Page 21 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
She set her stool down, feeling alive in a way she hadn’t in forever. “What am I supposed to say to sheep? Good morning?”
One bleated, her dark black eyes staring at Angie, while the other two lowered their heads to tear at the thick grass.
“Great! Now I’m talking to sheep.”
Setting herself up didn’t take long. She plopped herself on the stool and pulled out one of her mid-size Arches paint pads. If any of her students knew their stuff, she’d have to explain that, yes, she used watercolor paper because she loved them for acrylics when she was paintingplein air. Her fold-up stepping stool from home doubled as a small table, and she laid out her travel-size acrylic paint kit and brushes. She unscrewed the lid of the small mason jar she’d filled with water yesterday, andvoila, she was ready to reclaim her artistic brilliance. God, it felt good!
She studied the tree, taking in the finer details she needed to bring it to life. The thick trunk. The way it leaned slightly to the right. Taking a deep breath, she told her imagination to roam.
It didn’t move.
She picked up her medium Golden Taklon paintbrush, hoping it would fire up her senses.
Nothing.
She feathered her fingertips with the bristles. This tree… What was it saying? What did it representto her?
“I’m talking to myself like I’m one of my students,” she said to the sheep, who chewed thoughtfully as they stared at her. “I need to just paint.”
Looking back at the sycamore, she followed the body of the tree up, noting the thick branches, some covered in moss. Good, moss was green. Moss represented…
What exactly? She strained for the story she was supposed to draw, the passion, the drama.
Her mind didn’t see anything but a tree.
“Shit.”
Her imagination was still gone.
“Don’t panic, Angie,” she told herself, grabbing her tea and taking a desperate sip. “Oh, Jesus, that’s strong. Note to self. Don’t leave this tea bag in.”
She set aside the tea with a pursed mouth, wishing she’d brought a bottle of water. Next time. Or hell, maybe she should start bringing a glass of wine with her like she used to when she’d painted in France and Italy. The first time one of her fellow artists had pulled a wine bottle and glasses out of his painting bag, she’d dubbed him a genius.
She snorted to herself. Megan would love that. Her sister didn’t even want her to dance to Bon Jovi in their cousin’s house.
“It’s not that I’m an alcoholic. It’s Ireland.” She met the gaze of a munching sheep. “Don’t people drink a lot here?”
“They do, Yank,” a male voice said. “Most start at dawn, in fact.”
She closed her eyes.You have got to be kidding.
She looked over her shoulder as he strode toward her…
Oh, Jesus, how did anyone roll out of bed looking likethat? His vine black hair looked tousled from the wind, and his jaw sported a five-o’clock shadow like he hadn’t shaved. God, her fingertips wanted to stroke the manly texture of his jaw as she fell into his slumberous Payne’s grey eyes.No!
She gave herself a shake and reached for a paintbrush so she’d have something in her hands. “I figured you’d be milking cows or something this morning, Carrick.”
His snort made a sheep bleat. “I’m in sheep. Not cattle. I start my rounds at dawn. I thought you’d be asleep.”
So he hadn’t meant to come upon her either. Good. He hadn’t seemed happy about seeing her at Cousin Bets’ place from the way he’d glowered at her before leaving. “I do my best painting at this hour. Which is why I didn’t hear you coming.”
He walked around her until he could look over her shoulder. “I can see that. A modern painting, eh? Minimalist. White only.”
She swiveled on her stool to gaze up at him as the sheep trotted off. My God, he was tall and big. “You sound like you know art.”
Oh, please don’t let him.
“I’ve been to some art shows and museums and the like here and in Europe,” he said, his eyes locking on hers. “I like art. I admit I was curious about you when Bets told the village you were coming. She showed us some of your paintings on her phone at the pub. You’re good.”
