Page 32 of Secrets Hidden In The Glass

Chapter Eight

Callie sat at the small kitchen table she’d dragged out to her tiny temporary backyard, half listening to Adele’s powerful voice playing through her MP3 player. She stared at her blank sketch pad lying open on the natural-colored wood and bobbed her leg up and down, attempting to banish her restless energy. Her heart pounded while the steady breeze blew through the trees, casting lights and shadows on her empty page. Her gaze tracked over the wads of paper scattered by her bare feet and she huffed out a hopeless breath. Hours. She’d been trying to create since ten thirty this morning, but nothing was coming.

She’d given herself nearly two weeks to rest and relax. That should have been enough. For years, she’d woken each day eager to create—craving to. There had never been a need for time off—just a relentless desire to bring her visions to life. That was supposed to have happened again. Vacation was supposed to have cured her brain block. When she sat down after her five-mile jog and long shower this morning, she’d assured herself that today was the day. More than once she’d been sure inspiration had struck, but what she saw in her head wasn’t translating well onto paper.

“You can do this,” she muttered. “Just like you have a million times before.” Setting the tip of the pencil on the sheet, she closed her eyes, imagining the trees surrounding her and the bold blue sky on the sunny, cloudless Sunday afternoon. Nature was here all around. Beauty was anywhere she chose to look. Just beyond the forest were the bluffs and ocean roaring and tossing its waves for her to hear. Immediately, Point West Lighthouse popped into her head and she began to sketch frantically, trying to capture the depth and details—the grandness of one of Carter Island’s historical watch towers. Typically, she used colors and shapes to express herself, but not today.

Her mind drifted back to her ride from the mainland and Captain Bob’s explanation about ships using the beacon of light to find their way home. She smiled and relaxed her shoulders, watching her work come to life. Finally, her creative block was over. This was something she knew how to do—an instinct, like breathing. She imagined William staring up at the strong beam from the bow of his ship, knowing that Mary waited for him on the island. Each black and white stripe was hope—

Her cell phone started ringing, startling her out of her trance-like state. Shaking her head, Callie put the graphite tip back where she’d left off, determined to ignore her ringtone and whom she knew would be waiting to talk to her on the other end. Right now, she had a lighthouse to finish. But with each new stroke, she became less sure as her focus shifted to Marion’s relentless assistant.

When Callie had looked at her phone earlier in the day, she’d realized Gemma Alldridge had crowded her mailbox with texts and filled her voice mail with dozens of messages. Why wasn’t she returning calls? The Paris gallery wanted an official commitment for the April 2018 exhibition. Canada’s prime minster had personally reached out to commission an original piece for his wife’s birthday. The biggest art collector in Japan had been asking Marion for details and dates for the next show. Marion wanted an update on any new pieces Callie had created over the last couple of weeks and needed a solid time frame for the next exhibition so she could pass it along to Mr. Iwasaki when he inquired next. And that was exactly why Callie had buried her phone in her purse and hadn’t bothered to take it out again since her initial calls to her parents and Marion last Tuesday.

“It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled, lying to herself as she added another line to the widow’s walk, filling in details, then went to work on the lantern panes, but each new stroke looked wrong—felt wrong—as the pressure to get it right and prove to herself that she hadn’t lost her gift made it harder to breathe. Yanking up the eraser, she made several lines disappear, tried again, brought the eraser back for a second sweep, then let her face fall into her hands and burst into tears when she could no longer see how her stained glass would capture the depth she needed to create.

“Whoa. Hey.”

Callie whipped her head up and turned away as Nate closed the distance between them.

“Hey.” Nate knelt down in front of her, his eyes full of concern. “What’s going on?”

She shrugged, trying to pull herself together with several deep breaths, and started crying harder.

“Aw, Callie.” He stood on his knees and wrapped his arms around her.

She hesitated, then returned his embrace, resting her cheek on his shoulder, holding on to the easy comfort he offered.

“How about a couple more of those deep breaths,” he said as he slid his hand up and down her back.

She gripped his shirt, staring into the trees, and took three, smelling the aftershave on his skin with each inhale.

“A little better?”

She nodded, still fighting to compose herself.

He eased back, taking her hands in his, and rubbed his thumbs along her knuckles. “Wanna talk about it?”

She shook her head but said, “I just—I can’t do this anymore.”

“What can’t you do?”

“My job.”

“All right.”

“No,” she said hopelessly. “It’s definitely not all right.” Sniffling, she used her sleeve to wipe her damp cheeks. “And Marion’s on my ass—or Gemma is, anyway.”

“Well, let’s kick her off.”

Nate was trying to cheer her up. She wanted to smile, but she couldn’t.

He sent her a look that radiated sympathy. “Who’s Gemma?”

“My agent’s assistant. She never lets up.” Her lip wobbled again. “I used to be able to handle it. I used to be able to handle all kinds of things, but right now I can’t.”

He nodded. “Okay.”

“I don’t understand why this is happening.” More tears rolled down her cheeks as her voice broke. “It’s like I woke up one morning and forgot how to be an artist.”