Page 1 of Before You Go
CHAPTER 1
Francisca
I sign my name in pink paint on the bottom left corner of my canvas, then set my paintbrush down and step back from my easel, wiping my hands on my paint-covered apron. Each layer of paint on the canvas is like a snapshot of the last six weeks of my life. I can tell what kind of mood I was in each time I picked up my brush to work, pinpointing when I was happy, sad or even bored just by the heaviness of the paint strokes.
Forcing myself to look past the details that will likely go unnoticed by everyone else, I take in the painting as a whole. With raised flower petals in muted pastel colors, along with butterflies and different types of bugs hidden in the greenery as a tiny treat for anyone stopping to take a longer look, it’s beautiful. I just hope that the woman who commissioned the four-foot by six-foot painting for her granddaughter loves it as much as I do.
“What do you think?” I look down at PJ, who is lying at my feet, and he lifts his head off his paws while his tail begins to wag. “I thought you’d say that.” I laugh, squatting down to rub his spotted pink belly when he rolls onto his back.
I jump when the buzzer for my studio sounds. I look over at the clock on the wall and let out a nearly silent curse. Like what often happens when I’m working, I lost track of time. The only good thing about today is that I can’t actually be late, since the meeting I scheduled is happening right here.
Quickly taking off my apron, I toss it toward my rolling chair, then lead PJ to his kennel, and he instantly goes inside to lie down. With him tucked away, I walk across the concrete floor and pull the heavy wooden door inward.
“Hey.” I smile at Phillip, who looks—as he often does—like he’s in a bad mood.
“Francisca.” He dips his chin. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” I step back, giving him room, then close the door behind him. I’ve known Phillip, my family’s attorney, my whole life, and he’s always been very… well, I guess the only way to describe him is “formal.” The only time I ever see him let his nonexistent hair down is at my parents' annual Christmas party. One evening a year, he drinks too much eggnog and becomes a whole different person, one who has an actual personality.
“This is where you work?”
“This is it.” I wave my hand out to encompass the entirety of the space as he scans the room.
He’s never been to my studio before; not many people have. The old storage warehouse was built in the late 1800s and was part of a manufacturing company’s property. After they went out of business, it sat empty until an investor swooped in and decided to refurbish it for residential use.
The unit I’m renting is one of the largest, at a little over two thousand square feet, and has an open floor plan that was advertised as a studio apartment with a bathroom and kitchen. Personally, I would not have rented it if I had planned on living here since there is no actual bedroom. The windows at the top of the tall ceilings that let in tons of glorious natural light during the day, unfortunately, let in the same amount of light at night from the streetlamps lining the block. But the location and lighting were perfect when I thought I would only be using the space for work. Then, a few months ago, I ended up moving in here, and getting a good night’s sleep since then has been a rarity. Nevertheless, I’m making the best of it for the time being.
“Have you been staying here?” he asks with his brows knitted tightly when he sees my bed, which is half-hidden behind the stack of moving boxes I haven’t bothered unpacking.
“I have been, yes, but once the condo sells or Matthew buys me out of my half of it, I’ll move.”
“We didn’t add that into the papers you had me draw up.”
“He and I have a verbal agreement.”
“Francisca—”
“It’s fine, Phillip,” I cut him off, and he gives me a disapproving look but doesn’t say more about it. Instead, he tucks his hands into the pockets of his slacks and wanders across the room toward the painting I just finished.
“Is this your current project?”
“I actually just finished that one right before you arrived.”
“It’s beautiful. You’re very talented.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly, as the compliment seems to wrap itself around my windpipe.
When I started painting, my parents and husband thought I was wasting my time. They were sure that no one would buy pretty floral paintings. Then I sold my first piece, and my second. Soon after that, I was getting offers for commissioned pieces that cost thousands of dollars and I was able to quit my job to start painting full time. Most days, I feel like I’m living a dream because I am. Painting is something I’ve always loved doing. I just had no idea I would be able to turn it into a lucrative business.
“What time is Matthew set to arrive?”
“Any minute.” I leave him behind and walk toward my small kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?” I look at him over my shoulder as I open the fridge and catch him inspecting the paint-splattered chair he pulled out from the metal table between my work area and the kitchen.
“Water, please.”
“Flat or sparkling?”
“Flat.”
