Page 87 of Blue in the Deep Blue Sea

Clutching both scrolls, I leaned back against the cool stones of the little well, the quiet guardian that had hidden this island’s secrets for who knew how many years.

I opened the first scroll and realized it was a painting. Judging by the oils and the brushstrokes, it was very old. At the bottom, a signature read:Caravaggio’s Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence.

My hand flew to my mouth.

I remembered this painting. The memory pulled me back to the past, to a day when I sat in the garden with Sarah Sinclair.

It was early spring in 1990 when my mother brought me to the Sinclair villa while she cleaned. Sarah was in the garden, painting, with this very painting resting beside her. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she copied every tiny detail, stroke by stroke, from one canvas to another.

“Sarah,” I asked, “what are you doing?”

She laughed softly without looking up. “I’m working, honey. What are you doing here?”

“Mom came to work,” I said, sitting beside her. “Why do you paint the same paintings?”

“So I can keep one,” she replied. “Sometimes we have to keep valuable things.”

“And why?” I asked.

“To preserve their value. When something is expensive, we keep it safe and never wear it. We forget we bought it to enjoy it. Paintings are the opposite. We buy them to keep them, because one day they’ll become valuable.”

I shrugged. “I have no idea what you mean.”

She dipped her brush into blue paint and gently dragged it across the tip of my nose.

“I’ll call you Blue.”

I laughed, wiping at my face. “Why?”

“Because blue people carry peace inside them, like the sea.” She leaned closer, her large green eyes, the same ones Oliver had, shining in the afternoon light. “And you, little darling, bring peace to me. I know that one day, if I’m no longer here, you’ll be peace for my Oliver.”

“And where will you go?” I asked.

“Far away.” Her gaze moved towards the sea, where the waves rolled lazily against the shore. “Sometimes we have to go very far.”

“Like my dad,” I said quietly. “My dad is far away too.”

She reached over and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Don’t be sad, honey. Your dad loves you, no matter how far away he is.”

Memories pulled me back to the present, my palm still pressed against my lips as I tried to make sense of the words I’d long forgotten, only to remember them all over again. I had been only eight then, and they hadn’t meant anything. Now they meant everything.

Is that why I was Oliver’s Blue?

Because blue was the color that brought someone peace, and no matter how hard life became, we would always be there for each other. Maybe he was my Blue too. Maybe the color I’d spent so many years hating was one I was finally beginning to love.

I didn’t even open the second scroll. I already knew it probably held another painting. Instead, I carefully tied the first one shut and got to my feet.

I had to show this to Oliver.

I made my way back along the forest path when a sound drifted through the trees. A low, pained cry, like an injured animal.

I turned and spotted the little squirrel. Its tail was trapped between two iron bars, thrashing wildly as it tried to pull free. The trap had no teeth, but it held the tiny creature fast.

I approached slowly, careful not to frighten it any more than it already was. Crouching beside it, I gripped the cold metal bars and pulled them apart with all my strength.

The moment its tail slipped free, the squirrel jumped into the pine forest without looking back.