Page 9 of Our Secret Summer

“It’s all good, Raffo. Really.” Dylan supposed she wouldn’t have to bare her breasts to Raffo again any time soon. “If anything, I take it as a huge compliment.”

“Thank you for being so chill about this.” Raffo finished the last of her wine.

“No problem at all.” If only all life’s surprises were this much fun.

“To be clear, this work will be just for me. You can have it when I’m done—if I manage to finish it, that is.”

“Let’s see what happens.” Dylan relaxed into her chair. These two evenings with Raffo had been a gazillion times more pleasant than the ones she’d spent on this deck alone, fretting over her mistakes and how to go back to real life.

CHAPTER 9

It was almost laughable how little Raffo had to try. As though last night’s conversation, awkward though it was, had freed her from whatever obstacles lingered in her subconscious that had kept her from painting.

She had awoken with the first light and sneaked downstairs like a child on Christmas morning, all glee and bubbly anticipation. She had prepared a new canvas, mixed her colors as though she hadn’t also lost the ability to create unique color combinations that gave her paintings that special Raffo-edge—her most prized quality in every review of her work. After Mia had left, her life and also her art had lost its luster, draining away the spectacular colors she was known for into mere shades of gray.

Of course, it was utterly ridiculous that Raffo had been in Big Bear less than forty-eight hours before she felt like herself—like an actual painter—again.

Maybe she really did just have to get out of the city, away from her neighborhood, and her studio, and everything else that made up her life—and made her think of Mia. Maybe Connor had divined this. Or maybe he’d been desperate and had suggested it as just another viable option, which it was. Who wouldn’t want to retreat to a gorgeous, empty lake house in Big Bear? Except, of course, that the house wasn’t empty.

It also wasn’t rocket science to Raffo that Dylan being Connor’s mother, or just being a mother, filled a fraction of the massive mother-shaped hole in her own life.

Raffo went to work and to her delight—and the biggest relief she’d felt in months—she could access that place inside herself where she went to produce her best work effortlessly. Painting itself was never effortless. It was always that very peculiar combination of hard and not-so-hard-because-it’s-what-she-did. It always left her exhausted, but only in the best kind of way. It always took a lot from her, but not without giving back double to her in joy and pride and artistic satisfaction.

Raffo wished every single person in the universe could know the special joy of creating art, of making something that couldn’t exist without you being there to make it. The piece she was working on now was such a perfect example of how creation, how making something brand-new, was the sum of so many different things. It was the perfect illustration of cause and consequence in a life that was never always good, but, at the very least, always surprising.

Mia breaking up with her, in hindsight, wasn’t that much of a surprise, yet it had still shocked her—stunned her into the most dreadful listlessness. And although she was angry with Mia for how she had handled their break-up—with the charade of an open relationship—Raffo stood here, in Big Bear, in front of a canvas, sketching the first lines of Dylan’s breasts. How was that for surprising? How was that for the incredible healing powers of art?

She couldn’t help a chuckle as she made her first attempt at Dylan’s nipple. Obviously, accuracy wasn’t very important. She’d only seen Dylan’s breasts for a split second. This wasn’t an anatomically correct drawing. Yet, Raffo had seen enough. And it wasn’t just Dylan’s breasts she was using as inspiration. It was her face, with those impossible blue eyes and that always-kind smile and those infuriatingly cute freckles around her nose that she wanted to paint as well.

Raffo focused on the sketch that would be the basis for her painting. She lost track of time as the contours of the image that burned so brightly in her mind made their way onto her canvas. She had no idea what time it was when she emerged from her state of utter focus to the sound of her stomach rumbling as though she hadn’t eaten in days. Complete concentration always made her extra hungry. She downed her tools and went into the kitchen in search of something to eat.

Dylan sat smiling brightly at the kitchen island and a wave of something warm engulfed Raffo. The simple truth was that Raffo really liked Dylan. As far as she could tell, there was nothing to dislike about her—even though Raffo had to lie to Connor for her, but that was almost too easy to forget under the circumstances. Both of them had fled real life and had quickly found themselves in this sunny bubble on the shore of Big Bear Lake. And Raffo was already painting again—Connor would never be able to object to that.

“Morning.” Dylan hadn’t bothered combing her hair and her golden locks looked deliciously tousled. “I didn’t dare disturb you. You looked so… into it.”

“Oh, Dylan, please. This is your house. You should be able to go wherever you want whenever you want. I don’t mind if you come out when I’m painting. Truth be told, I might not even notice.” Raffo settled at the island opposite Dylan. “Promise me that you won’t let me stop you. I’d hate to be a nuisance.”

“You’re anything but a nuisance to me.”

Raffo tilted her head, trying to gauge the meaning behind Dylan’s words, but maybe there just wasn’t anything deeper behind them.

“It’s such a joy to have you here. I wasn’t sitting here smiling into my morning coffee like this before you arrived, I can tell you that.” Dylan shot her an actual wink. “To come downstairs and see you paint on my deck is such an enormous treat.”

“You say that now.” Raffo didn’t really know how to respond to that wink. “But you might get sick of it after a couple of days.”

“Not a chance in hell.” It felt as though Dylan couldn’t keep her eyes off Raffo. “How did it go?”

“Really well.” The words burst from her with unexpected brightness, her hands animated as she spoke.

“I can tell. You’re like a different person this morning. Your energy is… I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s very special.”

“That’s because, for me, painting is the most powerful drug on the planet.” Raffo’s stomach grumbled again.

They both burst into a giggle at the sound.

Dylan slid off her stool. “Let me get you some breakfast.”

“Dylan, no. I can get my own breakfast.”

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