Endless

by Amanda Gray

  So why was there a paintbrush sticking out of a smear of dark paint on her palette?

  She leaned in as something caught her eye in the painting. An image that hadn’t been there the night before. Dark at the corner of the canvas, just at the edge where the snowy field met the trees.

  She looked more closely, her mind rejecting what she saw as the image clarified.

  It was a man. A man dressed in black, standing at the edge of the forest, his hands stuffed into the pockets of an old-fashioned blue coat. A man with green eyes that seemed to reach out to her, trying to find her across all time and space. The face was far away, but she could still make out his features. Still recognized him.

  It was Nikolai, the young man from her dream.

  Jenny took a step back, shaking her head. She hadn’t been the one to paint him. Hadn’t even seen him before her dream. In her vision of this painting, the field had been snow-covered and empty, devoid of any humanity. She had only worked on covering the trees before bed.

  Covering them in white and pale blue.

  She ran through it again in her mind. No. She hadn’t seen the young man’s face until her dream. And the dream was after she’d finished painting for the night. After she’d gone to bed.

  She touched a hand to her head, willing herself to be calm. To find the rational explanation that had to exist. Turning her back on the painting, her eyes were pulled to the five finished canvases leaning up against the wall.

  It wasn’t the paintings themselves that had her attention. They’d been there for weeks.

  It was the shadow in each of them. The same guy, Nikolai, painted into every one of the pictures.

  He was in the old train station at the edge of the track. On the cliff overlooking the sea, his body turned toward a figure in white that Jenny had seen when she’d bumped into Will Steinburg in the hallway at school. The man was even in a painting of a fog-covered street, murky light leaking from the gas lamps that lined the street.

  And that one Jenny had painted at least a year ago.

  She heard his voice in her mind. “Please come … ”

  A powerful rush of longing shot through her as she approached the canvases, touching her hand to the figure in each of them, her fingers coming back stained with dark, wet paint.

  That the man had been added in the previous hours was obvious. But that didn’t begin to answer the questions that swirled through her mind.

  How could she have painted him without knowing? Without remembering?

  And why, when faced with such a strange occurrence, did she feel something too close to relief to be called anything else? Like the answers to long-forgotten questions were drawing closer, the questions themselves on the verge of being asked.

  * * *

  “Hey, you almost ready to go?”

  Jenny hadn’t heard her dad knock. She was still in her pajamas, absorbed in the paintings. In trying to find a logical explanation for the figure’s strange appearance on her canvases.

  Preferably one that didn’t involve her sleepwalking through an hours-long painting session.

  But deep down, she already knew what had happened. The paint on the carpet, on her foot, made it obvious she had done it. Which meant she was either crazy or something really weird and even more unexplainable than usual was going on.

  “Jenny?” Her dad prompted.

  “Huh?” She saw the worry in his eyes and told herself to get it together. It was time to come back from la-la land. She smiled, trying to reassure him. “Oh, right. Do I have fifteen minutes to take a shower?”

  “Sure.” His eyes drifted to the canvas on the easel in front of her before he turned away. “I’ll see you downstairs.”

  She stared at the empty space in the doorway, wondering if he’d ever really looked at her paintings. If he wondered what inspired her or why she spent so many hours in front of the easel. Maybe he tried not to think about it. Maybe it was too painful, a reminder of his wife and everything he’d lost.

  Trying to figure it out was exhausting.

  She gathered her clothes and took one last look at the paintings. Weird that the guy named Nikolai now seemed so right in every one, like he was supposed to be there all along.

  * * *

  They left the house a half hour later, starting across the long road leading toward town. Jenny liked the isolation of their property. She could pick a direction and walk—fields on one side, woods on two others—knowing she wouldn’t be trespassing while she looked for a good spot to paint.

  Her favorite was the old Farnsworth mansion. It had been empty and abandoned through most of her childhood, tied up in some kind of legal battle between family members. Then, about five years before, the For Sale sign had come down. Rumor was that a real estate developer had purchased it to renovate and sell, but no one had ever moved in.

  For a long time, Jenny had thought it was creepy, all empty and abandoned in the middle of the woods. But then she’d become interested in painting. Desperate for new subjects, she’d started sneaking over the property line, working from the trees until she got bold enough to break into the house itself. It wasn’t like anyone was around to care.

  Her dad continued on the main road into Stony Creek, passing through it until they were on the other side of town, heading for the woods and creeks that separated it from Acton, one town over.

  The sun glinted on the windows in the tower of the Celestial Retreat Center, perched on top of one of the town’s four mountains. Jenny had never seen it up close, but from a distance, the massive stone structure resembled an ancient church. It was supposed to be some kind of Buddhist monastery, but other than buying supplies and doing errands in town now and then, the green-robed monks kept to themselves. No one seemed to know exactly how long they’d been there, but Jenny’s dad said the monastery was there when his grandfather was a kid.

  “Glad school’s over?” Her dad’s voice pulled her away from thoughts about the monks.

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Wow.” He looked over at her with a chuckle. “That bad, huh?”

  She looked over, wanting to reassure him. “It’s fine. Just, you know … I’m ready for a break. Ready for summer.”

  He nodded. “Well, if this job comes through, it might be something we can work on together.”

  “Sure.” She tried to smile before turning her eyes back to the window. “That would be fun.”

  Except it wouldn’t be. She didn’t want to spend her summer on architectural drawings. She wanted to let her mind wander. To paint on a whim. Maybe even something not inspired by a vision.

  “Sounds like there’s a rush on this one, too,” her dad continued, oblivious to the scream building inside her. “Has to be done by September.”

  That got her attention. “September? A whole renovation?”

  “I told her we’d have to take a look. See what we could do with the budget and the time line. But it sounds like the deadline isn’t negotiable.”

  “Her?”

  Her dad glanced over at her. “Clare Daulton. The woman who called about the job.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  Jenny mentally prepared herself for the next hour. Her dad would ask her to measure the rooms. He always asked her to measure the rooms. Then after they left he’d try to get her to make suggestions about the job, all in a thinly veiled effort to make architecture as interesting to her as painting.

  She leaned her head against the window. She couldn’t say no.

  * * *

  Her dad navigated the car out of the tree-lined drive and into the clearing. The house was old, maybe even older than her own, but instead of a meticulous restoration, the Daulton house had peeling yellow paint, windows that probably hadn’t been replaced since the 1950s, and a rotting front porch. Jenny liked it instantly.

  She saw it all as it would look on canvas—the muted colors, the golden barely summer sun—and felt an irresistible urge to paint it. The impulse took her by surprise. It h
ad been a long time since she had been moved to paint anything real.

  Her dad hadn’t even turned the engine off when Jenny opened the door, stepping out onto the dirt clearing. She made her way slowly toward the front of the house, looking upward at the eaves and a roofline that spoke of more than one haphazard addition.

  “Wow.” Her dad let out a low whistle from beside her.

  Jenny turned to look at him with a smile. “Yeah.”

  “It’s a beauty, but it needs work.”

  Jenny nodded, her eyes drawn to a small woman emerging from the front door.

  “Daniel Kramer?” The woman shielded her eyes against the late-afternoon sun.

  “Yes.” Jenny’s dad nodded, striding toward the woman. “Are you Clare?”

  “I am!” Clare laughed a little, meeting her dad at the top of the stairs. The laughter got Jenny’s attention. There was something woven into it. Something sad and hesitant.

  Her dad held out his hand to the woman. “Daniel.” He gestured for Jenny to join them. “And this is my daughter and sometimes sidekick, Jenny.”

  Clare held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Jenny.”

  She returned Clare’s smile. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  Her dad took in the porch. “This is a great place you’ve got here.”

  “Thank you,” Clare said, following his gaze. “I’m afraid it needs a lot of work, but it has good bones.”

  Now you’re speaking his language, Jenny thought.

  “Come in. I’ll show you the rest of the house.” Clare turned, opening the old-fashioned screen door.

  They followed her into a small entryway, letting the screen slam shut behind them. Jenny looked around, noting the hardwood floors in need of refinishing and a few holes in the walls. Plaster, not drywall, which meant the house probably hadn’t been updated in a long time.

  “I’m not sure what you need in order to get started, but you come highly recommended by Bill Henderson down at the hardware store.” Clare spoke as they made their way down a short hallway to the kitchen at the back. “Basically, I need to renovate the house without spending too much money. And I need to flip it quick.”

  Her dad nodded, pulling his camera free of the bag and taking out a notebook. “You said you need it done by September?”

  “At the latest,” Clare said. “August would be even better.”

  Jenny’s dad turned to her. “Can you record and measure while I speak to Clare about the budget?” He looked at Clare. “If you don’t mind Jenny roaming the house, that is.”

  Clare shook her head. “Not at all. You might even run into my son, Ben.” She gave a wave of her hand. “He’s up there somewhere.”

  Jenny’s dad handed her the camera, notebook, and a tape measure he’d pulled from his pocket. “The usual. And mark the windows, doors, and any plumbing you notice, okay?”

  “Yep.” She took everything from him and headed out of the kitchen. Her dad would ask Clare a million questions before taking a tour of the house himself. Later, they would go home and he would disappear into his office and come up with an estimate. In the meantime, she would take pictures of each room and measure for the drawings he would create on his computer.

  Making her way back down the hall toward the front door, she came to the staircase. It was a little narrow, but it had a massive carved banister that looked like mahogany. She gazed upward like that was going to tell her what was on the second floor. It was always a little weird to walk alone around someone else’s house. It felt like a violation, even when she had permission. But the rooms weren’t going to measure themselves, so Jenny finally started up the stairs, surprised to find them solid with only a few soft creaks along the way.

  The walls were covered with a faded and peeling floral paper. Jenny touched it along the way, relishing the feel of its smooth dryness under her fingertips. She loved wallpaper but had seen firsthand how hard it was to remove. She didn’t blame her dad for choosing paint instead, even though she sometimes wondered what it would be like to sleep in a room with old, muted paper on all four walls.

  She came to another hall at the top of the steps. There were three rooms along each side. Light streamed gold across the floors from their open doors. She guessed the windows were on the large side—something unusual in a simple farmhouse this old—from the strength of the sunlight.

  The first room was small, its wallpaper bleached from the sun and featuring tiny bluebirds on faded green branches. Jenny used the camera to get shots from a couple different angles before pulling out the tape measure. She recorded the size of the room on a basic square drawn in the notebook, marking the locations of the windows and door and making a point to include the one electrical outlet even though her dad had forgotten to mention it. If anything had to be rewired, the cost of an electrician would have to be factored in to the budget.

  When she was finished with the first room, she moved on to the next, also a bedroom. She worked her way down the hall, repeating the process with yet another bedroom and a tiny bathroom that her dad would probably recommend expanding for resale value. It made her a little sad to think of a modern family here, moving in and expecting a master suite with a jet tub and smooth walls painted a sophisticated shade of taupe. She already knew the wallpaper would be deemed too worn and old fashioned by almost anyone born after 1950.

  She came to the last door on the opposite side of the hallway, surprised to hear music coming from inside the room. Not from a radio, but real music being played on a piano. She hesitated outside the door, listening. It only took her a few seconds to place the piece. The rolling, ponderous notes of Moonlight Sonata were unmistakable. One of her favorites.

  Curious, she stepped closer to the half-open door, looking into the room beyond. At first, all she could see were clothes strewn across the floor and an unmade bed. A Marilyn Manson poster graced the wall, an interesting contrast to the classical music coming from an unseen corner. She pushed the door open a little bit more and looked toward the far wall, her eyes following the building crescendo.

  His head was bent to the keys. It wasn’t a real piano. It was smaller. But the guy’s fingers flew and the sound was surprisingly good. She didn’t want to disturb him. Didn’t want to make the music stop. But she needed to measure and she couldn’t help being intrigued by the sandy hair at the back of the guy’s neck, the long fingers moving gracefully over the keyboard. This must be Clare’s son. Ben, was it?

  Jenny stepped carefully inside, approaching in his peripheral so she wouldn’t freak him out. He didn’t seem to notice her, and as she came level with the piano bench, she saw why. His eyes were closed. He was obviously playing by feel, by instinct, by memory. She could see the emotion in his face. The tension.

  She was so mesmerized that she didn’t notice the tape measure sliding off the notebook. Didn’t notice anything but the guy and the music until the metal casing of the tape measure hit the floor with a clatter.

  She froze as the music stopped, the boy turning to her with something raw and unnameable in his eyes.

  “I’m … I’m sorry,” Jenny stuttered, bending to pick up the tape measure.

  When she stood up, he was looking at her, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

  “Who are you? And what are you doing in my room?”

  “I’m Jenny.” She stepped toward him, holding out her gloved hand. “Jenny Kramer. My dad’s the architect your mom hired to renovate the house. I mean, I’m assuming that’s your mom downstairs. Clare?”

  He ignored her hand and the question. After a few seconds, she let her arm drop, resisting the urge to fill the silence with mindless chatter. Instead, she took advantage of the opportunity to get a good look at him.

  His hair was longer on one side than the other. It fell across his forehead and one eye, though she could see the silver ring glinting in his eyebrow. He had one in his lip, too, but it might have been a clip-on. His eyes, cool and steely blue, studied her like she was a puzzle piece that didn’t
quite fit with the rest laid out on the table.

  “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing in my room,” he finally said, his voice flat and emotionless.

  This was not a guy looking for a friend.

  “I need to measure,” Jenny said, a hint of defensiveness creeping into her voice. “For my dad. I didn’t want to bother you.”

  “Well, you are.” His voice was petulant. Like Thomas, the four-year-old Jenny sometimes babysat, when she told him he had to take a bath.

  “I am what?”

  “Bothering me.”

  Jenny felt her face flush with embarrassment. “Fine. I’ll make it quick, then.”

  She measured the room around the mess, wondering if it was her imagination that she could feel his eyes on her. A rush of indignant anger flowed through her veins as she moved from corner to corner, stepping around the dirty clothes. Her inner tirade kept her company as she recorded the numbers in silence.

  What a jerk. She hated guys who tried to be all cool and distant, like it made them intriguing instead of making them an asshole. Newsflash! She wanted to scream at him. You’re not cool. You’re not mysteriously emo. You’re just a jerk who doesn’t have the good manners to be polite to someone you don’t even know.

  By the time she’d recorded all the measurements and lifted the camera to take the pictures, her hands were shaking so badly she wasn’t even sure the photos would come out right. She just wanted to get out of there. She took the pictures as fast as she could before picking up the notebook and tape measure and heading for the door. She wondered if he’d say something as she left. “Goodbye”? “Thanks for nothing”?

  But he didn’t say a thing, and she left the room the way she’d entered it. In silence.