Hidden Waters by Catherine Cowles EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author: Catherine Cowles
- Language: English
- Genre: Small Town & Rural Fiction
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T , early fall breeze lifted my long hair as I walked down Aspen
Street. I let the air fill my lungs, the scent of pine trees settling a peace into
my bones. Not a day passed where I wasn’t grateful for the freedom I’d
been granted. Something I’d almost given up hoping for.
I walked by the coffee house and some tourist shops, taking the time to
admire the baskets of blooms that hung from antique lampposts. We
wouldn’t have the brightly colored baskets of flowers much longer. The
nights were already getting cold.
Refocusing on the path ahead of me, I made sure I didn’t crash into
anyone while busy soaking in my surroundings. My footsteps slowed—the
same way they always did—as I approached The Gallery. The shop tugged
on me in a way I couldn’t deny—as if it were the sun, and I was a tiny
planet beholden to its gravitational pull.
I stopped altogether. I didn’t have a choice. Someone had hung a new
display. It looked as if it were comprised of various artists’ work—a
mixture of photographs, watercolors, oil paintings, and statues. I fought the
urge to press my face to the glass.
The photograph I could see best almost took my breath away. It was of a
woman in a field; her face tipped up to the sun. The image itself was
beautiful, but the emotion coming off the woman in the frame almost
brought me to my knees. It was a visceral sadness. Grief.
I knew that emotion. We were so well acquainted, it felt as if the feeling
had been scored into my bones at times. I didn’t know what this woman
was grieving, but I knew that we shared that pain. Mine was a mixture of all
sorts of loss. But most of all, sadness for how much life I’d missed out on.
I forced my gaze from the photo to a painting that hung next to it. The
watercolor was brilliantly detailed. I swore I could feel the breeze that
rippled the water. This one held a serenity that I knew it would pass on to its
owner each and every day.
Every piece of art in The Gallery held a different sort of gift, and I loved
imagining the type of person who would pick each one to hang in their
home. My eyes shifted to take in the next painting, but I caught sight of
something in the reflection on the storefront window.
Something about the movement was familiar. It had my heart picking up
its pace and a wave of nausea sweeping through me. I stole a quick look
over my shoulder, something in me needing confirmation. My father stalked
down the opposite side of the street in that same prowling way I knew so
well. A stride that spoke of the rage that lived inside him.
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