Page 33 of Everything We Left Behind

I glanced at the painting she admired, a surfer riding a colossal wave. I’d taken an impressionistic approach, using palette knives. The canvas was a study in blue, the surfer a weightless body as though he were flying down the wave’s glassy surface. Which was the feeling surfers described when they caught the ultimate wave, and what I set out to achieve in my painting. That feeling of floating on air.

She moved to the next painting, another rider skimming the crest of a smaller wave ahead of the fold, his body a silhouette against the setting sun. “The unity of your scenes and hues ... the approach you take ... your perspective ... the overall tone ... they convey ...” She tapped a curved finger against her chin and looked askance at me. “I’m trying to find the right words.”

I rested my hands on my hips. “Try this. How do the paintings make you feel?”

“Make mefeel?” Lips, tinted the color of the pink lemonade Julian loved to drink, parted. She swiveled her neck back to the painting. She was quiet for a moment. “It makes me wish I’d joined my sons when they surfed.”

I glanced down at the glazed concrete floor, hiding my smile at the image of Carla on a surfboard. I cleared my throat behind a fist, my brows rising. “You want to surf?”

She looked appalled. “Goodness, no.” Her shoulders rose and fell on a resigned breath. She plucked a promotional postcard from the holder beside the painting. “I had no interest watching them. It’s not as though they’d do anything productive with it.”

Like compete at master-level tournaments.I bit into my lower lip, trying not to pick apart Carla in the way she analyzed my paintings. Every interest and activity of Julian’s fascinated me, and it would be the same with Marcus as he grew older.

She flipped the card over, read the painting’s description, then tucked it back into its slot. “You have a bold and fresh style. Your brushwork is very skilled.”

“You sound like an art critic.” And critical of her sons, which might explain why she vacationed alone. She said she’d once had three sons. She hadn’t said they’d died.

She smoothed a hand over cool silver hair and patted the flyaway pieces into place. Tied at the nape, her hair fell in a straight line parallel to her rigid spine. Carla’s posture and refined features spoke volumes. As cliché as it sounded, she came from money.

“I’m not a critic. I try not to be.”

My eyes narrowed slightly as a thought occurred to me. Assuming she did come from money, her youth would have been filled with dance recitals and music lessons. Art lessons. I looked at her fine-boned hands. “You’re an artist.”

She laughed as though my statement were ludicrous. She slowly shook her head. “Not for a long time. Not since before—” She stalled and walked away.

“I bet you used to paint.”

“In another life.” Her hand fluttered over a driftwood carving of a fishing boat. She lifted her face to look over at me. “I haven’t painted since I was younger than you.”

“Why did you stop?”

She shrugged a delicate shoulder.

An idea formed and I grinned broadly. I clapped my hands, the noise a loud echo in the gallery. She startled. I thrust a finger in her direction. “You have to paint again. Right now.”

Her mouth fell open, her expression almost comical.

“It’s never too late to learn to paint. Or, in your case, start again.”

Her hand plucked the top button on her blouse. “But ... but ... I don’t paint.”

“You used to. Why not start again? You’re on vacation.”

The corners of her mouth angled down. She clasped her hands at her chest, fingers interlaced. She was nervous, maybe a little scared. What had made her give up her art?

The need to ease her discomfort had me closing the distance between us in two long strides. I grabbed her hands. Her fingers felt as if she’d been outside far north of here in cool, brittle air. I gave her hands a reaffirming squeeze. “I have a studio upstairs where I teach classes. Pia!” I called over my shoulder. Carla tensed and I gave her a quick smile.

Pia, my receptionist, peeked over the worn pages of her romance novel.Dios!I wish she’d hide the cover from our clients. “Watch the shop,” I told her. “I’m teaching Señora Carla how to paint again.”

“Sí, Carlos.” She grinned at Carla before her face disappeared behind the book.

Carla pressed her lips into a thin line of disapproval.

I bent my arm and pulled her hand through, then gestured toward the door. The studio’s entrance was up a flight of stairs outside. “This way.”

Her step faltered when we reached the courtyard. She glanced up the spiral metal staircase. “I’m not so sure about this ...”

I raised a finger. “One painting, then I won’t bother you again.”

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