until just a few minutes ago, a large white sheet had been thrown over the painting, hiding it from view. I looked down at the sheet, now wadded up in my arms. "Sorry, I guess it's a bad habit." I gave an awkward laugh. "Family history and all."

Silently, Joel took the sheet from my hands and began to move around me, as if preparing to cover the painting up again.

"Wait," I said. "You never answered my question. Do you know who painted it?"

"Yeah." He tossed the sheet over the painting. "Me."

I did a double-take. "What?"

He looked toward his car. "You ready to go?"

"Not yet." My mind was reeling. "You said you painted that?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Because you never mentioned it."

"Mentioned what?"

"That you were a painter." I looked toward the painting, now hidden from view. Even now, in my mind's eye, I could still see it.

I was an art history major and the daughter of a famous artist. I was familiar with practically all of the popular names and styles. Even if Joel had only copied the painting, it was an amazing reproduction.

I asked, "What did you paint it from?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, is it a copy of something? Like another painting?"

"No."

I hesitated. "A photograph?"

"No." Again, he glanced toward his car. "Ready to head out?"

I looked toward his car and then back to him. "Why are you so anxious to leave?"

"Because I've got the stuff we came for."

Right. The tools. I glanced around the storage unit. I saw oversized plastic bins, along with dozens of cardboard boxes, stacked nearly to the ceiling. I was dying to wade through the mess in search of more paintings. There had to be more, right?

Pushing that distraction aside, I turned back to Joel. "Just to make sure I understand…" I pointed to the covered painting. "You painted that on your own, I mean without copying anything?"

"That's what I said." His eyes were wary, and his muscles were tight. "What are you getting at?"

"It's really good."

He didn't even smile. "Thanks."

He didn't sound very thankful. In fact, he didn't sound pleased at all. I studied his face. "Why are you acting so funny about it?"

"Because it's private."

"Oh." The words felt like a slap, and I drew back, widening the distance between us.

Yes, I realized that I'd uncovered the painting without his permission. But in my defense, I'd assumed that it was covered for protection, not for privacy. It was a simple misunderstanding, and yeah, a mistake on my part.

Even so, his comment stung. Private, huh?

I recalled everything I'd told him yesterday about the estate and its problems. I hadn't done that with anyone else, not even Cassie or Aunt Gina. As far as they knew, I was doing just fine. But Joel knew the whole truth – the whole ugly truth, including the fact that I was broke.

That was private, too. But I'd shared it, anyway. And now, he was acting like I'd just been caught scrolling through his cell phone or cripes, rifling through his wallet.

How humiliating was this?