Page 46 of The Summer Swap

She put her hand to her mouth.

“You’re trying to find something polite to say,” Lily muttered. “Sorry. I knew I shouldn’t have shown you. I’m just an amateur. I splodge paint on paper. That’s it.” Lily reached for the painting, but Cecilia caught her arm.

“Leave it. Don’t touch it.” She found it hard to speak, but she knew she had to. “Lily, it’s stunning.”

“Yes, it’s a great frame. It could make a stick man look good.”

“Not the frame. The painting.” Her mind was racing. Who should she talk to about this?

It was so long since she’d been here she was no longer part of the community. Did Seth’s family still own the gallery on Main Street? Probably not. Seth would be in his seventies. He was probably enjoying retirement somewhere.

She had no connections locally, and that was her own fault. But she knew, without vanity, that she could show up at any gallery and that they would pay her attention. But she’d need more than one painting. “Show me everything you have.”

“Honestly, I don’t think—”

“Lily! Show me.”

“You’re very bossy all of a sudden.” Grumbling, face pink, Lily lifted the rest of the paintings from the drawer. “A couple of these are pastels. I was experimenting. I won’t show you the oil. That was a disaster. If it had been fabric, it would have been turned into a scrunchie.”

“Give me the oil, too. Give me everything. I want to see all your ‘disasters.’” Cecilia spread them out, one by one. Her hands shook. “Who have you shown these to?”

“No one. Who would I show them to? Also, why?”

“And before that? Who saw your work?”

“Er—my mother. She always said, ‘very nice, honey,’ because that’s what mothers are supposed to say. Admiring what your child produces is sort of in the parental job description, isn’t it? I sketched a bit during lectures at college to relieve the boredom, but as I was supposed to be studying organic chemistry at the time the professor wasn’t impressed.”

“What about school? Your teachers didn’t say anything?”

“Not really.”

“Criminal.” Cecilia scanned the paintings and selected three. “We’re going to frame these three.” She almost confessed that she was going to show them to someone, but she stopped herself. If she was wrong, if she’d lost her touch, then Lily never needed to know. “Have you visited the gallery on Main Street?”

“There are several galleries on Main Street. You have to be more specific.”

“It used to be called Atlantic Art.” She’d spent hours there, soaking in the atmosphere, feeling part of something.

“It’s still there. I gaze at the windows all the time. They have wonderful paintings. And sculpture.”

The way Lily was looking at her made her wonder if the whole of her past was showing in her face.

“Maybe I’ll pay a visit.” She thought about Seth. She’d thought about him a lot since his card had arrived. “I used to know people, although I doubt they’re still there.”

“You’re reconnecting with the locals. That’s nice, but I don’t see what it has to do with my paintings.”

“Nothing at all.” She didn’t want to make Lily nervous or raise her hopes, particularly if nothing came of it. Maybe Seth wouldn’t be there. Maybe whoever owned the place now wouldn’t agree with her assessment of Lily’s work. “I’m glad you showed me these. They’re good, Lily. Better than good.” She saw a brief flicker of hope and excitement in Lily’s eyes and then it was gone.

“You’re just saying that because you’re afraid that if you’re honest I will bring back woodworm-infested bookshelves into your home.”

She had so little faith in herself. So little belief. But maybe that was what happened when you’d been trapped in the wrong pen.

“You may not be a doctor, Lily, but you’re definitely an artist. And don’t accuse me of being kind. I’m never kind. You have real talent. Raw, but full of promise.”

“You are kind. You’re letting me stay here.”

“And in return you are transforming the place and keeping me fed.” Cecilia took the paintings one by one and stacked them carefully. “I think you’re looking at artist in narrow terms. There are many different ways of satisfying that creative urge. For example, these days I mostly focus on my garden—” Cecilia frowned and turned her head. “Did you hear something? A car?”

“Didn’t hear anything. No one comes out this far.”

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