The Stroke of Winter(18)

Her footsteps echoed, and she rubbed her arms against the chill.

She flipped a light switch. Nothing. “Can we get any more light in here?” she asked nobody in particular. “I’m assuming the electricity has been turned off, but what about the windows? Can we get those shutters off?” The day was bright and blue, and the sun would light up this room instantly. She desperately wanted to see the secrets this room held.

Grant gave her a quick nod. “We can remove these pretty easily,” he said, tapping on one of the shutters. “They’re just attached by a hook at the top of the sash.” He grabbed the step stool he had brought with him and moved it under one of the windows, climbed up on it, and began to pry one of the hooks open. He tugged at the shutter for a moment until he was able to lift it off. Wyatt took it from him and set it onto the floor. They did the same with a few of the other windows, and soon the sunlight was streaming in.

What Tess had seen as dark, inky shapes came into view as the sun lit up the room. A long wooden table, well worn and covered in paint splatters, tubes, and small tubs, along with a few cloths. Brushes were strewn here and there. An easel lay on the floor by a window—was it broken? A sagging sofa and an armchair sat against one wall. Chairs were overturned. A coffee table lay on its side.

On the floor, more tubes and paint cans, some having spilled onto the hardwood and dried long ago. Shards of glass glinted in the sun.

Empty bottles of wine lay here and there, and one dusty bottle still stood, uncorked, on the table, next to a wineglass.

All at once, it hit her. Of course—this was the studio of Sebastian Bell. This was where her grandfather had painted his priceless works of art.

She could just imagine him, sitting at the easel, brush in hand, putting the final strokes on the paintings that hung in galleries all over the world. This was where the magic, the artistry that had captivated so many, had happened. This very spot.

It amazed Tess that, during all her growing-up years, all the lazy summer days and cool nights she had spent in this house, she had never thought twice about her grandfather’s studio being here. Her grandmother had never mentioned it. Tess had always just assumed he had a studio in town. In the gallery, perhaps, or in one of the old buildings by the waterfront. He had always been inspired by the water, so it made sense to her he would have had an artist’s studio or loft there.

Why wouldn’t she have known about the studio being right here, under this roof? But, as Tess thought more about it, as she looked around this room, she realized it wasn’t all that surprising. She didn’t know much about Sebastian Bell at all. Not where his studio was. Not the kind of person he was. Even though she was his only grandchild, she didn’t have a peek behind the curtain. She had no idea what he had been like as a man, a husband, a father. Certainly not as a grandfather—he had died long before she was born. She saw what the public saw, an artist with an incredible talent. A man who was inspired by the greatest of great lakes. A man who saw beauty in the lake’s fury, and suspicion in the lake’s calmness. That was what his paintings conveyed, anyway.

Grandma Serena and Tess’s dad didn’t often talk about Sebastian Bell, but when they did, it was in the way one might talk about a famous person in history, in the context of him being a great artist whom the world admired. And more than that, a great man. A beloved son of Wharton. A patron of the arts. He was known to frequent art classes at the Wharton schools, showing up with a flourish, giving pointers to aspiring young painters.

There was a tangible cloak of pride wrapped around her family because of him, a feeling of reverence, admiration. Yes, he was a member of the family, but so out of reach, so untouchable, that the idea of him painting here, in the studio in this house that Tess had grown up in, seemed like discovering a buried treasure.

But, as Tess turned it over and over in her mind, she realized the whole thing was more of a disconnect. It was too personal to think of the great man here. This was the house where she had played with her dolls, written in her diary, lain on her bed fretting about boys she had met during her summer vacations. To think of him putting his greatest inspirations down on canvas just steps away from her bedroom? It didn’t quite seem real. It was like discovering Picasso had spent time painting in your basement.

“. . . so that’s how I know you haven’t had an animal.” Hunter had been yammering this whole time.

How long had she been standing there? A few seconds? Minutes? A lifetime? Tess wasn’t sure, but his words drew her out of her entrancement. She blinked her eyes a few times and shook her head.

“You’re telling me there’s no way an animal could’ve gotten in or out?” she said, finally.

“No,” he said, drawing out the word. “I’m not saying definitively a mouse couldn’t have found its way in here. All old houses have mice. That’s just something we all live with. I’d need to look more carefully in the light, but right now, I’m not seeing any holes or cracks or any way anything bigger than that could’ve gotten in.”

He walked over to the fireplace, bent down, and shone his flashlight up into the chimney. “The flue is closed,” he said. “Even if a squirrel or another animal managed to get in, it’s not like they’re closing it up behind them. To my eyes, this flue is the only way into this room, and it’s shut up tight.”

“Are you sure?” Tess asked him. “All of these nooks and crannies? Nothing could’ve gotten in or out? I’ve been hearing something behind this door. Did Wyatt tell you about that? Scratching. At night. There was definitely something in here.”