Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78295 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 391(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“Yep, she was amazing. Grams got me, but she passed a couple years ago, right after I graduated from art school. I never knew my mom. Grams said I got dropped off on her front step one day, and that was that.”
“What about your father?”
“He came around sometimes.” She smiles at me. “I loved him. I still do, even though he got me in this fucking mess. He taught me all sorts of things, and he was the first person to encourage me to paint. I’m not sure he ever really believed I was serious about it, but here I am.”
“You wouldn’t be who you are without your father. I can empathize.”
“Family’s never easy, huh?”
“Not for us.”
That lingers. She goes quiet, sipping her tea, already looking at the canvas again where the painting’s taking shape. She’s making good progress—if she keeps pushing, she’ll finish in time.
But I’m worried. I don’t want to burn her out. I don’t want to make her suffer for this. I had envisioned a more relaxed environment in which she could work, not this bullshit time clock.
“I should get back to it.” She puts the tea down and moves back to her stool. “You know, even though you kidnapped me, you’re not terrible to talk to sometimes.”
“Did you just compliment me?”
She rubs her palms into her face. “God, I must be sleep-deprived. Seriously messed up. I can’t believe I said that out loud.”
“I enjoy talking with you too. When you’re not insulting me.”
“You like the insulting too though. Admit it, you’re into that.”
“You want to start talking about our kinks? I’ll share mine if you share yours.”
She chokes a laugh. “I have none. I’m vanilla as they come.”
I stand and gather the tray. “I doubt that very much. I look forward to learning about all your twisted little fantasies.”
“My fantasies are anything but twisted. They’re very straight. Very narrow and boring!”
“If I wasn’t sure you’re a freak before, now I am absolutely positive.” I carry the dishes away, grinning to myself. “You can paint for a few more hours, but you’re getting more sleep tonight.”
“Are you keeping me on a schedule?”
“I’m making sure you don’t kill yourself making this happen.”
“It’s almost like you care.”
“You’re an investment. Don’t forget it.”
She grunts, shaking her head, and turns to work again.
I stop before I leave, watching, unable to get enough of her. I can pretend all I want that this is about business and business only, that her painting is nothing more than a means to an end, but that’s not true.
I don’t need to bring her food. I could send Marina to do it. I don’t need to keep her schedule. Marina’s capable of that.
I want to be near her. I want to take care of her.
Which is an extremely new sensation, one I’m still trying to understand.
Chapter 14
Hellie
For the next couple days, I paint the absolute shit out of that canvas.
I fall into the zone. I’ve hit this point before, where I’m so completely locked into a task that it’s all I can think about. It’s an obsession, and also a super power, and it scares the shit out of me while at the same time I absolutely love it.
There’s nothing but the painting. The mother, the father, the daughter. Their piano, the walls, the light—the freaking light—and the cello on the floor. I thought it was a basket, but no, a cello, and I spent legitimately three hours on that freaking instrument, painting and repainting until it looks absolutely freaking perfect.
I’m on a high I’ve never experienced before. I love this copying, love the challenge it presents, but mostly I’m forcing myself into this state of hyperfocus because my life literally depends on it. I can play coy around Erick all I want, but deep down, I understand what’s going on.
I paint or I die.
So I paint every fucking waking hour, hands aching, fingers cramping. I go through pints of tea, so much tea that Marina’s bringing it up constantly. At one point, I consider peeing into a bucket in the corner, but the mere thought snaps me back into reality, and I take the two minutes to walk to an actual toilet. Then I consume more tea.
The canvas comes to life. Vermeer’s room focuses. The back of the father’s chair, a reddish-brown. The tiles, checkerboard black and white. Another instrument on top of the cloth, barely in view, probably a lute of some sort. I paint it all, obsess over the details, chewing on my brushes until the ends are worn nubs.
Erick comes and goes. He brings me what I need. Food, fuel, whatever. We don’t talk much—there isn’t time. A day passes, I get another four hours of sleep, and I’m so deep into the process that I forget to take any breaks until I look up and realize it’s mid-afternoon and I’ve been working for six hours straight.