Chapter 443

Olivia

“Dianna?”

The name escaped my lips before I could stop myself. The door had creaked open, revealing an older woman with wisps of gray hair framing her face. She wore a pair of paint-covered overalls, beneath which she wore an equally-paint-stained orange sweater.

Her eyes, wide with shock, were fixed on the painting I held in my hands. As our gazes met, a moment of silence passed between us, heavy with unspoken questions. Somehow, something about this painting that had been hanging over my mantle at home had struck a chord within her.

I just hoped that it was a good chord.

“Where... where did you find that painting?” The artist’s voice trembled as she spoke, betraying a vulnerability that contrasted sharply with the reclusive, almost mythical figure the town had painted her out to be.

I swallowed. “My husband... He got it at a yard sale,” I explained, still somewhat stunned by her sudden appearance. “It’s been hanging over our mantlepiece for ages now.”

She scoffed. “A yard sale.”

I nodded stiffly, hoping that I hadn’t somehow offended her. “We had no idea,” I said. “We didn’t see your signature. I’m sorry.”

Much to my surprise, though, Dianna shook her head. “It’s not your fault,” she said. “It’s mine.”

“Pardon?” I asked, confused by what she was hinting at. How was it possible that her painting winding up in a random yard sale had been her fault?

However, her eyes, now glistening with unshed tears, never left the painting. Without a word, she stepped aside, gesturing for me to enter.

“Come in,” she finally said, noticing the way that I hesitated in the doorway. “Despite how I’ve made it out to be, I actually don’t bite.”

Taking a deep breath, I stepped into her world, the eccentric home of the artist. I was immediately enveloped by a myriad of colors and emotions captured on canvas; paintings, stacked and hung, filled the space from floor to ceiling, each telling a different story, each a frozen testament to moments of joy, anguish, and raw beauty.

Dianna began leading me down a hallway, which was covered with paint-splattered tarps instead of rugs. “Don’t mind the mess,” she said with a chuckle that sounded a bit like a cough. “I haven’t had any guests in… oh, well I suppose you already know the story.”

“It’s a lovely home,” I managed as I followed her through the winding hallways.

“No need to lie,” Dianna said with that cough-laugh again. “I know it’s a disaster.”

I shook my head. “No, really,” I said, taking in the tall arched windows, some of them filled with stained glass in the shapes and colors of beautiful, vibrant flowers. The ceilings were high, streaked with dark oak beams and adorned with glass chandeliers. The artwork that lined every wall just added to the beauty. “It’s beautiful.”

Dianna stopped in the doorway of a small kitchen, where there was a wood stove and a small table in the center of the room. Stained cups, likely used for washing paintbrushes, were stacked on the countertops. Several canvases in various states of painting hung from a clothesline in front of the wood stove, and the whole room smelled like oil paints.

I watched as Dianna bustled around, clattering pots and pans as she began boiling water for tea. I guess I was so astounded still that I just stood there, motionless, clutching the little painting I had brought with me.

“Please, come in,” Dianna said without even looking over her shoulder. “Let’s talk over tea.”

As we sat in her cluttered yet cozy little kitchen, surrounded by her life's work, Dianna poured tea into two delicate, mismatched cups. The scent of chamomile gently filled the air, blending with the faint smell of oil paint and turpentine that seemed to be an integral part of the house itself.

“This painting,” she began, her eyes once again drawn to the piece I had brought, “I haven’t seen it in so long.”

I swallowed a sip of tea. It was perfectly sweet, just the way I liked it. “Can you tell me more about it?” I asked.

She sighed. “I painted it when I was still in university, many years ago.” A wistful smile touched her lips. “I was so proud of it, but my professor, a man, of course, he said it was… I think he used the word ‘insipid’. Said that the world of art is no place for a woman.”

“He was wrong, of course,” Dianna continued before I could respond, a fiery edge creeping into her voice. “I threw that painting in the trash, though. Figured it would be long gone by now. I suppose someone must have trash-picked it, and now, after all these years, it’s come back to me.”

The injustice of it all, the dismissal of her talent and passion, resonated deeply with me. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” I said sincerely.

Dianna sighed, her gaze softening. “It’s fine. It’s just a part of who I am now. But seeing it here, with you, it’s... it’s a strange kind of closure.”

I held the painting out to her. “You should have it back. It belongs with you.”

She shook her head, a small smile gracing her features. “No, keep it,” she said. “Or sell it, if that’s what you’d like. I don’t care.”

Her generosity took me by surprise, and I felt a warmth towards this woman who, just days ago, was nothing more than a mystery. “Wow, um… thank you, Dianna,” I murmured, my gaze returning to the little painting. It really was beautiful, but now that I had heard her story, I suddenly felt a connection to it more than ever before.

“But I don’t think I can sell it,” I murmured.

Dianna shot me a quizzical look. “Isn’t that what you came here for?” she asked. “To get permission to tell it?”

“I… I did,” I admitted.

She furrowed her brow at me. “Why? If you seem to like it so much, then why sell it?”

“Our pack has been tasked with earning a large amount of money at an auction,” I said after a beat of silence. “A hundred thousand dollars. That’s why I was trying to speak with you; to see if you’d be willing to—”

Dianna’s expression shifted back to its original harsh demeanor. “I don't sell my artwork,” she interrupted. “I haven’t for years.”

I nodded, understanding her reluctance. “I know, and I respect that. But we’re desperate. The future of our pack, the well-being of our community, it all hinges on this.”

Dianna sighed, peering at me over the top of her teacup. She sat like this for a while, studying me with a pair of eyes that seemed to see depths of colors and emotions that no regular pair of eyes could ever see.

Then, finally, she spoke.

“Alright,” she said. “I suppose I’ve got plenty to spare; I’ll give you three pieces. But only three.”

Relief washed over me, a feeling so strong it left me momentarily breathless. "”Thank you, Dianna. You have no idea how much this means to us.”

She smiled, a genuine smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. “I think I do, Olivia. In a way, your struggle reminds me of my own. I can see the fire in your eyes; the need to do something great. Something… important.”

She paused then, a wistful expression taking over her features as she peered down at the little seagull standing on the beach, all alone and longing for the sea.

“And who knows… Maybe it’s time for my art to see the world again.”