Page 57 of The Cul-de-Sac War

“Oh. That?” Chip swiveled backward, pointing toward the trees with his brush. “I just wanted a little one-on-one time with the farmland. In order to truly get into a picture, I must let it communicate with me. Whisper in my ear, so to speak.”

“And did it whisper?”

“Oh yes.”

“And what did it say?”

“Oh.” He put his hand across his heart. “That I cannot share.”

“So then, tell me, why is your easel pointing the other way?” Bree put her finger beneath her chin, as if examining his work closely. “And correct me if I’m wrong—”

“I’d be happy to do that for you.”

“But where are the horses? And the barn?”

Tesla Man coughed politely. “I’m sure Mr.—” He hesitated.

Chip supplied “McBride” and the man’s brows rose.

“Yes, well, I’m sure Mr. McBride has it all under control. After all, it’s only been, what—an hour?—since you’ve begun.”

“Correct. Like Da Vinci laboring over Mona Lisa for four years, anything I pour my heart into gets my undivided attention.”

The man nodded as if impressed. “So how long does one of your paintings typically take?”

“Three hundred days.”

“Oh,” the man said, his brows rising.

“I insist that every single stroke is perfect. I won’t be satisfied until even the tiniest speck swims in harmony with the others.”

“I see. That’s some dedication.”

Chip smiled to himself. This was good practice. He had used the line prepared for Mr. Richardson, and it was good to see it make an impression.

The man stepped forward and stretched out his hand with silky, efficient motion. “Theodore Watkins, but please, call me Theo.” The words fell off his lips with as much practiced perfection as his movements.

Chip shuffled his paintbrush to his other hand and took it. “Chip McBride. Good to meet you.”

Theo seemed to hesitate as he let go. “Tell me, are you related to the McBrides of McBride and Sons?”

Ah. The all-too-common question. “I’m actually one of those sons.”

“Fascinating.” Theo turned his attention back down the path, still clasping his hand. “I would love for you to meet someone. Mr. Richardson!”

Mr. Richardson?

Chip felt his pulse rise. A meaty man in a wool mohair suit and open overcoat strolled down the path beside a woman in feathers. From the white feather hat to the ostrich feather coat, the couple was impossible to miss.

They stopped behind another painter at work, Mrs. Richardson craning her neck over the man’s shoulder as if she’d never seen such captivating work in her life. Mr. Richardson turned at the call of his name, and his eyes caught sight of Theo’s raised hand. He murmured something to his wife and she nodded, keeping her eyes on the painting. He tapped his Stetson an inch up his forehead and moved on.

Chip felt his fingers tingling.

The moment had come. Hard to believe, a bit, but the plan had come to fruition. Nearly as seamless as he’d imagined.

All he had to do now was remember a few of a dozen key words. Reinhardt. Montage. Monochrome. Deliver the lines as he slid effortlessly into a discussion of his construction achievements, and—

“You’re holding your brush wrong.”