Page 131 of The Holiday Fakers
“You can talk, to begin with,” I continue. “Just try to stay still.”
At the back of my closet is my old field hockey stick. I pass it to him. “Hold that in your left hand like it’s a sword. And …”
I pull a tub of moisturizer from my wash bag. “Hold this in your other hand like it’s the orb of Veyruyne.”
“How did you draw all the other pictures when you didn’t have a model?”
“I had to use my imagination, so it took much longer. This will be a breeze by comparison.”
I can’t hide my excitement as I settle on the corner of the bed and rip the plastic wrap off a large pad of cardstock.
“Why did you choose that one?”
“It’s got a very fine grain, and even though I’m going to be drawing partly in charcoal, which is a bit messy, I want the edges of the lines to be relatively clean. You’ll see what I mean when I’m done.”
“So. I’m in the right pose now?”
“Yep, perfect. I’m going to sketch very lightly first.”
I select a soft pencil, my gaze flicking between Brody and the pad. Having him here, actually in front of me, is a gift: the difference between climbing a mountain in flip-flops and whizzing up in a cable car.
My hand moves quickly over the paper, outlining the pose.
“How did it go with Ethan?” I ask, picking up a charcoal pencil.
Brody lets out a long breath. “I didn’t realize quite how bad he was.”
“I’m so sorry. We’re used to it. I should have warned you.”
“I nearly had a heart attack when he opened the front door.”
I pull a face. “That photo is … I don’t know. Not how we remember Olivia.”
“No. It’s so severe. Like she’s watching and judging.”
My hand slows. “We call the house the ‘shrine.’”
“Martha told me she overheard Eleanor and Garrett calling it that too.”
“Fuck.” I meet his gaze. “They want Ethan to stop punishing himself more than anyone. It wasn’t his fault Olivia died.”
“I can’t see him changing his mind about that. He’s so … so black and white about it all.”
“It’ll take a miracle to get him out of it.”
“Or a miracle woman?”
I smile. “Hideaway Harbor’s the home of miracles and true love, so let’s cross our fingers.”
“We could go to the spring and make a wish on his behalf?”
“I’d like that.”
My hand returns to drawing, adding detail. I’ve never created a picture this fast, but having Brody model for me makes it easy. I sketch a faded background of Khalduïn Hall’s throne room behind him, keeping the contrast low so it doesn’t compete with the central figure.
I leave his face until last so we can talk. It’s so easy, chatting with him, like two parts of a puzzle that always fit together, no matter what.
“I’m going to draw the details of your face now,” I say. “So, if you could keep still, that would be great.”
