Page 52 of The Version You Hide

Maybe it’s time for me to have something that’s all my own too.

If I take the next bus into Seabright Cove, I could be there not long after opening. I mull it over in my mind for the next few moments, weighing up the pros and cons.

What if I go and hate it? But then what the hell am I going to do around here all day? If I stay here a second longer, I might end up googling Dylan’s name a hundred more times, and after that there’s always Facebook and Instagram profiles to stalk.

Screw that. Suddenly the decision isn’t such a hard one to make after all. I’m going.

I take a quick shower, then pull on a pair of shorts and a black t-shirt. Then I toss my art book and a random handful of pencils into my backpack, dumping it on the kitchen table while I turn on the coffee machine.

The house is otherwise quiet with Kristen and Henley having already left for work. Once my coffee has dispensed into my keep cup, I grab my backpack and head out the door in the direction of the bus stop.

According to the trip planner app, it will take forty-five minutes to reach Seabright Cove by bus. I spend the journey lost in my sketch book, adding details to the drawing of the tree across the creek out the back of our house. I feel like I’ve been working on this one forever, but I’m a perfectionist when it comes to my art, and I really want to get this one right.

As the bus approaches my destination, I pack up and race down the aisle, thanking the driver as I skip down the stairs.

Once out on the street, I scan the area. The bus has stopped right near a marina, not unlike the one in Cliff Haven. It’s not until the bus pulls away from the curb that I see it.

Situated directly across the road from the bus stop is The Abstract Palette. A quaint and charming little shopfront on a street lined with planter pots overflowing with colourful petals. The art studio is on the ground floor, forming only a small part of a large Victorian style three-storey building. It has an old school vibe that, for a moment, has me feeling as though I’ve been transported somewhere else in time.

Crossing the street with my bag slung over my shoulder, a woman becomes visible in the window as I approach. She stands bent over a table, engaged in casual conversation with a group of elderly women. She straightens, laughing, before turning her attention to the street outside. Her smile falters ever so slightly when she catches a glimpse of me. Only for a moment though. Then her hand comes up to wave at me as I push through the door. A bell chimes above my head, signalling my entry.

“Hi,” she says as she steps forward to greet me. “You made it.”

“Yeah,” I say, eyeing the various paintings that hang from the walls. There are large shelves lining the far wall, scattered with several sculptures and pottery pieces. “I thought I’d take you up on your offer after all.”

“I’m so glad,” she replies, wiping her hands on her apron, her blue eyes beginning to glisten with moisture. “I’m Grace, by the way.”

She extends her hand and I accept, grasping it gently in a weak handshake. “Mackenzie.”

“Mackenzie,” she echoes, her hand still clutching mine. “It’s a pleasure to have you here.”

I gently slide my hand from hers, stepping further into the room. “These are so beautiful.” I point at a group of charcoal drawings hanging along the nearest wall. “Are they yours?”

“A few of them, but most are from students that have attended my workshops over the years. Come.” She ushers me over to a table where the group of older women sit, bent over canvases speckled with brightly coloured splotches of paint. “I run a small senior’s class on Sundays. We call it Canvas Connoisseurs.”

The women look up from their work when I approach the table. “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Nonsense,” says an older lady with short, bright white hair. “Pull up a seat, girly!”

“Uh, thanks,” I say awkwardly, pulling out a chair.

“This is Betty,” Grace informs me. “And this is May, Ava and Liz. Ladies, this is Mackenzie.”

They all regard me, nodding their hellos, except for Liz who stares at her canvas intently, clearly lost in the zone.

“What brings you here today, Mackenzie?” May asks me.

“Uh, well, I met Grace on the beach, and she took an interest in my drawing,” I explain, retrieving my art book from my backpack.

“Well then. Let’s see it!” Betty says excitedly, rubbing her hands together.

“Uh, okay,” I say with a soft laugh. I’m taken aback by her enthusiasm. I flick through the pages until I find the sketch of the beach with the sun on its horizon.

“That’s pretty good,” May says to my right. She helps herself to my book, pulling it from Betty’s grip and thumbing through its pages. She makes soft sounds of agreement. Or maybe it’s disagreement. I can’t tell. “Hmm. You’re talented, that’s for sure. But there’s something missing from these drawings.”

“There is?” I ask.

My left eyebrow quirks involuntarily as I spare a glance over at Grace. I hadn’t realised that coming to this art studio would result in my work being critiqued by a bunch of old biddies.

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