The cottage nurtured her, tempting her to sit on its sunny deck, or venture into the cozy kitchen to make herself a sandwich or a mug of creamy hot chocolate. With its hand-painted cabinets and butcher block countertops, the kitchen had a warm, welcoming feel that was a contrast to the sleek, modern kitchens that graced most of the homes she cleaned.
But the biggest comfort for Lily were the paintings. There were sketches, and oils, and pastels—she’d studied them all closely, examining every brushstroke and every line. Her favorite was the large watercolor hanging above the fireplace in the living room. She’d stared at that painting for hours, seduced by the subtle blend of colors, intrigued by the figure of the woman standing on the sand, staring out to sea. Who was she and what she was thinking? Was she simply admiring the view, or was she planning on plunging into the freezing waters and ending her misery?
Every time she looked at the painting it seemed different. The shadows. The soft flush of light across the ocean. It was as changeable as the scenery that had been its inspiration. Looking at it made her chest ache and her throat close. It wasn’t just a painting, it was a story. It made her feel. Whoever that woman was, Lily felt an affinity with her.
And she couldn’t believe that a painting like this one was hanging on the wall of an almost abandoned beach cottage, because this wasn’t any old painting. It wasn’t one of the prints that sold by the thousands in various shops along the Cape. She was sure—or as sure as she could be—that it was an original Cameron Lapthorne. His initials were in the corner. CL. And if it was an original then it was worth millions. But she didn’t care about that side of it. For her it was all about the art. Its value was in its beauty. Being able to gaze for hours at that painting was a privilege. It was like having a private view of the Mona Lisa, or Monet’s water lilies. Looking at it made her think of Hannah （and also Todd, but she tried not to go there）。
She suspected Mike was wrong when he assumed the cottage wasn’t owned by someone with pots of money. Maybe not a billionaire, but whoever it was had enough money not to care that they were leaving an original Cameron Lapthorne unattended.
Or perhaps it wasn’t an original.
She’d studied his work in depth, but she’d never seen any mention of this particular painting. It captivated her, but it also inspired her, and she tore her gaze away from it now and headed for the studio where she kept her paints and canvases carefully hidden in one of the cupboards.
She realized that she’d missed lunch, but she didn’t want to waste a moment of the light on preparing a meal for herself, and anyway the conversation with her mother had chased away her appetite. Instead of eating, she reached for her pad and her oil pastels and headed towards the deck.
She wanted to paint. And even if nothing she produced ever came close to capturing the magical light of the Cape in the way Cameron Lapthorne had when he was alive, she would keep trying.
Food could wait. And so could finding alternative accommodation.
There was no urgency. After all, it wasn’t as if anyone was using the place.