Chapter 12

MACKENZIE

T he pier is packed on Friday afternoon. People come and go from the local businesses and cafes. Surfers flock to the waves despite the dark clouds that linger in the distance, but I am in the zone.

A quick glance at my watch lets me know I've been sitting here on this park bench for close to two hours now, completely lost in my art. I've only found the crowds of people distracting when the odd surfer or dogwalker gets in the way of my view of the horizon.

I've decided to try my hand at colour drawings. Up until now I've only ever worked in black and white, and while I'm excited to try a new skillset, I'm having a difficult time trying to work out the right hues to capture the sunset as it hits the ocean. A task made more challenging by the fact that the sun keeps moving lower with every passing minute.

I worked most of the day at the tavern, but other than Harper dropping in to say a quick hello, my shift had been uneventful. Dylan was meant to work too, but he hadn't been there. In fact, I haven't seen him since that weird encounter with his parents on Tuesday. I assume he must be taking on those extra afternoon shifts he mentioned on the dive boat.

I'm noticing more often when he isn't around and that's weird for me. It's almost like work is better when he's there. I'm not familiar with this feeling. Of depending on someone else to make my day better.

"That's beautiful."

I'm startled, suddenly aware of the presence on the bench next to me. I swivel my head in the direction of the voice, stunned to see who it has come from. It's the woman that watched me from the pier the day I went for my morning jog. The same one from the windows of the tavern yesterday. The woman from my sketch.

"The drawing. It's beautiful," she repeats.

The fact that she's suddenly sitting beside me should freak me out. Her behaviour seems stalkerish if anything, but I suppose it could be pure coincidence that I've now seen her multiple times.

I contemplate confronting her about it, asking her what her deal is and whether she's been following me, but there's something about her demeanour that stops me. Just like the first time I saw her on the pier, I sense a sadness surrounding this woman. An air of longing.

Being so distrustful of every person I meet is a quality I'm beginning to like less and less about myself. I don't want to be so quick to judge this woman. God knows I know what it feels like to be taken at face value.

So instead of throwing out some sarcastic snide comment I choose to appreciate her compliment.

"Thank you," I say. "I don't normally use colour, so I didn't know if it was going to work out."

She smiles, her light eyes twinkling in the golden glow of the sunset. "It's very good. Especially if that's your first attempt. Do you paint too?"

"Not really," I answer, but then I think of the supplies that Pamela had offered me. They're still sitting untouched in the corner of my room but after experimenting with coloured pencils, I suddenly can't wait to dip into the paints. "I'm going to give it a try though."

"You should. I bet you have a natural talent." I'm not sure where she's gathered this assumption from. She shifts closer to me on the bench and begins pointing to various parts of my drawing. "If you add some shadow to the sides of the water here, it will really emphasise the light reflecting from the sunset here in the middle."

I tilt my head on an angle, contemplating her suggestion. She's right, I realise. "Yeah, that makes sense."

"And if you deepen the hue of the storm clouds over here, the oranges and yellows in the middle will really pop."

I turn my head, watching as she examines my drawing, fascinated by her observation. This woman clearly knows what she's talking about. "Are you an artist?"

"I am," she nods, lifting her blue eyes to mine. "I run art classes from a studio a few towns over. In Seabright Cove."

"Wow, that's really cool," I say.

Her smile radiates a certain warmth, and I can't help but think about how comfortable I am in her presence, despite the strange circumstances under which we've met.

"You should come down and check it out," she offers. "We do all kinds of things there."

"Oh, I don't know," I say, not sure whether I should entertain this idea. "I don't know if I'd be able to."

"Oh," she says. A veil of disappointment falls over her for a moment before she straightens herself, a glint of hope entering her gaze. "The first two lessons are free. It's a promotion that I'm running at the moment."

For whatever reason, she's being awfully persistent.

"Oh, okay. I guess I could think about it."

I say this only to be polite. I don't have any intention of taking up her classes, but I don't want to break what seems to be an already fragile spirit.

She nods, looking ahead to the waves. "Sure. Well, it's on Palmwood Drive if you decide you'd like to come. It's called the Abstract Palette. Here's one of our cards."

She holds out a pink and yellow business card to me and I take it, flipping it over in my palm. "Cool name."

"Thanks," she says, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. "Well, it was lovely talking to you."

Before I can say anything else, she's standing up, smoothing her dress with the palms of her hands, and readying herself to walk away.

I pluck out the indigo pencil and begin adding depth to edges of the water as she had recommended. The conversation between us replays in my mind. I keep seeing the gutted look of rejection she'd given me when I'd turned down her offer to come to her studio. I try to remember if I'd been harsh in my answer, but I can't think of any particular reason that she should be offended. I'm sure I hadn't been rude.

There are so many red flags relating to this woman's behaviour, but I chose not to confront her about them because she seems completely harmless. In fact, I welcomed her presence. She exudes a calmness that most people don't have, an ability to make those around her feel comfortable. Maybe she is just a loner.

I find myself considering her offer to partake in those free classes. I can't deny that I'm intrigued about learning new techniques. I've never had the opportunity to participate in something like that.

Hell, I've never really had the chance to take time to do anything but try to survive.

But the bus trip into Seabright Cove would be long and I'm not sure how it would fit into my work schedule at the tavern. I push the idea from my mind as I pack my art supplies into my backpack and head home for dinner.

It starts to sprinkle just as I'm stepping up onto the front porch and when I open the front door, my senses are overtaken by the scent of garlic and rosemary.

I continue down the hall, rounding the corner into the cottage-style kitchen where Kristen is hunched over a baking tray, carving a seasoned lamb roast. Two plates of baked vegetables rest on the island bench beside her.

"It smells delicious in here," I say, letting my backpack fall to the floor in the corner.

She looks up from the leg of lamb, aiming a warm smile my way. "Henley got stuck at a job so it's just dinner for two tonight. I thought I'd make us a roast."

"Oh."

When I'd seen the two plates, I'd automatically assumed that they were for Henley and herself. Not that she doesn't cook for all of us, but because I hadn't let her know that I'd be home. I nod subtly, a stab of guilt piercing my chest.

It's not like we haven't been on speaking terms or anything, but I'd never really apologised properly for the way I'd treated her the day she told me she was in contact with our father. I know she's only trying to do what's best for everyone and most of the time, that can be a real balancing act. Pleasing one person can easily upset the next, and ultimately, she needs to do what's right for herself too.

She brings her eyes to mine, worry swirling in their depths. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah. Thanks. It all looks amazing." I manage a smile, but she sees right through it.

"What's wrong?" she asks. "You look upset."

"I do?" My eyes begin to sting with the threat of tears and at first, I'm not even sure why. "It's nothing. I'm fine."

Kristen isn't buying it. "Mackenzie, you can tell me."

A tear rolls down my cheek and I quickly swipe it away. I'm not normally this emotional. It feels completely foreign to me.

"They aren't sad tears, I promise. I'm just… not used to coming home to … this." I wave a hand at the delicious food my sister has clearly spent hours preparing.

She nods sympathetically. "I know. I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about. I never should have snapped at you last week about wanting to talk to Dad. I'm just… I get so angry when I think about him."

"Hey, you have every right to be mad at him," she says. "I'm angry too."

"Why do you want to talk to him then?" I ask her. "How could you ever possibly forgive him?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. Selfish reasons, I guess."

"What do you mean?"

"There's a release in forgiveness. I've held a grudge for so many years now, it's like this weight that's lived inside of me for what feels like forever is finally lifting. And maybe if I can find it in myself to just let go, I could be free of it."

I nod slowly, contemplating her words. "I guess that makes sense."

I know what she means. I know that sinking weight she describes and it sure would be nice to release some of it. I just can't see it happening in the foreseeable future.

"Maybe I need to forgive him because it's the right thing to do," she continues. "He's my flesh and blood. Maybe he's paid for his sins. Maybe he's paying for them right now."

She could be right. Maybe our father being stuck in his own private hell is enough punishment, but it doesn't make any of it right. It could never make any of it right.

Kristen places the knife down gently on the countertop, then takes a few cautious steps towards me. "And because of you."

My brows pinch together in a frown. I don't understand. "Because of me?"

"Yeah. I know this is twisted." She lowers her gaze to the ground momentarily before looking back up at me, her hazelnut eyes glistening with moisture. "But if he hadn't left us to be with your mother, then we wouldn't have you in our lives at all. So, I guess I owe him a thank you."

The breath is knocked out of me. I'd never considered this way of thinking before, never entertained the possibility that Kristen could find a silver lining in this messed up situation.

Or that the silver lining was me.

"That is twisted," I agree. "But it's also the nicest fucking thing anybody has ever said to me."

A tear escapes down her cheek and I lunge forward, wrapping my arms around her.

I've never believed in fate. It's absurd to think there is some higher power in control of my circumstances. I mean, if there is, they've been doing a really shitty job with me. But moments like this with Kristen have me believing there must be a reason we came to find each other.

We stay like that, encased in each other arms for a moment before she pulls away, a smile on her lips. "I really think we should eat now before our dinner goes cold."

"I couldn't agree more," I say, unfurling myself from her warmth. "I'm starving."

She lets out a soft laugh as she moves back to the island bench. I set the table for two while she finishes plating up our meals.

Over dinner, I ask her about her day, and she asks me about mine. She tells me about a promotion she's going to go for, and I tell her about the mysterious woman I met at the pier today. I explain how she had invited me to her art classes but that I didn't intend to go.

"It might be good for you to go. Art is your thing," she says.

I'd never considered art to be ‘my thing', but her words get me thinking about Dylan and what he'd said on the boat that day. About how he liked having something all of his own. I've never had something all of my own.

But maybe it would be nice to.

So, when I'm lying in bed later that night, unable to sleep, I take out my phone and google the Abstract Palette. Then I do a search for the local bus timetable.