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Chapter Nine

EDEN

I love the smell of paint. To me, it means freedom.

Creating art is how I channel my excitement, passion, desire. It makes me dream big. With a brush in my hand, I can lose myself in a better world. But I don’t need an escape anymore—I need an outlet for the creative inspiration burning through my veins.

And it’s all because of Murph. I woke up to the vivid memory of his strong hands wrapped around my ribcage, his kisses stealing my breath away—and his soulful eyes always quietly watching.

Even the fastest cold shower ever didn’t shake my need to make art, make love, and make my life what it’s meant to be.

I squeeze the tiniest dot of red onto the white paint, stirring them together. Then, I start to layer clouds into the sky above the vision of Sunrise Island taking form on my canvas—transformed into pale shades that shine with tentative hope.

“Shadows,” I mutter to myself, fumbling for a finer brush to keep layering the colours on top of one another.

This is my first time creating whatever I want, whenever I want. And I don’t have to pay for it with my freedom. George loved telling strangers at cocktail parties that his dad gave me a studio, and how much his family “supports the arts”. But it was always about his image, because he sure as hell didn’t support me.

The only reason he asked his dad about it was because he hated seeing my canvases and paint-splattered rags sullying the otherwise unused guest bedroom.

I take up space when I’m creating. Far from the neat, quiet, invisible trophy husband George wanted to turn me into—getting home by five o’clock every day to make him dinner, whether or not he showed up to eat it.

What an asshole. I hope the microwave meal cling film melts into his dinner every single day.

“Shit. Hold on,” I breathe out. I step back, and… my heart is sinking like a ten-tonne stone. Instead of the contrast I’d hoped would set the island apart, the skies are moody, even ominous. They dominate over the canvas, like a warning.

It’s just like George, isn’t it? If I don’t leave him behind, he’ll creep back into everything good. The tiniest bit of him absentmindedly spread across enough canvas will change the whole picture.

I swallow hard, shaking my head as I set down my brush and palette, grabbing a rag to wipe my hands.

Tap, tap, tap.

“Yoohoo!”

“Jesus!” I squeak as I whirl toward the window. Suddenly, I’m making eye contact with a stranger—an older lady with lavender hair—and she’s waving hello.

“Oh, lord,” I clutch my chest as I hurry to the front doors. “I’m going to need curtains.” The doors are stiff, but I throw my shoulder into them and they eventually budge. “Hello?”

“Hi!” My visitor grins as I poke my head out and clamber onto the front deck. She grabs hold of the edge of the boat to keep her kayak close. “Sorry, is this a good time?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” I sheepishly glance down at my paint-splattered jeans and T-shirt. After a couple of years in a penthouse, it’s taking me a minute to adjust to the idea that every passing kayaker can see me as much as I can see them. “Probably.”

“I see you’re busy. I won’t keep you,” she beams at me. “I just wanted to welcome you to the neighbourhood with pie. I’m Marianne, by the way.”

“I… Eden. Eden’s my name.” Where on Earth—or on a kayak, I suppose—would she stash a pie? I must have misheard. “Sorry, did you say?—”

She’s opening a little compartment in the kayak, pulling out a tinfoil-wrapped parcel, and offering it to me. “I sure did, honey. I hope you like pie.” She winks at me, like she knows I do.

There’s no mistaking the smell of fresh crust and berries. My stomach rumbles before I can even answer her, and we both laugh.

“Oh my god. Wow. Thank you. I—that’s so nice of you!” I hastily kneel to grab the pie from her, cradling it in my lap. “Hold on… have we met?” Marianne grins, and then I realize. “You were at the coffee shop. So you’re on the social committee?”

“Guilty as charged. You’re an artist, right?” When I nod, she nods briskly. “Perfect. So, you should know there’s a secret agenda behind this pie.”

I grin. “Uh oh. Murph warned me about that.”

“We’re hoping to start a collective art gallery. The project is just getting started, and I didn’t want anyone to be left out. If you’re interested, I’d love to put you in touch with someone to talk about it.”

Whoa. I didn’t expect this to be a business visit. “I—um, yeah. Yeah, that sounds amazing. Thank you. Uh, I’d welcome you in, but…” I glance back at my clutter-filled living room, then her kayak. I don’t even know how one gets into a kayak, much less out. “This might not be the right time.”

Marianne shrugs. “No rush. Everything runs on island time. I’ll take your number and set you up. He’s a nice young fellow, and a real marketing whiz. You have a lot in common.”

I narrow my eyes slightly. “When you say set me up …?” I repeat carefully, letting my voice rise to imply the question.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she laughs. “He’s taken. But there’s some fine young gentleman living here, too. The new young fellow at the fire station…” she pretends to fan herself.

“Uh, that’s okay, thanks,” I tell her, blushing furiously at her wicked grin. “I’m still just finding my feet.” Knowing the speed that gossip travels around here, I’m not admitting that I have my sights set on one guy in particular.

She leans back and eyes my boat. “And you’re new on the water, hm? I didn’t think anyone would ever buy the Dawn’s Embrace. She’s a whole lemon pie.”

“In fairness, I was drunk when I bought her.” Marianne bursts out laughing as I grin at her. “If I can get my stuff into a new gallery before the winter… I’m highly motivated by hot showers.”

“We’ll make it happen,” she says with another wink, and a slightly terrifying amount of determination. “What’s your number?” As I recite it, she manages to tap it into her phone while keeping the kayak perfectly balanced. Then she picks up the paddle again. “Stop by if you need anything. I’m in the blue house with the yellow door, by the orchard.”

“Thank you. And thanks again for lunch—uh, I mean, the pie.” I clutch it to me like precious cargo as I stand up. “No, I definitely mean lunch.”

She laughs. “You’re welcome. See you around, Eden.”

I’m still a little dazed, watching her paddle off more gracefully than I can even walk. “See you around!”

Next time, I hope it’s not through my window.

As I step back into the boat and shove the door closed, I grimace. Somehow, that painting looks even more ominous than it did before—like it’s dominating the living room. It could be because I’m so in the flow with it, and I’m just noticing it more. Or it could be because the energy of it is all wrong.

But I know what to do now. I set the pie on the counter, and then I stride right up to the easel to swap out the canvas for a blank one.

Not every painting turns into a beautiful work of art, but that’s okay. I get to be the artist who tells my own story—literally, starting over with a blank canvas. One day, George will realize what he missed out on... and I’ll be too busy shining too bright to think about him.

I’m not going to let that shadow chase me over the horizon. Not ever again.