Chapter 2
The lilies were framed in rough Oregon oak, the edges and corners unevenly sanded.
Grant had spent two weekends in the garage making it.
Back then, he'd told me it was the first frame he was giving me.
Now it hung in the most prominent spot in the living room, right under the light.
This hadn't been an oversight.
He'd stood in my studio, surrounded by years of my work, and gone through every painting panel himself.
He'd bent down and examined each painting.
Then he'd decided that only this old piece, the one tied to his own memories, deserved to stay.
Everything else was trash.
"You even took the time to sort through them." I stared at the wooden frame.
Grant stepped closer, his voice earnest.
"I just wanted to keep what mattered most."
"To whom?" I asked. "To you or to me?"
He wouldn't meet my eyes.
Downstairs, a key turned in the lock.
The sharp click of heels on the floor followed.
Brooke came upstairs carrying two boxes of shipping labels.
She paused when she saw me in the doorway, then gave me a sweet smile.
"Tessa, you're back."
She sounded perfectly at ease, as though this were her own home.
"Thank God Grant helped me out. Otherwise, all my inventory would've been sitting in the rain today."
I pointed to the doorway blocked by shelving.
"Brooke, before I left to visit my aunt, I told you no. To your face."
Brooke's smile faded a little.
She turned to Grant, a wounded look creeping into her eyes.
"But I've already given up my old storage space."
"And these shelves were custom-made to fit this room. I can't return them."
"If I move out now, the cancellation fees and shipping costs will add up to thousands of dollars."
She looked back at me, her voice softening.
"Tessa, we're family. You wouldn't just stand by and let my business fail, would you?"
There it was again.
We're family.
In this house, whenever those words came out, I was always the only one expected to give in.
Grant stepped forward, put an arm around his sister's shoulders, and gave her a gentle pat.
"All right, Brooke. Go sort out those shipping labels."
He positioned himself in front of his sister and turned to face me.
"What's done is done. Making her move out now isn't realistic."
"The dining table's big enough, and it gets good light."
"You can paint there for the time being."
"Once her cash flow improves, I promise I'll put your studio back exactly the way it was."
I looked at him.
"The dining table?"
"My paints are toxic. The thinners give off fumes."
"Miles has his snack there every day after school. We eat all our meals there."
"You want me to put all of that on our dining table?"
Grant pressed his fingers between his brows, looking a little weary.
"Then do watercolors for now. Or pencil sketches."
"Does it have to be oils?"
With one careless remark, he dismissed my entire profession.
"The exhibition pieces have to be delivered by mid-November."
My voice was quiet, but tight with strain.
"I waited a year and a half for a spot at the Portland Arts Center gallery."
"It's already the end of October."
Silence settled over the room for a few seconds.
Behind the shelves, Brooke muttered, "It's just some little art show. It's not the Louvre…"
Grant didn't stop her.
He simply looked at me, his voice certain.
"We can get the paintings back."
"I told them they were only being taken away for storage."
"I promise I'll contact them first thing tomorrow and get every one of them back exactly as it was."
He was used to getting me to give in by making promises.
Every time he put on that loving, resolute expression, I backed down.
But this time, I had no room left to give.
I took out my phone, unlocked it, and held it out in front of him.
"There's no need to wait until tomorrow morning."
Grant hesitated.
"What?"
"Give me the cleanout company's number."
I held his gaze, my fingertips ice-cold.
"Now. Give it to me right now."