Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 104820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 524(@200wpm)___ 419(@250wpm)___ 349(@300wpm)
Even if the idea did seem tempting every time Arch flashed his perfect smile.
Chapter Eleven
Tessa went to the big window. The view really was breathtaking. The golden beach, kids making sandcastles, teens catching the last of the sun. She watched the walkers and runners, dogs greeting one another and chasing after balls, surfers riding the waves on the horizon. It was truly idyllic. She couldn’t believe that this was where she was going to wake up each morning.
She tore her eyes away from the scene, and her gaze fell on the one bag she’d yet to touch. Although she was alone, she surreptitiously hauled the backpack into the open room that was set up like a library, with a telescope pointed out the huge picture window. She unzipped it cautiously, her heart hammering in that familiar way. Nothing gave her the kind of sweet anticipation that taping a fresh sheet of toothy watercolor paper to the easel and filling her pans with paint provided. She pulled out a drop cloth to protect the floor from any drips. She set up by the window and then admired the scene before her.
When Arch was a bit stronger, she’d go outside to paint, but today she wanted to stay within calling range in case he needed her.
Somehow she knew that he would respect her privacy. Besides, it would be really difficult for him to get up the stairs without her help. If he needed something, he would call. Which meant she could finally relax and do her favorite thing in the world.
First, she mixed her paints, trying to re-create the golden tones of the sand below. The blank paper didn’t intimidate her. Just the opposite. She loved the feeling of a fresh start. The moment where anything could be put on the expanse of white. A whole world of possibilities opened up before her.
The first brushstrokes sent shivers of happiness through her body. She felt most herself while painting, even though she kept it secret from everyone. The very fact it was a secret was a large part of what made it so liberating. She didn’t need to worry about technique or style—or even her color palette—because no one would ever see the painting.
It was just for her.
Creating art was a compulsion, not a choice. It was how she made sense of the world and processed her emotions. It was a totally personal enterprise, and as far as she was concerned, it would always stay that way.
Her husband had always said that she had no talent and that her paintings were amateurish, but she’d painted anyway in secret. It was her art that had helped her through the difficult times when he was so ill and demanding. No patient she’d had since had been as demanding… or as angry. It was as though he’d blamed Tessa for his illness.
Painting had been a calming influence on her and a way of getting all her emotions out.
Unfortunately, his words still rang in her ears: You might have gotten the love for painting, but you sure as hell didn’t get the talent to go with it.
But as the paintbrush began to guide her movements, she allowed herself to question whether Lewis had been right. There was a part of her, way down deep inside, that wondered if there was more to her work than he had realized. Sometimes she looked at her paintings and felt proud of the work that had come out of her, unguided by any training or schooling. There was something truthful in the art she made. Put most simply, it was the way she uniquely saw the world.
But those proud moments never lasted long, not when her husband’s harsh words still rang in her ears and down into her heart too. He might have died, but she had a feeling his cruel words about her passion for creating art never would.
She thought now of the artwork Arch had so informally hanging in his house. There was the gorgeous Kalinda Lawles they’d talked about, of course. But she was sure she’d also spotted an original Chagall in the downstairs guest room and a Georgia O’Keeffe above the stairs. And she hardly dared believe that the small, square canvas hanging in the living room might be a Picasso… could it?
Of course, she’d never be that good—those artists were true masters of the craft—but Tessa had made her peace with her private painting a long time ago. At least, that’s what she always told herself.
She thought again about Arch’s collection. He had a keen eye, not just for painting, but for all art. There was a blue and pink Tracey Emin neon sign in the hallway, which she’d yet to see lit. Tracey Emin was a British artist, and she was impressed that Arch had her piece on his wall. The handwritten words You Loved Me Like a Distant Star had made her swoon just looking at them.