Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Then I set the pencil aside.
Fear took hold.
Fear of the inevitable exposure of my heart through my art.
Fear of the beautiful destruction I would paint as thoughts of a brutal man with an arrogant wink and dark sense of humor took hold of all my emotions, memories, and soul.
I reached for my wineglass and drained it.
After returning from the kitchen with another glass of wine, I set aside the fresh blank canvas and picked up the mid-19th century landscape I had worked on before my life went to hell. The piece I was forging was suspected to be an early Thomas Cole, but was not yet proven. That hadn’t stopped a rather disreputable grandfather from losing it in a card game to an even more disreputable character. So the family had turned to me.
I sighed as I placed the painting on the easel with renewed determination not to show the world my own vulnerabilities. I was a forger. It was safer this way.
After collecting my supplies, I juggled them in one arm as I opened the small bedroom window with the other. The change in air pressure caused the bedroom door to slam shut, but I barely noticed. By giving up so easily on trying to create something of my own, I felt like a failure, almost as if I had painted something and then shoved it out into the cruel, negative world to be chewed up and spit out.
Probably because I had this deep fear that each time I gave up, it made the next time that much easier, until eventually I would stop trying.
If I no longer painted for myself, and only painted the works of the long dead, would I even still be considered an artist? A human? Or would I become no better than the very AI robots our culture was fighting against?
Distracted by my morbid thoughts, I set about recreating the dammar resin varnish. To speed up the process, I crushed the resin crystals before pouring the turpentine over them.
As I worked, my vision blurred slightly as a pounding pressure increased inside my head. When I shook my head to clear it, a wave of vertigo made my stomach flip.
Breathing heavily, I gripped the edge of my worktable as I fought off the sensation of spiraling dizziness.
Turpentine vapors.
In horror, I looked over at the problematic window and realized it had once again shut, this time without my noticing.
As jagged darkness ripped at my vision, I lunged for the closed bedroom door, but didn’t make it.
Crumpling to the floor, I struggled to rise onto my knees as my chest tightened. I strained to pull oxygen into my lungs, but it was like sucking mashed potatoes through a straw.
It wasn’t just the fresh turpentine vapors. My entire studio was filled with dry pigments, casein paints, solvents, and chemicals like ammonium hydroxide, mineral spirits, and formaldehyde.
All used to create my forgeries.
All potentially deadly if their vapors were inhaled in a closed environment for too long.
I crawled toward the door and stretched out my arm.
My hand grasped the doorknob.
Then everything went black.
CHAPTER 32
VAR
As the helicopter prepared to land on the rooftop of the Four Monks, I checked Vivian’s phone, which I had unabashedly cloned several days earlier.
While not the least bit surprised to learn she was not, in fact, waiting for me naked in my bed, I was annoyed to see a message from some guy named Bob saying he met her last night and wanted to take her out for a movie.
A movie? What was this, the nineties?
I would just have to add Bob to the growing list of items that needed to be dealt with regarding Vivian.
Mac gestured between me and my phone. “Looking up church dates?”
I smirked. “Very funny.”
“You’re not serious about marrying this woman, are you?”
With my head turned, I stared through the window at the looming Chicago skyline. I actually hated the city. I preferred to spend my time on the small horse farm I owned in Southern Illinois. It was where I could breathe.
I had never thought about sharing that sanctuary with another woman.
Until Vivian.
Not that I thought she would like it.
It amused me to imagine her horror when I insisted on flat-heeled boots because of the uneven terrain. Or how her cute nose would wrinkle at the smell of earth and manure. In my mind, I liked to picture the fun I would have teaching her to ride a horse, despite her more than likely strong objections.
I also liked to imagine sharing a glass of wine in front of an outdoor fire. Being under the covers with her in my cabin with its massive skylight where we could stare up at the stars before falling asleep. I’d even thought about what room I’d convert into an art studio so she could capture the gorgeous sunsets that burned like fire over the hills in the distant valley.