Chapter Six: The Sunlit Studio
Volume Two: Autumn Leaves, Silent Strings and the Sunlit Studio
Volume Two
Autumn Leaves, Silent Strings and the Sunlit Studio
Somewhere in central British Columbia
where mountains whisper to the lakes,
a magical Forest bestows miracles on its visitors.
Avoid direct sunlight, moonlight, and sudden revelations.
Chapter Six
The Sunlit Studio
The artist in me sees the artist in you.
Sylvia spent the next few days exploring the grounds. She loved it all. She didn’t know what was next in life for her, but it definitely needed to include living near nature. Trees, flowers, even grass held a sense of joy for her. She was getting up earlier, to walk beside the lake, watch the early morning mist rise off the water, and eventually evaporate in the warm air.
She discovered the daisy patch with the stone angel that moved around, she assumed it was Angus moving it around for some strange reason known only to him.
She sat by the creek that bubbled between the forest and Mabel and Angus’s stone cottage that could be reached only by a curved stone bridge. She waved at Daisy, the white cat, that lazily guarded the entrance to the cottage.
Grace’s purple cottage made Sylvia gasp in delight. She clapped as she walked around the yard, the raised gardens, the herbal garden, the table carved out of a huge tree trunk. She was joined by Grace’s two black cats, gracious sentinels of the property.
Delicate musical notes floated out over the creek behind Grace’s cottage. Sylvia followed the music and discovered Grace swaying, eyes closed, playing the harp and she was intrigued. She was still stubbornly avoiding her cello. Something was going on with it, and it felt familiar and foreign at the same time, Wyndhaven seemed to have brought out some kind of eerie glow. She had asked Andrea, the psychic business manager, to take a look and now she was fearful what the answer might be.
Sylvia was filling her days with nature and painting, she wasn’t missing the cello and its mysteries and the painful memories of her grueling tour.
Jan had set up the art studio and spent hours painting, sketching, humming. She experimented, painted realistic images of the lake, then veered off to impressionism, capturing light and shadow glistening off the lake . Sylvia sat watching her, quietly, patiently, the silence broken only by the brush strokes, the strike of a palate knife, and the splashing brushes clean in the sink.
The room smelled of paints and solvents, a heady mixture to an artist and, Sylvia thought, even a would-be artist. Jan flicked paint around in abandon, as she danced around her easel, the images appearing on the canvases.
She would explain to Sylvia, “Well, that wasn’t what I had in mind,” then laugh. “But I can work with it.”
Sylvia could swear Jan deliberately smeared paint on her cheek and on her overalls each day, she looked so at home here, in the studio, the light overflowing through the windows. Jan came alive in that room. Sometimes she hummed, sometimes she put on music. She loved classical, but Sylvia and Barbara would only let her listen to pop music.
Sylvia had had enough of classical music.
Nobody had seen Barbara for a few days, she had gone off to the city, having exhausted her possibilities in the small town nearby, Orchard Bay,
One day, Sylvia was watching Jan when she drew a stroke of purple under the fragile flowers in a meadow near a brook and the shadow jumped out at Sylvia as if by magic. She jumped, drew a breath and asked, “Can I try?”
Jan turned, paint on her cheek and fingers, “I thought you’d never ask.”
She laughed and walked over to a closet where she had a canvas sitting on an easel, ready for Sylvia when she would finally ask as Jan knew she would, she had been spending too much time in the studio for it to be a polite interest.
Sylvia’s hands were shaking when she chose the paint colors from Jan’s wide array. Even though she had watched Jan for days, she had no real concept of colors, or color mixing, much less composition.
The lake and the roses were so beautiful, the grounds mesmerized Sylvia. She knew she was going to buy a larger property, on a lake, or with a creek, large enough to garden even if she had to hire that part out. She wanted to try to paint the lake
Jan spent a few moments explaining some elemental color mixing with Sylvia, stuff you’d learn in school, whites, blacks, primary colors, and so on. She had a color wheel Sylvia could use.
“Don’t have too many expectations at first,” Jan advised. “In fact, I would spend awhile trying to find the right blue color for example, rather than try and paint the lake right off.”
Sylvia laughed, “How did you know I wanted to paint the lake?”
“Anyone watching you for even a minute knows you’ve fallen in love with Wyndhaven and the grounds.”
Sylvia swallowed. She wasn’t sure her mother would have noticed that. She would have only noticed the cello getting dustier by the moment. It wasn’t though. Getting dusty that is, it still seemed to be glowing mysteriously, like a maniac, it even glowed in the dark.
Sylvia and Jan spent a few quiet hours painting and color mixing. Jan moving easily between her painting of the lake, a sunset image she had started the day before and was filling in the peach glow on the lake from memory, and Sylvia’s color wheel exercise.
Sylvia was impatient to start a ‘real’ painting and barely breathing, she began to sketch in broad strokes like she had seen Jan do many times over the last few days. The shadowy Okanagan mountains in the distance, so many colors, pink, rust, brown, blue, green, in a mottled montage that looked like a painting even in real life, particularly with the mist of the Okanagan lake floating in front, the lake itself, the tree tops, the near shore line.
She hadn’t had a chance to put any color in the outlines when she heard the door open.
Sylvia turned when she heard throat clearing and saw Andrea in the doorway. Misty padded over to Sylvia who instantly put the brushes down and picked up the softly pale lavender cat who began purring.
“Hi Sylvia,” Andrea cleared her throat again and looked at Jan. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to chat.”
Jan walked over to the sink to rinse out her brushes. “I’m almost finished, I’ll be out of here in a sec.”
“No, it’s okay.” Sylvia said, hugging the cat closer. She felt something, had for days, something she was avoiding. “I think I would rather talk to Andrea down by the lake, down on the pagoda on the dock.”
She looked out the window and blinked quickly. “It’s so beautiful out there…”
Andrea could see Sylvia struggling with something, some knowledge everyone in the house had been avoiding for days. “That’s a great idea, I’ll meet you out there.”
“Bring wine!” Sylvia called out.
She washed her brushes without looking at Jan.
“There’s something wrong with my cello.”
Jan nodded.
Misty purred and snuggled deeper into Sylvia’s chest.
The late afternoon sun was setting over Lake Okanagan in front of Wyndhaven , the golden glow perfect for Jan’s picture, if she was still painting up in the studio. Sylvia glanced in that direction before she burst into tears.
The cello was enchanted. There was a magical spell cast on it and Andrea and Willow speculated that being in Wyndhaven’s magical realm had made the enchantment visible.
She sobbed.
Andrea gently patted her back. Sylvia let her, even though she wanted to run as fast and as far away as she could. Misty was sitting solidly on her lap, holding her tightly to the deck, as if on purpose.
Sylvia drew a ragged breath. She turned a messy face to Andrea, mascara running, nose dripping.
“So the whole thing, my whole life has been fake?”
“No,” Andrea said, more forcefully than she intended. She felt for Sylvia, she really did, but the mother in her also understood wanting the best for your child.
“I hate them!” the girl screamed. “I hate her.” She balled her fists into her eyes.
Her voice rose higher, singsong and mocking. “You can’t hide a talent like this from the world, darling,” she said, pantomiming her mother sipping from her wine glass.
Andrea flinched. “Willow assured me it was an enhancement spell, meaning it can only enhance what is already there.” She grabbed a few clean tissues from her pocket and passed them to Sylvia. “You are definitely talented. The spell wouldn’t let me be able to play Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, much less Bach.”
Sylvia smiled weakly, and took the tissues, wiping at her face, smearing mascara across her cheek without noticing. She stared at the hills, the colors changing rapidly in the setting sun, her mind already taking an artist view of the world around her.
“It’s kind of evil,” she whispered.
“I don’t know about…” Andrea stopped talking when Sylvia glared at her.
She sighed. She knew her own daughter would be furious too.
“It’s bad.” Sylvia insisted.
“They were faking it, or making me fake it. And they pressured me so much.” She shuddered, past pressure and exhaustion catching up with her.
Andrea didn’t say anything. She had to let Sylvia sit with it. As if she heard her thoughts, Sylvia said, “I’d like to be alone now, please.”
Andrea got up. She was walking toward the house when she heard a quiet, “Thanks, Andrea.”
Sylvia huddled on the dock, tears dripping. Misty snuggled her, a slight lavender mist rose off the lake, floated over the dock and settled around Sylvia like a warm cloak.
Back in the art studio, Jan sat on the edge of the desk, staring at her latest canvas. It was good. Her chest tightened. She sighed and wiped her paint brush on her jeans. The room smelled of paint and solvents, sharp and familiar. For a moment, she was back in high school dabbing paint on her clothes to look more like an artist. Everyone thought she was clumsy, but her instructor had smiled at her from under his paint dabbled burgundy beret.
Her art had not been a whim. Not then. Not now.
The doors to the balcony were open, letting in light and birdsong. Voices drifted up faintly from the dock.
She stood and crossed the room, pushing the doors wider to let in more of the late afternoon light. It spilled across the floor and caught in the jars and brushes, warming the room, making everything look more alive than it had a moment ago. She gripped the balcony railing, glimpsed her paint stained hands—soft, unlined, young—and almost laughed.
She didn’t need to be twenty anymore.
Movement below caught her eye. Sylvia was hunched over on the dock, shoulders drawn in tight, Andrea nowhere in sight.
Jan frowned, her attention shifting immediately.
She turned back into the studio, quickly rinsing her hands at the sink, wiping the still damp blue fingers on the towel.
Sylvia’s words drifted back to her.
There’s something wrong with my cello.
Jan headed for the door.
💫