The Stroke of Winter(39)

Storm romped through the snowbanks and into the yard, jumping like a deer. His joy brought a smile to Tess’s face. After all that growling, he was clearly happy to get outside.

It wasn’t yet four o’clock, but the sky was already slipping into twilight. Tess noticed the snow had taken on the bluish hue she loved at this time of day. She trudged through the snow, looking for tracks, trying to discern if anyone had been peering through the windows of La Belle Vie. Nothing. Not a snowflake out of place. She saw only the tiny tracks of animals that flitted here and there, but no human footprints. She was stomping the snow off her boots on the porch when she heard Wyatt calling her name.

“Tess!” he called out again. “You had better get up here.”

Her stomach dropped. What had he found?

She called for Storm as she hurried inside the house. After shutting the door behind them—and locking it—she kicked off her boots and rushed up the stairs. She found Wyatt in the studio.

He was pointing at the wall.

She turned to look in the direction he was pointing and gasped aloud. A long red brushstroke. A slash. Just like the one in the painting.

“That wasn’t there before,” she said, walking up to it to touch it. She had expected it to be fresh and wet, but it wasn’t. The streak was dry as a bone.

She turned to Wyatt and shook her head. “I don’t understand this,” she said. “Shouldn’t it be wet?”

She looked around. The twilight was shining in through the wall of windows, its pinky-purply glow casting an almost magical aura on the room. Dust floated in the air. Everything was as she had left it earlier when Wyatt had interrupted her cleaning. The broom stood leaning against one wall, its dustpan sitting neatly beside it. The brown bag of recycling—bottles and glasses—sat on the table next to her dust rags.

A feeling of utter serenity came over Tess then, draped around her like a hug. Her heart swelled as she gazed at the long table where the paints had been. She imagined dabbing the brushes into the paints and caressing the canvas with brushstrokes. This was where it all happened, the genius, the artistry, the—

“Tess!”

She jolted awake and blinked her eyes. Wyatt was holding her by the arms.

“Where were you just then?” Wyatt asked, a mask of concern on his face. “You were completely zoned out.”

“I . . .” Tess looked around. “I don’t know. That was weird. I don’t know what it was. I just started feeling so happy to be in this room.”

Wyatt was silent for a moment. “Let’s go downstairs,” he said, finally. He led Tess out of the studio and pulled the door shut behind them.

“Help me push this trunk back into position,” he said. They arranged their makeshift alarm system on top of it.

They made their way down the back stairs to the kitchen, where Tess sank into one of the armchairs by the fire. She let out a great sigh.

“How about a glass of wine?” Wyatt asked her.

“Perfect,” she said, snuggling a little deeper into the chair and putting her feet on the small ottoman.

Wyatt retrieved two glasses from the cabinet. Then he opened the fridge and pulled out the wine and a bottle of beer. He filled both of their glasses, handed one to Tess, and settled into the armchair on the other side of the fireplace.

“I hope that wasn’t too forward, but you did say earlier to make myself at home, so . . .” He grinned.

“No, that was great,” Tess said. “Thank you.” Suddenly she felt bone tired. But she managed a toast after raising her glass. “Here’s to ancient vanishing villages and reappearing ghoulish paintings.”

Wyatt gave a small smile. “Just another day in Wharton.”

They sat in silence for a moment, sipping on their drinks, Storm curled up at their feet. Then Wyatt turned and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees.

“I’m not crazy about everything that happened here today,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “It was really bizarre. I mean, there I was at lunch questioning your story about John Wharton and whether or not that village really vanished, and we get back here to find . . . whatever this was.”

“Did you notice any evidence of a break-in?” Wyatt asked. “I’m assuming you didn’t, or you’d have said something before now.”

Tess shook her head. “Nope. I even looked outside for tracks in the snow.”

“Nobody hiding in the closets upstairs, either.”

Tess sighed. “I guess we might as well admit that this is . . . weird. I asked my dad this morning if this house was haunted. He laughed. I chuckled along with him. But now I’m not so sure it’s funny.”

“I also didn’t love the way you zoned out in the studio,” he said. “Do you remember that? I said your name a couple of times, but it was like you didn’t even hear me until I took hold of your arms.”

The thought of it was rather hazy, as if it had happened in a dream. Tess shook her head. “Not really,” she said. “I can’t explain it. I just sort of . . .” She sighed. “I don’t know. I felt happy.”

Wyatt furrowed his brow. “Happy?”

“I know,” Tess said. “A completely out-of-place feeling. Considering the circumstances.”

“There might be a very plausible, real-world explanation for it all, but whether it was a ghost or a person, there’s one thing for sure,” Wyatt said.