Page 15

The woman I painted earlier this week loved her portrait so much that she took a picture and showed a few neighbors, who passed it around. Since then, my phone has barely stopped ringing. I went from worrying I wouldn’t find enough transformed residents willing to sit for me to having more volunteers than I’d ever expected. I already have several portraits lined up for next week, and every time I go into town, someone else asks when I can fit them in.

Everyone except the one person I want to paint the most, of course. Otis still refuses to let me paint him. I’ve tried asking a few more times, but he hasn’t budged. I’m beginning to think I should leave the subject alone.

I glance toward the kitchen when I hear a cabinet close. A second later, Otis walks into the living room with a mug of coffee in his hand.

“Looks good, Romy,” he says before walking toward the back door.

I watch him go before forcing my attention back to the portrait.

A week ago, I was counting down the days until Otis moved out, but now, I’m glad he’s still living here. He pointed out that finding a place with a big shed to work on his motorcycle isn’t exactly easy on short notice. I stopped arguing because his reasoning made sense. Not because I’d miss having this horned man around.

Gordy clears his throat, and I realize I’ve been staring into the distance with my paintbrush held in the air for way too long.

He grins. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, yes, sorry. I got distracted for a minute,” I say with a smile.

“Didn’t you give Otis two weeks to move out? I can see why now. He’s detrimental to your concentration.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s nothing like that. He’s having a hard time finding a place with a workshop in the backyard. Besides, we’re getting along better now. There’s no reason to throw him out on the street.”

“Sure.”

I let out a high-pitched laugh. “What do you mean? I’m telling you the truth.”

He shrugs. “Only partly. When Otis walked past just now, I practically saw hearts popping out of your eyes. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Before he decided to become a tortured recluse—you know, after the whole Frankenpunch incident—Otis had to swat the ladies away.”

For some inexplicable reason, that makes me jealous. Which is ridiculous. Why should I care about Otis’s popularity years ago? I didn’t even know him back then.

“So why is he still single?” I ask casually.

Gordy shakes his head, setting the snakes writhing. “The girl he lived with couldn’t cope with him suddenly becoming a monster. She kicked him out, then moved away only a couple of months later. She wasn’t a nice girl, clearly, but she did break Otis’s heart.” He holds his hands in the air. “Gods, listen to me. I shouldn’t be gossiping like this. Please forget I said anything.”

I nod. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell anyone. And I definitely won’t tell Otis you called him a tortured recluse.”

He laughs. “Thank you. I’d like to leave here in one piece.”

I push any thoughts and fantasies about Otis to the back of my mind and focus on the painting. About an hour later, I have the main strokes of Gordy’s portrait on my canvas.

“This looks better than I expected,” he says when he looks at the result.

“Is that a compliment?” I ask with a laugh.

“In my defense, I didn’t know anything about you when you asked to paint my portrait. But now I can see how talented you are.”

Gordy snaps a picture to show to Alice, and I promise him they’ll be invited to the exhibition once I finish all the Screaming Woods portraits.

After Gordy leaves, I rinse my paintbrushes and make sure the caps are back on all the paint tubes. Outside, the only sounds are the rustle of fall leaves and the clatter of Otis working in the shed.

I don’t know anything about motorcycles, but it seems odd that he needs to work on his every day.

Or maybe he’s in there so often because he’s avoiding me?

Before I can overthink it any further, the tinkering stops, and Otis steps into the cottage. I look up from my brushes and pretend to be surprised to see him.

“You hungry?” he asks.

I nod. “Yeah, I could eat.”