Read Art is the Lie (A Vanderbie Novel) for Free Online

didn’t understand what I was saying either, because what my mind hinted at wasn’t possible. The fog inside me began to lift and an uneasy feeling descended down, stalling my verbal processing. “You’re right,” I said, latching on to the only plausible explanation. “I probably saw a piece of art at the SAM that reminded me of this boat.”
    He thrust an accusatory finger at the lifeless boat. “CeeCee, there are no works of art at the museum that look like this boat.”
    I pulled free from the spell the tiny boat had cast over me, too tired to understand, too embarrassed to try and explain. “Your photos. You should get the rest of your pictures before you lose the light.”
    I could see a debate slide across his eyes as he held mine. “The photos can happen another day. We should get you home.” Abruptly, he turned and headed back to the car, the out of balance scale sending him rocketing from the island. Away from the crazy girl.

 

     
     
    My brush stroke was tense, the bristles bending awkwardly under the pressure of my fingers. I focused all of my energy on the hue of crusted amber, determined to keep my mind clear of the garbage it continued to regurgitate. I forced the brush down the canvas, my wrist bent just the way Mom had taught me. Hours she would spend with me, her patience endless, stroke after stroke.
    I dropped my hand and stared at the line of color. It wasn’t right. Nothing felt right. I threw my paintbrush onto the pallet of colors, leaving the floodgates of my mind open to be inundated with the images I’d tried to suppress. Quentin. The lighthouse. The boat. The shadowy figure clinging for life as the storm waters attempted to thwart their efforts.
    Was it supposed to be me? Drowning?
    I shoved my balled fists against my eyes, trying to rub out what lay behind them. Every free moment of the past couple of weeks I’d spent holed up in my art room. Hidden, as I waited and wondered, when and if my mind would turn on me again and make another painful strike, leaving me stripped of all rational explanation.
    The sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway announced a welcome distraction. I shuffled over to the dormer window, twisting my out of control hair up into a knot before shoving a paint brush through it. Grace and Avery stepped out of Grace’s car and headed toward the house. I hesitated before rapping on the window, unsure if I had it in me to be social.
    Acknowledging me with a wave, they altered their course to the stairs that led up the side of the garage.
    They disappeared from view as my forehead came to rest on the cool glass. I closed my eyes and sucked in a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for Grace’s intense level of social banter. As my lids fluttered open, a slow moving car passed the end of our gravel driveway, spiking a surge of adrenaline through my veins. An old green Land Rover, like Quentin’s. It couldn’t be.
    I blinked. Shook my head. Looked again.
    Nothing. It was gone.
    I rubbed my tired eyes, unsure if I’d imagined it or not. Of course I did. I turned from the window, unwilling to fall victim to my mind’s pranks.
    Again.
    I was becoming delusional. It was no different than the figure in the boat, or the images I saw the night at the SAM. Maybe I was the deranged lady that needed to be locked away.
    The thump of feet on the stairs brought me back to reality. I shook off my misguided sight and returned to the canvas, trying to brush in some final details.
    “Okay, Cee,” Grace said as the door flung open and she and Avery stepped in. “Let’s see it.”
    I squinted, brushing wisps of highlights to the dark hair on the canvas. “Hello to you, too.”
    “Hello is a formality we’ve moved way beyond,” she chirped and gave the door a back-kick closed. “Although, with your recent MIA status, maybe formal greetings are back in order.”
    I knew it was true. I’d been in full avoidance mode, embarrassment of possibly fainting keeping me