CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

New York City

Back in her apartment, Tillie plugged in her phone, but it was so dead that it took a few minutes for it to go live. Relief flooded through her as the screen lit up at last. She gave it another couple of minutes and then opened the screen, relieved to see the number 13 by the messages. Two were from Jon, checking in on his trip. The rest were all from Liam.

2:15 p.m.— Landed. Didn't sleep much last night, so jet-lagged as hell. Can't wait to talk to you.

4:24 p.m.— Checked in to my hotel. Miss you. It's a big suite, with a gorgeous tub. We could swim in it!

5:10 p.m.— Hoping to hear from you soon. Thinking it's evening there, but I've been known to mix up time zones. Might not last a lot longer, but feel free to text. I'll see it in the morning. Xoxo

5:45 p.m. I'm out, love. Hope you're good. Business gets going in the morning at ten, which is insanely early there. Will be finished by around 5:00 p.m., then back at it for dinner at 7:00 p.m. But text me if you want. I'll be glad to see it whenever it comes in.

She was both disappointed and relieved—wretched that she hadn't been able to talk to him, but relieved that he'd texted. She checked the world clock and saw that it was 1:00 a.m. in London, but taking him at his word, she texted: Sorry! Wasn't ignoring you! I know it sounds lame, but I actually lost my phone! At five London time, it's noon here, so we should be good. LMK when you're free, and we can video chat! (And that's as many exclamation points as I'm allowed, I think.)

She sent it, and then it felt like not enough, so she took a breath for courage and typed: I miss you, too. A lot!! :)

And then she left her phone to charge and started walking circles around the studio. She wondered how to get herself back to herself.

There was really only one answer. She climbed into her painting clothes, turned on some decidedly unromantic music, and focused on painting. Not the angel but the gazelle girl. The painting was strong, and it absorbed her deeply—in a flow way, not a fugue way. She felt stable enough to allow herself to get lost in the colors and the music and the flow of just making .

When her shoulders and arms started to protest, she lined up the rest of the paintings side by side to figure out what might be next, what would help round out the series. It was unlike her to be stuck—there were usually more ideas in her mind than she could possibly capture on canvas—but she just wasn't seeing what the final three paintings should be. Actually, two, because one would obviously be the cat.

Across the worktables, she spread out charcoal drawings she'd made of the cat, and chose two of the strongest to pin to the bulletin boards. Using thick pastels, she sketched him again, one sleepy, one frisky, and one with the girl on his back, a basis for the actual painting, which she would work on tomorrow.

It reminded her of the cat Winnie said she'd painted in school. Picking up her phone, she texted Jon: Do you remember a cat painting I did the year I had my breakdown?

She put the phone down and looked at the paintings. What else?

She didn't know right this minute, and maybe that was okay. She glanced at the clock and wondered if was late enough to call Liam, but counting forward, it was still the middle of the night.

Giving up the day at last, she scrubbed her arms and hands, shed her paint-covered clothes, and climbed into a pair of sweats and a T-shirt. Nothing from Liam yet, of course. She imagined him asleep on thousand-thread-count sheets in a London hotel room and wished she was there with him.

Her unread email count was 6,209, which wasn't terrible for her. For a couple of minutes, she sorted the ads, unsubscribed, and erased until she got to the actual emails. One was from her gallery: How's it going? Can I see where you are?

Easy. Tillie turned on the overhead lights in the studio, then stood back far enough to capture all the paintings. She sent back an email with a long shot of the studio, paintings lined up conveniently. Getting there.

The gallery wrote back immediately. Shit! Love the witch! And the angel!

Tillie looked at the paintings, seeing what she hadn't: the transformed painting of her mother, the witch, was an excellent counter to the angel of Liam. She hadn't planned to use it, but maybe that wasn't really true if she'd sent the shot to her gallery with it fully visible.

She startled when a bell dinged with a new email, and she saw the header was from Shiloh.

Oh, that painting!

Hi, Tillie. Forest #21 is part of a series I did on the Devon coast. I don't have the photos handy (I only have a flip phone—I know it's weird but it keeps me present), so I can't tell you exactly where. But I was hanging with a woman who likes to surf, so it was north Devon, one of the little towns around Saunton Sands Beach. I want to say Croyde Bay or Braunton, maybe? There are a couple of others. One of the holiday villages along there. Hope that helps.

For the first time, a real break.

But Devon? That was kind of weird. Wasn't that where Liam was going to see his family?

A slight shiver ran down her arms.

She opened her laptop and called up a map, searching for Saunton Sands Beach, then zoomed in to the towns around it. There were a handful, greater and lesser distances from the beach. How to choose? Where to start?

She turned to her patchy memories. There was nothing in them about a beach or seaside. Only a forest. A wood, the girls in her dreams said, and it gave her hope. If they talked to her, it would be a big help.

Or else she was losing her mind, and she'd be on a wild-goose chase. Both were equally possible.

At this point, she felt she had no choice but to follow her gut. Forests in North Devon , she typed, and there were several, but not many close to the sea. She sucked on her top lip, mulling the choices.

One by one, she checked photos of various villages to see if any of them triggered a reaction. There were a couple of resort-style hotels, but most of the towns looked like every other English village she'd ever seen photos of—a central area with a square or a church, old buildings, a bookstore up a crooked road, and a bunch of houses that all looked about the same. Someone told her once they looked like that because there had been so much building in the fifties and sixties, as the country recovered from the war.

Which was staggering to think about, really. A nation so trashed by bombs that it was rebuilding for twenty years. It happened all the time, of course, was happening now, all over the world, but it was still awful.

Nothing in the village photos caught her eye particularly. Cloverly looked pretty, and there was a big hotel at Saunton Sands proper. She clicked on more photos of Braunton, then on Wulfecombe.

There, a photo of a mill whispered recognition. She clicked on others. An ordinary village, once again, a narrow street with a row of shops. One was painted yellow, with a mullioned window in front. A light-colored cat sat on the sill like a queen.

This one, her body said.

This one.

Her heart fluttered in her throat. She clicked around the rest of the village, picking up the little blue man in Google, dropping him in new places. A cottage with pink shutters caught her eye, but was that as a painter or as a memory? She was starting to lose perspective.

Something felt right about the village. Maybe that was enough at this point. The worst that could happen was that she'd be wrong, find nothing, and lose a few days of painting time.

Should she fly there?

It seemed completely insane, and it might also look like she was chasing after Liam, which was horrifying.

Truthfully, it was ridiculous to even consider. She didn't have time to spare, and she would have to go alone, but she wouldn't get her work done until she figured it out. It also felt strangely urgent, as if it had to be done right now .

Impulsively, she checked flights. Without giving herself time to back out, she booked one for the next day.

Should she tell Liam? Maybe not. Their connection was powerful and full of potential, and she didn't want to ruin the newness of it by appearing to chase him.

She wouldn't tell him. She'd figure out an excuse about why she was out of touch, and it was mostly while he was busy, anyway. She started to make a little chart of what time it would be in New York and how to stay on track with that, but her brain started breaking in three seconds, and it felt like out-and-out lying. She'd wing it.

Energized, she got up to pack.