Page 92 of Sparking Sara

I blush as he follows me back to my studio. I open the door and gesture to the easel that still holds yesterday’s painting.

Denver doesn’t say a word, so I look over at him. He looks astonished. His jaw has gone slack and his head tilts to the side as he studies the painting. “My God,” he finally says. “Do you know what this is, Sara?”

“Actually, I don’t.”

“It’s me. My family.”

“It’swhat?” I say, completely taken off guard.

He can’t seem to peel his eyes away from the painting. He points to the two children rolling down a hill of snow. “This is Aspen and me.” Then he points to the two adults cheering them on through a snowy blizzard. “These are our parents.”

He finally turns to me. “Sara, this is exactly what I described to you when you were lying in the hospital bed before you woke up.”

I furrow my brow as I look back at the painting. “It is?”

“Yes. Right down to the last detail. You heard me while you were sleeping.”

I shake my head. “But I don’t remember it. I’m not even sure why I painted this. I was thinking about my own parents yesterday and this was the result.”

“It’s incredible,” he says. “I’m simply in awe of your talent.”

I smile sadly. “You may be the only one.”

“Sara, Oliver’s an art dealer. He’s going to be more critical than most. I’m sure you’ll be back up to par in no time at all. And if you aren’t, who cares—because if this isn’t up to par, I’m not sure what the hell is.”

“I’m glad you think so.” I unclamp the painting from the easel and hand it to him.

He studies it again. “I’d love to have it. How much do you want for it? I can’t afford your normal price.”

“It’s yours,” I say. “I’m giving it to you.”

“No.”

“Yes. And no arguing. I’m not taking a penny from you, Denver.”

“Thank you,” he says, tucking the painting under an arm before pulling me into a hug.

“You’re welcome,” I say, looking up at him.

I have an awkward moment where I want to stay in his arms but know I shouldn’t. He pulls away before I do. “There’s someplace I want to take you today after physical therapy.”

“Where?”

“An art gallery. The manager there is a huge fan of yours. Maybe he can help fill in some gaps.”

“That would be great.”

“Do you want to see if Oliver can come?” he asks.

I shake my head. “He can’t. He said he wouldn’t be home until after dinner. Which is good. Because apparently I suck at dinner.”

“What do you mean you suck at dinner?”

“I was never much of a cook when Lydia and I lived together. If we couldn’t order it or put it in the microwave, we didn’t eat. But Oliver told me how much I enjoyed cooking, so I thought I’d try my hand at it.”

“And?”

“And do you know how hard it is to burn spaghetti?”

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