Chapter 6
I brought the ruined painting panel home.
Muddy water seeped from the edge of the plastic bag, dripping onto the entryway rug.
Grant was sitting in the living room.
Several of Brooke's shipping forms were spread across the table, and he held a pen.
He stood the moment he heard the door open.
"Tessa, you're back. Did you find anything?"
I didn't answer.
I walked over and set the broken, mud-caked panel on the living room table.
It landed with a wet slap.
Dark brown sludge splashed across his clean bills.
Grant's gaze fell on the wood, and his expression froze.
I was certain he'd immediately spotted the pencil marks near the broken edge.
03/14/2019—G&T.
The year a sudden heart attack took my mother, I nearly fell apart.
For more than six months, I could barely hold a brush steady, and I lay awake night after night.
My father had died years earlier. My mother was the only family I had left to turn to.
Once she was gone, I had nowhere left to simply be someone's daughter.
Grant had stayed beside me through those darkest days.
He'd found me the best pine panel he could and sat in the garage, patiently sanding its edges smooth.
He'd gone through the old photo albums with me, page by page, wiped away my tears, and held my hand as he said:
"Don't be afraid, Tessa. You can paint your mom. As long as you have the painting, she'll always be here with you."
Eventually, I'd taken his advice and spent six whole months painting my mother as I most wanted to remember her.
In the painting, she wore a blue-gray linen shirt and stood by a window, smiling at me.
And now that painting was destroyed.
Grant went white.
He reached out, his fingers trembling.
He picked up the two small pieces of wood I'd recovered and tried to fit them into the jagged break.
But no matter how long he fumbled with them, the largest piece was still missing.
My mother's entire face, along with that gentle smile, was gone.
"Tessa…"
Grant's voice rasped like sandpaper.
"I'm sorry. I… I didn't think this would happen."
I looked at him through bloodshot eyes.
"You knew this painting was in there, didn't you?"
Grant's fingers curled inward, and he couldn't meet my eyes.
He didn't deny it.
"I knew it was in the studio," he said quietly, offering an excuse that made it hard to breathe.
"But I thought you'd moved on… It had been hanging in the corner for so long. I thought it didn't matter to you anymore."
He thought it didn't matter to me anymore.
He was the one who'd suggested I paint it, yet he'd still marked it for disposal.
All to clear a few feet of space for his sister's cheap shelving.
"Don't be upset, Tessa. We can still do something."
Grant suddenly looked up and seized my wrist.
"Restorers can do incredible things now. I'll find the best one in Portland to put it back together. I don't care what it costs."
"Or we can paint it again!"
"We still have all the old photos. I'll be right there with you while you paint another one, exactly like the original. Okay?"
I looked at his anxious face.
He thought that as long as he was willing to spend enough money and time, anything he'd carelessly thrown away could be made whole again.
"Grant."
I cut him off, my voice unnaturally calm.
"Do you remember why I was so determined to paint this?"
Grant froze.
His lips parted, and his gaze began to wander.
"Because… because you missed your mom. You wanted something to remember her by…"
"No."
I looked at him.
"Because you told me this home wouldn't just have room for you. There would always be a place for my mother, too, and she would always be with me."
"Because you said you'd never let me feel like I had no one. You said you would be my family."
Grant's breath caught, and he had no answer.
He'd forgotten every word of his own promises.
I pulled my hand free without giving him another glance.
I turned and went into the bedroom.
I opened the closet and pulled out the travel bag I always kept on hand.
I tossed in my laptop, a change of clothes, and my usual migraine medication.
The zipper closed with a quick, decisive rasp.
I came out carrying the bag, then bent to put the broken panel back into its plastic bag.
Grant finally realized what was happening. He rushed over to block the doorway, fear showing in his eyes for the first time.
"Tessa, where are you going?"
"I'll be back tomorrow. Right now, I don't want to be around you."
I met his eyes and spoke each word clearly. "Tomorrow afternoon, we're going to talk about a divorce."
All the color drained from Grant's face, and he gripped the doorframe.
"No, Tessa, don't do anything rash! This was an accident. I was wrong. I swear I'll make Brooke move her things out right now."
"I'll put everything back the way it was… Stay tonight. I'll sleep in the guest room. Just don't leave."
I tightened my grip on the bag's strap and pushed his arm aside.
The moment I opened the front door, Oregon's cold early-winter wind hit my face.
"I'm going to keep looking for my paintings," I said, turning my head slightly as I stepped out. "And I'm going through with the divorce."
The door slammed.
I'd pulled it shut hard behind me.