Page 39 of Boats, Moats, & Root Beer Floats

I grinned and leaned back in my chair, the contract and Ras’ call forgotten. “Tell me more.”

“Ah, she called here looking for your friend’s contact. His department. Quite the stir up out there in Scotland. Is she Scottish? Didn’t sound it. But what a firecracker, eh? Got us all in a tizz around here.”

“That she is.”

“Alright. Well you take care of her.”

“Ah, that’s the thing. We– missed each other, leaving Scotland. Did you get her number?”

Frankie laughed. “Her number? Oh, my boy. She’s not four blocks away. Came here on foot, nearly blew my door off its hinges. Would you like her address? She invited me for a cup of dandelion tea and offered to teach me to paint on the weekends.” He laughed again at the absurdity of it all.

“That’s her alright,” I said dryly. “Yes, I'll grab that address please.”

That call ended well. I tossed my phone in my hand, and my lips twitched.Two more to make.The first was the easiest one, just to double check.

The second one…well.

“Bettina? I’d like to make you an offer.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LINDY

I left the blue painting at Witnot and regretted it. Mind, the canvas would have been a pain to bring home on the flight back, but I could have sold it in a gallery locally. Besides, it feltrightto leave it with Al, who was under instruction to keep the door shut and not to show Covin its location under any instructions.

Then I sneaked out like a child running away from home early on a Tuesday morning and caught the ferry across to the mainland. A bus trip and two flights that hopped across the ocean later and I was home.

The whole trip felt both momentous and an utter waste at the same time.

I loved Scotland. I missed the Christmas tree forest. I missed Al.

I’d fallen in love with Covin.

And we never did get our picnic.

A whole lot more happened, too, but those were the parts I couldn’t get past. My heart refused to admit it couldn’t be glued back together no matter how hard I tried to make it work.

Until suddenly I was back at my tiny little house I inherited back in SoCal, with a blank canvas in front of me, staring at tinywhite caps with no more inspiration in mind than I had before I left.

I was drained. Empty.

What I gained in Scotland I also lost in the same period.

And the only thing I felt now was sore in the chest, a nauseating feeling that roiled in my stomach no matter how much I ate or didn’t, and a butt that went numb on the seat I used as I eyeballed my canvas and dared it to be something epic.

None of that changed.

Not a damn thing.

I let out a sigh as tears blurred the same white canvas I’d been staring at for the last few days and dipped my brush into gray paint that threatened to congeal and set for the duration I’d left it unattended.

May as well. It’s not doing anything else right now.

I made a few strokes, then added some black. Why not? It wasn’t like color was what I needed right now. The gray merged with the black and after a while I added some white. Even the tiniest, finest hint of blue. Not the color of the bay, but the glistening sort of a clear sky that reflected over the loch the day I left.

Or snow beneath an impossible cornflower blue clear sky.

Damnit, I missed that painting.

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