Discovery

The night was unusually quiet. Ella sat on the sofa in the living room, staring out the window at an ocean that continued to cover and uncover the sand, but the hypnotizing crashes she’d grown used to hearing seemed absent. Only an occasional rogue wave, larger than the others, would meet the shore with such velocity that the resulting sound would hit her ears.
Her phone sat on the coffee table in front of her, the blank screen looking up at her as a constant reminder that she had no idea what was going on. Rome had offered to leave his phone on in his pocket so she could listen in, but she’d decided against it. He needed the opportunity to say what he needed to say to them without her eavesdropping. Besides, she had a feeling they would say plenty that would just make her angry, and there wouldn’t be a thing she could do about it.
For about the tenth time since he’d left an hour and a half ago, she got up and walked to the window. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she imagined what she might say in a similar situation. Sitting across the table from her father and stepmother, telling them exactly how she felt about the way she’d been treated, the way they’d attempted to manipulate and control her life, she doubted she’d be able to keep her composure. Now that they believed she was dead, she’d never have the chance to do that, but she hoped Rome might someday. If he could tell her father how he’d made her feel when he took her stepmother’s side, when he’d insisted Ella divorce Rome, when he’d tried to make her marry Henry from Paris, maybe she’d get some closure from his efforts.
A seagull flew by outside, and Ella was reminded of the little bird that used to visit her when she was locked in the attic. How many hours had she spent watching that bird flutter around, free to go wherever it liked, while she was a prisoner in her own home? It was too bad the little birdie from the other house couldn’t find her here. For a while, that bird and Mary were the only friends she had, save Tim whose visits were not as frequent as either of them would’ve liked.
Thinking of the bird made her realize she hadn’t wandered up to the attic in this house. When Rome had made the purchase, the old owners had left most everything behind, save their clothing and personal effects. They’d even left the dishes in the cupboards, many of the knickknacks and decorations, and several hundred books in the library. They were moving overseas, and it was simply easier for them not to take any of those items. A growing curiosity lit Ella’s mind. Had they left anything in the attic?
Venturing into the attic to see what might be up there would certainly take her mind off of the situation with Rome. She’d seen the pulldown in the hallway upstairs, and it seemed easy enough to pull the ladder down and climb on up. As far as she knew, Rome had never gone up into the attic either, so there was no way to know what was up there unless she went and found out for herself.
She decided it would be a good idea to put some shoes on, just in case the attic was unfinished or otherwise full of potential hazards that might be painful to her bare feet. In the bedroom, she slid on her slippers and then headed toward the pulldown, her phone in her pocket, the ringer turned all the way up, in the chance that Rome should call her while she was on her adventure.
Her first tug only resulted in a squeak as the door fought back. Clearly, no one had opened it in a while. Ella chastised herself, thinking she was probably wasting her time. She’d probably just see an unfinished space full of insulation, pipes, and ducts. But those thoughts didn’t satiate her curiosity, so she gave it a stronger pull, and this time, the squeaky door came down, the ladder unfurling, and a plume of dust accosting her lungs. She coughed a few times, waving her hand in front of her face; a little dirt never stopped Ella from taking action.
Carefully, Ella placed her foot on the bottom rung. The steps were narrow, and the railing was unfinished. The idea that she might get a splinter crossed her mind, so she positioned her hands carefully and tried not to grip too tightly. After about six steps, the attic began to reveal itself. It was dark, so she couldn’t make out too much, but it looked as if the space was finished, and it was larger than she expected as well.
When Ella reached the top, she felt the floor with her hand first to make sure it was a surface that would hold her weight. She was met with wooden flooring, similar to the floor in the attic at her father’s house. Spreading her feet apart on the rung so that she could keep her balance, Ella pulled her phone out of her back pocket and turned on the flashlight application.
What she saw almost sent her tumbling back down the ladder.
The room was finished all right. It was a studio--an art studio. Ella shown her light around the expanse of the space, save the part behind her where she couldn’t safely twist to get a good view. To her left, near a large window she couldn’t remember noticing from the outside of the house, stood an easel with a canvas. Next to it was a table covered with paints and cups of brushes. A partially painted seascape adorned the canvas. It was hard to tell from here, but it looked as if the artist had been painting the scene out the window. Ella was dying to see what else might be on the canvas, but there were several others set up around the room.
Ella climbed up off of the ladder, only pausing in her haste to look around the room to pull the cord hanging from the ceiling to turn the light on. The familiar clicking sound sent shivers down her spine, but she didn’t let it distract her. The floor was finished, so she didn’t need to worry about falling through the ceiling or stepping on a nail. She hurried over to the half-finished painting, turning her flashlight off, and putting her phone back in her pocket.
It was beautiful. The sky was full of soft pinks and oranges, the water a sparkling turquoise. Seagulls played in the foreground, and it appeared as if the bottom would’ve been filled with sand in whites, light yellows, and gold. A look at the wooden palette sitting on the table next to the easel told her that was what was to come next, but the paint had long since dried, never having made it to the canvas, a lonely paintbrush, coated in turquoise paint matching the sea lay next to it on the table.
“Why aren’t you finished?” Ella asked the painting. Talking to herself had become one of her coping mechanisms while she spent so much time alone in the attic of her father’s home. Thankfully, no one answered.
Bending down, she studied the corners of the unfinished painting. No artist’s signature graced the canvas, which wasn’t surprising considering most artists signed their work once it was finished.
Once again, curiosity bubbled up inside of Ella. Who had been painting such a masterpiece and then left it? What could possibly have happened to make this person abandon their art? Surely, the people who owned the house before Rome bought it hadn’t decided the artwork was as expendable as dishes and towels.
Remembering there were other paintings behind her, Ella made her way across the room to see if any of them were signed. Several large canvases lined the other wall, many of them landscapes, some similar to the unfinished scene, a few nightscapes, and one full of buildings she assumed had to be the LA skyline. Intermixed were several other images--a cat lying by a window, a bowl of fruit, a pair of hands. Tucked behind them, Ella saw a single dark eye staring back at her, sticking out from between the other canvases.
Gently, she lifted the paintings obscuring her view. Moving aside the last seascape, Ella gasped and covered her mouth as she took in the image of a beautiful young woman.
Her eyes were dark brown, as was her hair. She had a sadness about her that Ella couldn’t quite describe, as if she were about to cry but was fighting through it. She wore a red sleeveless top with ornate embroidery that Ella imagined might be a formal gown. Small golden earrings peeked out from between her dark locks.
Ella carefully lifted the painting and carried it over to the light so she could see it better. The woman in the picture seemed to be calling to her, as if she desperately wanted to be released but knew it could never be. Those sad eyes held a thousand secrets, and Ella wished there was some way to unlock them all.
In the bottom corner, she saw a signature. It was in cursive and difficult to make out, but she thought it said F. Ward.
“Who are you, F. Ward? And what happened to you?” Ella’s eyes went back to the woman in the image. Was this F. Ward--or someone else?
Whoever F. Ward was, he or she was extremely talented. Ella glanced around again at all of the paintings. Why would someone leave these treasures behind? It didn’t make any sense, but she’d do whatever she could to find out why--and unravel the mystery of the identity of F. Ward.