Chapter 17

MACKENZIE

I 've been awake for an hour, but I can't seem to find the motivation to shift myself from my bed.

What I have done though, is google Dylan about twenty-five times. I've read article upon article about his exit from the company, scrolled through countless images of him at important events. There are even photographs of him as a child, his sister alongside him with his parents, Faith and Ivan Abbott. A cute little wide-eyed boy beaming at the cameras.

I've also read his google bio, which is full of pointless facts that I have to admit don't even nearly capture the essence of the person I've come to know these past few months. What his life must have been like, growing up in the limelight, his every move described by reporters.

And what it still must be like.

I understand now why he felt the need to keep his job at Two Tanked a secret. What he meant when he said he wanted to have something that was all his own.

I'm not rostered on to work at the tavern today, and I feel relieved about that. Maybe by the time tomorrow's shift rolls around, I'll be in a better headspace to handle this situation with Dylan, but for now I think space from him is what I need.

It's not that I don't want to see him. Despite everything that had happened last night, we were able to fall back into easy conversation during the trip home. When he'd dropped me off, I was still reeling from the things I'd learnt about him, but something was telling me to trust the person that I'd come to know, and not the things his bitter ex had said about him. We all have a past after all.

I toss my phone on the bedside table where my art books lay, the brightly coloured business card that peaks out from the pages grabbing my attention. I pinch it between my fingers and pluck it from the book, then I flip it over in my palm, tracing the bold font with my forefinger.

The Abstract Palette.

Maybe it's time for me to have something that's all my own too.

If I take the next bus into Seabright Cove, I could be there not long after opening. I mull it over in my mind for the next few moments, weighing up the pros and cons.

What if I go and hate it? But then what the hell am I going to do around here all day? If I stay here a second longer, I might end up googling Dylan's name a hundred more times, and after that there's always Facebook and Instagram profiles to stalk.

Screw that. Suddenly the decision isn't such a hard one to make after all. I'm going.

I take a quick shower, then pull on a pair of shorts and a black t-shirt. Then I toss my art book and a random handful of pencils into my backpack, dumping it on the kitchen table while I turn on the coffee machine.

The house is otherwise quiet with Kristen and Henley having already left for work. Once my coffee has dispensed into my keep cup, I grab my backpack and head out the door in the direction of the bus stop.

According to the trip planner app, it will take forty-five minutes to reach Seabright Cove by bus. I spend the journey lost in my sketch book, adding details to the drawing of the tree across the creek out the back of our house. I feel like I've been working on this one forever, but I'm a perfectionist when it comes to my art, and I really want to get this one right.

As the bus approaches my destination, I pack up and race down the aisle, thanking the driver as I skip down the stairs.

Once out on the street, I scan the area. The bus has stopped right near a marina, not unlike the one in Cliff Haven. It's not until the bus pulls away from the curb that I see it.

Situated directly across the road from the bus stop is The Abstract Palette. A quaint and charming little shopfront on a street lined with planter pots overflowing with colourful petals. The art studio is on the ground floor, forming only a small part of a large Victorian style three-storey building. It has an old school vibe that, for a moment, has me feeling as though I've been transported somewhere else in time.

Crossing the street with my bag slung over my shoulder, a woman becomes visible in the window as I approach. She stands bent over a table, engaged in casual conversation with a group of elderly women. She straightens, laughing, before turning her attention to the street outside. Her smile falters ever so slightly when she catches a glimpse of me. Only for a moment though. Then her hand comes up to wave at me as I push through the door. A bell chimes above my head, signalling my entry.

"Hi," she says as she steps forward to greet me. "You made it."

"Yeah," I say, eyeing the various paintings that hang from the walls. There are large shelves lining the far wall, scattered with several sculptures and pottery pieces. "I thought I'd take you up on your offer after all."

"I'm so glad," she replies, wiping her hands on her apron, her blue eyes beginning to glisten with moisture. "I'm Grace, by the way."

She extends her hand and I accept, grasping it gently in a weak handshake. "Mackenzie."

"Mackenzie," she echoes, her hand still clutching mine. "It's a pleasure to have you here."

I gently slide my hand from hers, stepping further into the room. "These are so beautiful." I point at a group of charcoal drawings hanging along the nearest wall. "Are they yours?"

"A few of them, but most are from students that have attended my workshops over the years. Come." She ushers me over to a table where the group of older women sit, bent over canvases speckled with brightly coloured splotches of paint. "I run a small senior's class on Sundays. We call it Canvas Connoisseurs."

The women look up from their work when I approach the table. "Sorry, I don't mean to interrupt."

"Nonsense," says an older lady with short, bright white hair. "Pull up a seat, girly!"

"Uh, thanks," I say awkwardly, pulling out a chair.

"This is Betty," Grace informs me. "And this is May, Ava and Liz. Ladies, this is Mackenzie."

They all regard me, nodding their hellos, except for Liz who stares at her canvas intently, clearly lost in the zone.

"What brings you here today, Mackenzie?" May asks me.

"Uh, well, I met Grace on the beach, and she took an interest in my drawing," I explain, retrieving my art book from my backpack.

"Well then. Let's see it!" Betty says excitedly, rubbing her hands together.

"Uh, okay," I say with a soft laugh. I'm taken aback by her enthusiasm. I flick through the pages until I find the sketch of the beach with the sun on its horizon.

"That's pretty good," May says to my right. She helps herself to my book, pulling it from Betty's grip and thumbing through its pages. She makes soft sounds of agreement. Or maybe it's disagreement. I can't tell. "Hmm. You're talented, that's for sure. But there's something missing from these drawings."

"There is?" I ask.

My left eyebrow quirks involuntarily as I spare a glance over at Grace. I hadn't realised that coming to this art studio would result in my work being critiqued by a bunch of old biddies.

"Hmm. This one is interesting though," Betty muses. "What inspired it?"

I look down at the drawing she refers to. It's one I'd started the day after the snorkel tour but since abandoned. So far, I'd outlined the turtles and some fish, pencilled in the rays of sunshine, leaving an expanse of blue in the centre. "Oh, that. I went on this snorkel tour, and I guess I was moved by the colours, the ocean, you know? But it's not very good and I haven't finished it."

"Oh, that sounds lovely. Who did you go with?" she asks, her eyes twinkling with wonder.

"No one," I reply flatly. "I was meant to go with a friend, but her son got sick, and she had to cancel."

"So, there were no other people there?" the old woman's eyes crinkle as she squints at me suspiciously.

"Well, not exactly," I answer. "There were other people in the group, but I didn't know them."

"You didn't know any of them?" May asks dubiously.

A smile makes its way across my face. "What is this? An interrogation?"

"Just answer the question, girly," May demands.

"Okay. Okay." I resign with my palms raised, then dropping them back into my lap I say, "Well, I knew this one guy, I guess."

"Ah ha! There it is!" Betty shouts, a finger pointed in the air. "That's what these drawings are lacking."

"What do you mean?" I laugh. "They're lacking a guy?"

"No dear. They're lacking a real subject. Passion!" she slams a hand down on the table, letting those of us in the room know that this is something she herself is clearly passionate about.

"Oh." I'm not really sure how else to respond. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly weirded out by her blatant display.

"This man you speak of. Maybe he belongs in your drawing," she suggests.

"Pfft. No." I shake my head at her out-of-left-field notion. "It's not really like that. He's no one. He was just one of the instructors."

Just one of the instructors that I fake-dated last night who turned out to be an ex-billionaire and who is also my boss.

I attempt to pull the book away from May's grasp, but she tightens her fists around it. She's got a solid grip on her for an old lady.

"He's important enough that you mentioned him," Betty argues.

I scoff at her statement. "I only mentioned him because you asked me who was there with me!" I reef the book away from her, smoothing out its pages. "Let's all critique your work then, shall we, Betty?"

"Go right on ahead. I have nothing to hide," Betty retaliates.

"Whatever," I sigh.

Getting into an argument with an eighty-year-old woman had not been my intention today.

I turn to Grace, who has been quietly watching my interaction with the group from the corner of the room. She wanders over to the table now, her arms laden with art supplies.

"Now, now, ladies. Mackenzie has inspired me to show you a different activity today," she says, placing a set of watercolour pencils in the centre of the table.

After laying down an A3 sheet of watercolour paper in front of each of us, she takes a seat beside me. "Let's see you work your magic with these, Mackenzie. They're great for drawing seascapes."

"Yes, Mackenzie," Betty agrees. Then she picks up a cyan pencil and lays it across the top of my page. "Perhaps you could draw the boy from the ocean for us."

I squint at the old woman, wondering why she won't let this go. My reply comes out through gritted teeth. "Why, thank you for the suggestion, Betty. Maybe I will."

Grace stifles a soft laugh beside me, a small smile lighting up her face. It has the corners of my mouth tugging upwards too. Of all the ways this day could have gone, this is definitely not how I'd pictured it, but I have to admit that despite these feisty women, I am enjoying myself.

I pick up the cyan blue. Then, hoping to translate the picture forming in my mind to paper, I drag it across the middle of the page. An image of the sea turtles floating so gracefully in the ocean's depths. Only this time, Dylan is there, gliding seamlessly below, his black wetsuit and dive gear a stark contrast to the white, sandy ocean floor.

An hour passes by easily, all of us lost in our projects. I listen as the five women make small talk of the weather, their families and random chit chat. They seem to have given up on their interrogation, only throwing the occasional question my way, to which I give them brief answers. When the class is over Betty, May, Ava, and Liz carry their work over to a table along the window. I follow their lead and do the same.

"Not bad," Betty says as she gestures to my work.

It's unfinished, but most of the details are there.

"I'm glad it meets your expectations, Betty."

The narrowing of her eyes is the only sign I get that she's picked up on my sarcasm. Still, we both wear slight grins as we wander over to the sink to wash our hands in silence.

After thanking Grace for her time, the four older women exit the studio, dispersing into different directions out on the street.

I linger at the table, packing the watercolour pencils back into their tin. When I look up, Grace is watching me from the window. "Thank you, Mackenzie. You didn't have to do that."

"I don't mind. Thank you for having me along today. I had fun."

"Of course," she says. "I'm glad we ran into each other."

The way her hopeful gaze lingers on mine implies that her words hold deeper meaning for her. I'm not sure why. It should make me feel uncomfortable, but somehow it doesn't. Maybe she's just a people person.

"Where do you keep these?" I hold up the set of pencils.

"Just in the top drawer over here." She points to a set of drawers next to her, then slides the top one open as I approach.

I place the pencils neatly inside and as I turn around, a large canvas on the wall above captures my attention. It's incredible. Haunting, yet beautiful.

"Wow," I breathe.

Grace watches as my feet carry me towards it, mesmerised by its colours and the painstaking detail within. I'm completely and utterly intrigued, moved by the emotions it conjures.

The canvas itself is massive in size. Probably about five feet long, the painting created from an underwater perspective. In the centre, a young woman floats, her white dress billowing around her slender body, her back to the ocean floor. Her arms are outstretched, her long, wavy hair wafting around her. Its melancholy in a sense, or peaceful, depending on your perspective. The woman could simply be letting go, or she could be drowning.

"This is incredible," I say in awe. "Is it one of yours?"

"No," Grace says, clearing her throat. "Not that one. But it was done by someone very dear to me."

"It's amazing. The texture, the use of fine lines to capture the light rippling through the water. The artist obviously had a steady hand and…" I end my rant when I see that Grace has turned her back to me, hunching her shoulders as she rests her hands on the sink. I hear her sniffle and begin to worry that she's started to cry. "I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?"

She hesitates a little longer, before wiping her eyes and turning back around. "No. Of course not." Her cheerful voice is forced. Her smile too. "Why don't you tell me something about yourself, Mackenzie?"

It's obvious she wants a subject change. For whatever reason, she isn't interested in talking about that painting.

I shove my hands into the pockets of my shorts. "There isn't much to tell."

"Oh, I doubt that," she says. "Have you always lived in Cliff Haven?"

"Me? No." I shake my head. "I'm actually from Coledale."

"Oh. So, you were raised in Coledale and moved recently?"

"Raised?" I can't help scoffing at the word before letting out a short laugh. "Yeah, sure. If you want to call it that."

Her brow furrows as she watches my reaction inquisitively. "What do you mean?"

"Sorry," I say, waving off her concern. "It's nothing."

"Doesn't sound like nothing," she says. "You can tell me."

I hadn't planned on opening up to this woman about my life story, but it seems like a safe enough space. "It's just that I pretty much had to raise myself. My dad was an alcoholic. Is. He is an alcoholic. He's in rehab."

I'm only just now realising how often I refer to my father in the past tense, as though I've already erased him from my life.

She frowns, turning her sights out the window. When her eyes return to mine, there's an unmistakeable sadness swirling in their midst. Her throat bobs as she swallows, seemingly thinking over her next question. After a long pause, she finally asks, "And your mother?"

"No idea where she is," I answer, a bitterness in my tone. I wander toward a set of paintbrushes resting in a jar, plucking one out and absent-mindedly brushing it over my fingers. "I honestly wouldn't know her if I passed her on the street."

Her frown deepens. This time when she sniffles, there's no mistaking it. She's holding back tears. "Oh, Mackenzie. I'm sorry."

I force a smile. "It's not your fault. You have nothing to be sorry about."

"No, of course." She shakes her head, swiping at her eyes. "I just mean, I'm sorry you had to go through all of that."

"It's fine. And I'm fine. I mean, I'm here, right?" I shrug, placing the paintbrush I've been fidgeting with back in the jar.

"Yes." She nods. "You are. And I'm so glad." She wipes her hands on her apron and moves to a cork board on the other side of the room. She unpins an A5 flyer, returning it to me with shaky hands. "I wanted to show you this."

"What is it?" I ask, taking the paper.

"Every year, we run an exhibition night here at the studio. It's a chance for us to showcase the great work we've been doing here to the public. Students can offer their art for sale. I've seen the kind of work you do, Mackenzie. I think you should join us."

"This is next month," I say. "I don't have anything to show."

"Come back to the studio," she says, resting a warm hand on my shoulder. "You can work on something here."

"I don't know. I've never considered putting my art on display like this. Or selling it." A nervous laugh leaves me at the thought. "I'm not sure anyone would buy it."

"Well, you never know until you try." Grace shrugs. "But your talent is too good to be wasted."

I nod, taking another look at the flyer. "I guess I could think about it."

"Take your time. Well not too much time," she laughs.

"Okay." I glance down at my watch. "I better start making my way back home. The next bus is in five minutes."

"Good timing," she says. "Will I see you again soon, Mackenzie?"

There's something in her tone that I can't quite decipher, though it borders on desperation. My interactions with this woman have no doubt been strange. She seems like a highly emotional person which would normally send me running for the hills.

Yet, I do want to see her again. I don't mind being in her company. I appreciate the sense of peace and calm that being in her presence brings and I like the atmosphere in this studio.

I've had fun today. My soul has been nourished.

I understand now what Dylan had been talking about when he'd asked me if I had something I loved to do. Something that I needed like I need air.

"Yeah," I nod. "You'll see me again."

I turn and leave the studio, heading for the bus stop across the road. Only once I've reached the bus shelter do I turn around to realise she's still standing at the window beaming at me. I look down at the exhibition flyer, still clutched within my right hand, then when I look back up, she's gone.

The bus approaches and I find a seat at the back. As we wind our way down the coastline, I get lost in the view of the waves crashing against the rocky cliffs below. I smile when I think about Betty and May. Those women had been savage today, yet somehow, I'm sure that they're just the kind of women anyone would be lucky to have in their corner.

Then I think about what Grace said about my talent being too good to waste and for the first time in a long time, I'm instilled with a sense of hope. As though I could handle anything that life throws my way. As though I'm ready for my future.

Something catches my eye in the distance. I squint, holding my hand up to shade the sun from my face. For a second, I think that maybe I've imagined it, but then I spot movement in the water. Three dolphins rise from the waves, looping up and then diving back under the surface. Another two spring upward and a wide grin stretches across my face. I can't wait to tell Dylan about this.

Dylan.

The thought stops me in my tracks. Of all the people in my life I could sit and talk about my day with, Dylan was the one that came to mind first.

It should terrify me. Especially after what happened last night. And I know I could sit here and question that choice. Try to talk myself out of it. But it would be pointless.

Because I want to talk to him.

Instead of taking the bus all the way to the end of the boulevard, I decide to hop off outside the Haven and cross the road to see if Dylan is still working. When I push through the tavern's heavy doors, I find Jade, perched in her usual position at the bar. She lifts her hand in a wave when she sees me.

"Hey."

"Hey, Jade. Is Dylan still here?" I ask.

"Sure is," she smiles. "But he just stepped out the back."

"Thanks."

I round the bar and skip down the narrow hallway to the back of the tavern, figuring he must be out emptying the trash into the skip bins. At first, I can't see him. I turn, thinking he may have already gone back out around the side, but stop short when I hear voices.

I peer around the corner, down the alley between the tavern and the next building. Dylan stands face to face with an older man dressed in a torn flannelette shirt. The man's appearance is scruffy and unkempt, a lit cigarette pursed between his lips as he reaches around to the back pocket of his jeans.

"Did you get the good stuff this time?" I hear Dylan ask.

"Top grade, just what you need," the man says to him with a laugh as he retrieves something I can't quite see, placing it in Dylan's palm. "Best on the market, I'm told."

"Thanks, man," Dylan replies, digging deep into his own pockets. He pulls out a few rolled up notes and something else I can't quite distinguish. "I appreciate it. This is for you. But keep it on the down low though, okay?"

"Yes, boss," the man replies, accepting Dylan's offering in a tightly closed fist. He immediately shoves it into his back pocket, nodding once.

What the hell am I witnessing right now? A shady deal in the middle of an alley in broad daylight?

I flatten my back against the tavern wall, exhaling a long breath, a string of questions swirling through my mind. My heart sinks, disappointment flooding me at the realisation of the one thing that I am finally sure of.

I need to keep my distance from Dylan.

He's proved once again that he isn't the guy that I thought he was. Things between us need to remain strictly professional.

No more fake dating for his family's benefit.

No more thinking of him as the one person I want to share my day with.

He is my boss. And nothing more.