Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87538 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Unfortunately, my ambition is circling a few thousand miles above my ability. “Why has my paint turned brown? I mixed blue and green and yellow. It’s been a while since I left school. Has color mixing changed?”
Eddie laughs. “Everything’s changed since you left school. It’s been a while.” She leans forward and studiously paints tiny strokes on the canvas.
I daub my paintbrush in the brown mess I just made and paint a circle on Eddie’s cheek. I smile and sit back, admiring my work.
She freezes then turns her head very slowly to look at me. “Did you just paint me?”
I shrug like an unrepentant toddler caught trying on her mother’s shoes. It’s not that Eddie and I never have fun together—of course we do. We’re sisters and we’ve always been friends. But something between us feels lighter since I visited her in Exeter. Maybe I’ve stopped trying to be her parent and I’m content to be her big sister.
Does this mean I’m capable of having a proper relationship with someone, not just be a caregiver? It gives me hope that Dax and I can have a happy ending where we give and take, and it’s possible to be equal in that giving and taking.
“Paint on the canvas,” she says, fixing me with a glare. “Or you’ll get us thrown out.” She shakes her head but can’t suppress her smile. “Never thought it would be me telling you to follow the rules.”
I clean the brown sludge from my palette, wash my brush and try again, picking up some of the lighter blues and greens and mixing them together. “Just so you know, it does look like there’s a possibility you have poo on your face,” I tell her. “I mean, obviously it could be paint, given where we are, but…” I reach over and daub green paint on her cheek, right next to the brown. “There. That’s better. I think there’s much less likelihood people will think someone shit on your cheek now.”
This time she doesn’t freeze. Slowly, she pushes her stool away from her easel, takes the biggest brush from the jam jar sitting on the small table between us and smashes it into the red paint.
I stand up. She wouldn’t. There’s no way she’d ever—
I try and dodge out of the way, but I’m too late and I feel the bristles of the brush against my nose. I squeal and back away. “Eddie! You— No.”
She goes back to her paints. “Eira, careful—someone might thing you’re Rudolph hemorrhaging from the nose.” She stalks after me with her brush, and I push against the glass of the window, trying to put some distance between us. “Better add some blue.” I cover my face and crouch down.
“Ladies,” the tutor’s prim voice calls from behind us. “If we could refrain from painting each other, that would be my preference. The skin’s oils mess with the bristles of the brushes.”
Eddie and I lock gazes and break into grins before going back to our seats.
“I think I’ve finally found the perfect shade,” I say, focusing on my palette and pretending I wasn’t just paint-fighting with my sister in a roomful of adults who aren’t renegotiating their relationships with siblings.
“Can’t wait for the finished result,” she says.
“Same with yours. It’s coming on beautifully,” I reply.
I sit, smiling at her, when I should be focused on the painting. “Love you, Eddie.”
“Your phone is buzzing.” She nods at the side table where I left my mobile.
I peer at the screen. “It’s the lawyers,” I say, a little surprised. “What on earth do they want?”
“They’ve probably forgotten to invoice you for something.”
“Probably,” I say and cancel the call. I want to focus on the future with my sister, not on the horrors of years gone by. I don’t want to hear about how my uncle hasn’t responded to our requests for explanations about x, y and z, or how he’s delaying this and that. It’s all I’ve heard since the day I turned twenty-five.
I want to paint the waters of Antigua and let myself imagine what it will be like to go back there one day.
THIRTY-FIVE
Eira
I trace the handwriting on the envelope I’m holding, imagining Dax’s fingers around the pen as he crossed out his address and wrote my new one. Even though I knew what was inside wasn’t from him, my hands still shook when I opened it, desperate to discover a trace of him inside.
All the envelope contained was yet another request from my lawyer to contact his office straight away.
I push the envelope back into my pocket and glance at the clock above the receptionist’s head in Morgan & Co’s law offices. Mr. Morgan has a lot of well-heeled clients, but from what I’ve seen over the last decade, his “& Co” is comprised of Judy, the receptionist, and a sandwich delivery service.