Page 40 of Love Among Vines

The door creaked open. The whirring sound of a fan came from the door across the hallway, but there was no sign of movement.

She clicked her tongue for Penny and hurried downstairs as quietly as she could with a bulky suitcase and backpack full of wine. She slid her flip-flops on and was just about to head for the front door when the windows in the dining room caught her eye. She stopped in her tracks.

The sun was rising, sending streaks of pink and orange into the powder blue sky. A simple wooden dock stood fifty yards from her. The lake wound away from her like a serpent tinged with gold.

Full-body tingles exploded up and down her arms and legs. Even her scalp was tingling. Her backpack hit the floor with a thump. She dug through it and pulled out emergency art supplies. All she had was a cheap palette of watercolor paint, brushes that were barely fit for a kindergarten class, and a measly stack of cold pressed watercolor paper.

Leaving everything else behind, she pushed her way through the double doors that led to the patio and ran toward the water’s edge. She took a couple quick pictures to preserve the scene, then darted down the dock.

Shit, she hadn’t brought any cups of water out to rinse the brush. Lake water would have to do. If she didn’t capitalize on this sensation right this second, it could slip away for good.

She dropped to her knees and trapped the paper beneath rocks from the shoreline. Her brush dipped into the glass surface of the lake, sending ripples dancing. It had been a long time since she’d used watercolors. But it felt like the perfect medium to capture the sun on the water.

She glided the brush across the page, painting just with the lake water. Dabbing her brush in the yellow pot, she paused for a moment before touching it to the page. A yellow sun blossomed. Next she added tinges of pink, then orange. They bled together, a perfect pastel blanket draping over the verdant hills.

Wind tugged at her hair, and she shivered. But not even six inches of unseasonal snow could have pulled her away from this simple act of creation.

Her brush slid over the paper, bleeding and blending blues, yellow, oranges. Tinges of purple for the fading night. Shadows and deep greens to mark the rows of the vineyard across the lake.

Her heart hammered in her chest. She was right. There was something here—in the soil, the water, the air. The magic of the worn wood beneath her fingertips. The brush moved seemingly of its own accord, rendering her surroundings in miniature.

Finally, her bristles hit the dock. She leaned back on her heels, carefully lifting the page to inspect it.

It was far from perfect. It wasn’t the mixed media with a cheeky name and snappy social commentary that had made her semi-famous. But it was a start. And it was so, so much better than nothing.

She laughed out loud, clutching the paper like it was a lifeline.

“I thought you left,” Rett said from behind her.

She shrieked, and her grip loosened on the paper. The wind ripped it out of her hands and sent it flying into the lake.

“Wait—were you? Oh shit.” In seconds, Rett had ripped off his T-shirt and sweatpants. His footsteps thundered down the short dock, rattling the palette, and he leapt into the water. Small waves lapped at the shore.

He swam for the paper, snatching it from the water and holding it overhead.

“I’m so sorry,” he sputtered. “Is it ruined?”

It almost certainly was. Wet-on-wet technique didn’t usually mean hurling freshly-painted paper into a lake.

It was a bummer that her first breakthrough in two years had ended up waterlogged and clutched the wrong way in the hands of an untrained person. But it didn’t matter. Because if she could do watercolor, maybe she could find her way back.

He slapped the painting onto the dock and swam past it, climbing to his feet on the shoreline. Still dripping, he plodded down the dock and collapsed on his knees next to her.

“Shit. I’m so sorry, Jade.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not. This was probably a breakthrough for you, and I scared you and made you drop it into the damn lake.” He buried his hands in his hair.

“I mean it. It’s okay. This wouldn’t have been sellable anyway.”

Goose bumps rose on his skin. “What do you mean? It’s stunning.”

“I’m not known for watercolors. I doubt the gallery would have had much interest.”

“Who cares what you’re known for? It’s part of you.”

She smiled. “I wish it was as simple as that.”

---