I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(67)

I shot him a smile. Sinking down in my seat a little, I watched Bellmead’s light disappear as we curved down the mountain. And I really, really wanted to paint.





Chapter Twenty-Six


Liam was hesitant to leave me at my house, but I assured him things were fine. It was nearly midnight, and he was anxious to check on Spike. He drove away, and I stood on the front porch, watching his taillights disappear down the street.

Why did I feel so down? I let myself into the quiet house and up the stairs, kicking off my shoes near my little sofa and pausing in front of the door—the one that led to my studio. It sat so still and boring at the end of the short hall, taunting me like the door itself knew how badly I itched to open a fresh tube of paint and dip a clean brush into it.

Anxiety drew my breaths in quicker and quicker. What was the big deal? So what if I’d had rejection, if other people hadn’t liked my work? Art was subjective. At least, that’s what my professors preached time and again.

You just aren’t cut out to be an artist.

The words slapped me like a quick, unyielding hand, and I gasped, stunned. I hadn’t let myself think about that night in years.

Most people won’t support themselves on painting alone, and you clearly don’t have the thick skin to withstand public opinion.

Squeezing my eyes closed, I shoved hard against the memories of that blunt, rude professor and her bitter feelings. But then my feet wouldn’t move. I really should go brush my teeth and climb in bed, but I couldn’t. My nerves were shot, and I desperately wanted to look at my paintings.

The horrible paintings that would never make it into a gallery unless I started one myself, according to my professor.

Determination gripped me. It had been a long time since I’d gone in my studio . . . since before the attic renovation began, actually. Right now, with the entire house asleep and no one around to accidentally walk in on me, it was the perfect time. I crossed the room, my anxiety mounting the closer I drew to the studio, and paused, my hand resting on the doorknob.

Drawing in a deep breath, I opened the door and reached inside to flip the light on. Two easels sat propped on the far side of the narrow room, void of paintings. Canvases, both painted and unblemished, were stacked against the wall, facing away from me so I couldn’t see which were clean and which weren’t.

I waited, expecting a wave of stress or grief to wash over me. My body was tired from the long day and ached for sleep, but I stood on the threshold and glanced around the room, unwelcome snippets of my past assailing me.

Mrs. Grisham and her negative opinions. Mr. Kirkham and his unrelenting praise that had set me up for failure. The gallery that had rejected my painting for the student gala—and the continual critiques that were probably meant to thicken my skin but only wore me down. I didn’t want to step back into this negative past. I didn’t want to relive all the hardship. But I had been yearning to paint.

I crossed to the cupboard and sink on the far wall and pulled open the drawers. Everything was as I had left it right before painting my last canvas—the final for my advanced painting class. Unopened tubes of acrylic paint lined the drawer, but by now, they easily could have separated or gotten chunky and become unusable.

Pulling out a paint tray, I chose a deep blue and massaged the tube to mix the color before squeezing its contents onto the tray. It needed a little mixing but seemed fine enough, so I repeated the motion with a burnt orange, mustard yellow, and various other paints. I wasn’t paying attention to the colors, just pulling out random tubes and adding them to my tray. I only had to throw away a few that were too chunky or completely dried up.

The unused canvases were exactly where I’d left them, and I skirted my old, finished paintings, their backs turned to me so I wouldn’t have to look at them, and chose a large, spotless canvas before placing it on the easel closest to the sink. Dragging over my tall stool, I chose a brush from the drawer and sat, dipping the brush in the dark paint and swiping it across the rough canvas.

I had never really done a landscape before that I was completely satisfied with. I’d tried a few times, but realism wasn’t my forte, and I had been okay with that. I didn’t intentionally decide to create the landscape of Bellmead tonight either, but the more I painted, the more it took shape. The dotted lights forming the outskirts of town and the faint rows of shadowed vines in the outer reaches. The moon and stars became something of a blurry light arching over the whole place, and while it was intentionally a landscape, the watercolor effect I created with my acrylics was soothing.

By the time I dipped my brush in the water cup on the counter and sat back, my shoulders ached and my back hurt from hunching over. I was afraid to look at the clock and calculate how many hours I’d spent on the stool, but I really didn’t care.

I’d painted. Maybe it wasn’t amazing, and maybe it was unworthy of gracing a gallery. It was fine with me if this painting never left the safety of my attic, because it was lovely to me. I’d returned from an evening that had been both charming and trying and vented my feelings through paint. They weren’t bottled up inside to squish down and ignore, but they flowed through my brush and onto the canvas. I felt the warmth in my soul that came from creating something.

I’d painted. And now I wanted to paint again.

***

Beth was in my dream, and she was telling me what she planned to wear when she went out with Rhett Myers. I wanted to smack some sense into the woman, but she could be as fierce and stubborn as a lioness protecting her cubs. It was probably better to let her yammer on forever about a man she thought she loved and a dream date that would never happen.