The White Stripes were playing low on the radio, one of Martha’s favourites. She did love the deep bass. Cillian went to touch the radio but she slapped his hand away.
‘Leave it,’ she said stubbornly. ‘I like this one.’
The three of them stayed sitting in silence, April stuck in the middle of the van with Orla’s car seat by her feet, the back filled with some of the pieces April had picked out of the stacks of finished creations. The ones Martha had let her see, anyway. She had another stack, and she wasn’t going to part with them just yet. Heading to the gallery, they parked up nearby, Cillian jogging off to get a parking ticket. April, seemingly intent on keeping her talking, was rattling on about art and rates to her as they got out of the van in as dignified a way as you can manage when reversing your pleated skirt down a deep step. Cillian was there by her side before her feet even touched the ground, and although Martha did her usual thing of batting him away and telling him she didn’t need any help, she was grateful just the same.
‘I’ll follow you in,’ he said, opening the van doors and busying himself with carefully unpacking her creations from the van. She was terrified now, seeing those fabric-wrapped packages and knowing that someone was going to be looking at them soon. Wake up, Martha, this is the job! You make art, you sell it. Move your feet, woman. He’s not here. He’s not here. Don’t be disappointed, just make something good come of it.
April was standing by her side on the pavement, and Martha linked her arm through hers.
‘Come on,’ April said, her face set to determined. ‘Let’s go meet the new owner.’ Martha tensed, and she knew April had noticed by the way she slipped her fingers through hers, holding her hand for dear life. They walked down the street, past the other shops and people doing their early morning routines, looking through the shop windows at all the trinkets and treasures they could buy and take home as souvenirs. They walked right up to the main display window, and Martha gasped.
In the window, was a large painting of Lizard Point. The lighthouse was in the background, and the tops of the chalet huts could be seen peeking through. What the painting focused on though, was the beach. The path to the beach from the chalet park was drawn and painted so perfectly, Martha felt as though she could step into the painting and run through the sand. She knew it as well as she knew her own heart.
‘It’s … breathtaking.’ April, still holding her hand, was gripping it a little tighter now. She didn’t take her eyes from the canvas, her gaze roving over every detail, exclaiming here and there as she found another little painted treasure within the frame.
‘Thank you,’ Martha said with a smile. ‘It’s mine.’ Her face fell into a frown. ‘They said they’d sold them.’
All fear replaced by curiosity now, she stepped forward and the two women entered the gallery together. Luke, writing something into a large ledger, looked up at them and smiled.
‘Hello, and welcome to the gallery. Oh hi, welcome back!’
‘Hello,’ April said, gently releasing her friend’s arm and walking over to the desk. The two of them started chatting and Martha didn’t hear what they were talking about. At that moment, she doubted that she would have been able to pick April out of a line-up. All she could see was her work. All of the paintings that she had had in the gallery were here, all for sale and proudly displayed. Her portraits of some of the past guests, sitting and eating and chatting outside their chalets, her drawings of the birds that nested nearby, or the swell of the sea on the beach. Every art of Lizard Point was here, and it gave her an odd feeling.
‘Martha? You okay?’ April was looking at her and she spoke calmly, but one look at her and Martha could tell she was nervous about something. She thought back to the timing, the gallery being closed up, and the park being bought.
‘Did you buy them?’ she asked, not wanting the answer to be yes. It would be too cruel if it had been her all along.
‘Yes.’ Luke, thinking she was talking to him, stepped forward. ‘Well, rather my family did. My father used to holiday round here, once upon a time. We just moved back here.’ He was grinning now, looking around the place. ‘I was an art major, and Dad’s always loved art. When we saw this place for sale, we figured it was perfect.’
April was looking at Martha oddly, but she didn’t want to seem rude to the young man. She’d come to lay old ghosts to rest, and that wasn’t his cross to bear.
‘It is a lovely space,’ Martha agreed. ‘I’ve always loved it. I had come to show you some art, but—’ She moved her hands around the gallery, gesturing at her many pieces on show. ‘I think you might have enough, for now.’
Luke’s mouth dropped. ‘You’re not. Are you?’
Martha chuckled as Cillian walked in with his arms full. April went to help him, and the two seemed as thick as thieves in the corner. Once again, Martha found herself wanting to bang their blinking heads together. Life was too short to be so unsure of things, and she should know. ‘I’m the artist, yes. Martha Rodgers. I see you’ve got some pieces of mine.’ She looked at the man, who was olive-skinned and well dressed, and smiled. ‘Did you buy them from the old owner?’
April stepped forward, and Cillian wasn’t far behind. ‘Martha, this is Luke.’
Martha rolled her eyes.
‘I know dear, I remember you saying.’ She glanced at
