Vanilla

Chapter Eighteen

            My drawings were the equivalent of my diary; that was the problem. This was where Gram and I differed: while she liked to display her work on every wall, in plain sight of anybody who was interested, I never hung up anything my pencil had touched. My reasoning was this: if you wouldn’t paste the pages of your diary on the wall, why do the same with pictures? I’d feel too exposed if I did, like my darkest secrets had been scrawled on the walls for public viewing. There were some things that were just meant to be kept to yourself.

            Gram’s array of artwork, on the other hand, was the backbone of her cottage. You could never predict where one was going to pop up next – since I’d moved in, recent additions had included a small, abstract watercolour to the left of my bedroom door, one that resembled a pile of leaves propped up on the telly, and a chalk sketch of a mug of hot tea in the downstairs loo. They were her pride and joy, and the place would be nothing more than an empty shell without them dotted around the place.

            “I just…” My voice trailed off. It was much easier to justify it in my head; out loud, the words didn’t come so freely. “It’s embarrassing,” was what I settled for eventually, though even to my own ears it sounded weak.

            Still, Gram hadn’t pursued the matter, instead focusing all her attention on her own collection, which was developing at an extreme rate. With a week until the opening exhibition at the gallery, it was all systems go, and she was working full-time on the finishing touches. The thing was, I didn’t have a clue what any of them looked like. Every time I approached, she’d usher me away, claiming she wanted it to be a surprise on the opening night.

            It was looking like a big deal; she’d even invited Nora, Lenny and Summer to drive down to Walden. They, along with what seemed like the rest of the entire town, were all set to be packed into the gallery that night.

            But I was proud of her. I could see how pleased she was in herself; the sparkle that appeared in her eye when she was painting something particularly good was second to none.

            “So,” I said, raising my voice enough to be heard over the continuous techno din, “do I at least get to see this one? Surely just one painting won’t spoil the exhibit?”

            She paused, her brush poised in midair, considering my proposition. “Well,” she said eventually, pushing her glasses further up her nose. “I suppose one look won’t hurt. This one’s almost finished, anyway.”

            Spurred on by a boost of energy unusual for such an early hour, I bounded towards Gram’s easel, eager to see what she’d been pouring concentrated hard work into for days straight. My gaze fell upon the canvas, and as the sight of the picture met my eyes, I wasn’t disappointed.

            It was a bright oil paint representation of what I recognised easily as the Walden seafront. I wasn’t sure what surprised me more: the fact that for once I could actually tell what Gram had painted, or that I was able to identify the location so quickly. The scene was painted with such intricate detail I wondered how on earth it was possible for each stroke of paint to capture Walden’s image so perfectly. Though I wouldn’t admit it, the first thing I’d noticed was the edge of the scene: the delicately painted cliff, which I knew hid a beautifully secret beach only a handful of people knew about.

            The backdrop of the night I’d never forget.

            “It’s beautiful,” I breathed earnestly.

            “Thanks, honey,” she said, but her eyes hadn’t left the painting. I noticed then that she had a second brush tucked behind her ear; its blue end was coming dangerously close to adding a splash of colour to her grey curls. “I’ve been working on this one for a while, but I think it’s worth it.”