Villa Blue by Isla Dean

something she wasn’t—the socialite wife and daughter of respective doctors. She’d tried to give her family, her husband, what they wanted, but it had never been enough for them. She’d never been enough for them. And now, an independent single woman, she did her best to shed herself of those expectations and let herself be free. Even if being free meant talking to brick walls and dealing with artist’s block, at least it was more authentic than living in the land of beige, to her mind.
    The walls weren’t talking back to her so she knew she wasn’t crazy. At least not completely.
    More often than not, it just didn’t work out to connect with people, she thought as she mixed more pigment into the puddle of water in the center of the pallet then swirled sloppily. Paint and water mixed to create something extraordinary, and by contrast, maybe she just didn’t mix well with other people. Maybe she was built to be by herself.
    And in that moment, with the light of the moon lifting and reflecting on the sea, something inside of her slowed and she stepped out of her creative zone. Standing back, she stared at what she’d created with nothing more than paints and feelings and perspective. She studied what had come out of her, come from her.
    She’d painted Aiden as a strong, angular shadow, hadn’t she? She’d done that before he’d dropped into being Mister Mysterious at lunch. Was it something she’d intuited? Or had she created that perspective in her mind by painting it beforehand?
    And with the bold sea around him, the dips into darkly saturated blues, it all shimmered around what was otherwise a modernist splash of mystery.
    Modern Day Mystery , she decided to name the work. It was impressionist with the depth and edge of abstraction, mysterious in its shadows cast by the daring light of the day. Yes, she thought. Modern Day Mystery.
    Deciding there was still a step left to finish off the piece, she debated which colors to splash onto the top—the daylight or the darkness, the light or the deeply saturated dark. Going with the flow of being unable to decide, she dipped two brushes into the pools of paint—one in Naples Yellow Deep, one in French Ultramarine mixed with Ivory Black. Then she stood back and, gripping one brush in each hand, she flicked the brushes toward the paper as if using whips. Splashes of color dotted the paper, some dripping down and doing interesting things with the other paint that was still in the process of drying.
    That was it, she decided, standing back once again.
    Ivy breathed, satisfied, if not a little dazed, and ignored the three quick knocks on her door; she wasn’t done examining the painting.
    Three more knocks followed then her door slid open with a creak announcing the movement.
    “I saw your light on through all these plants. You weren’t kidding when you said you lived in a greenhouse.” Aiden stepped inside. “Hope it’s okay.”
    “Fine,” she said then walked away from the painting, noting that her eyes had begun to go heavy and she was drained in the best way possible—she’d put her energy to use. “What time is it?”
    She strode toward the kitchenette in the only nook of the room that wasn’t lined by glass or foliage. She poured water into a nearby mug and downed the contents then glanced at Aiden who still hadn’t answered but instead stood silently in front of her creation.
    He’d never seen anything like it. It tugged deep within him, as if some part of him had seen it before and was once again moved by it. It was familiar in an unsettling way.
    At a loss for how to adequately express how he felt about the painting, especially when the painting itself was such a unique expression, he simply stared.
    “What do you think?”
    He heard her approach as she spoke but couldn’t take his eyes off of what he saw. “Sorry, I know you don’t like people to see your art. But this is…”
    “Only when it’s not finished. This is finished. Well, it’s