Page 14 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

Bets winced. “We Irish have plenty of mold from the damp. Anyway, I’m taking my positive mindset off to let you mingle. We’re glad you and Jamie are fast friends already, and we’re even more glad you and Greta are here.”

“So are we.”

She watched as Bets strode off with her usual determination. Fast friends, eh? Well, that was one way to describe it. With an over-the-top, out-of-the-ballpark attraction. Funny, she wasn’t bothered that people were talking about them.

She needed some of that daring in her art. The very act of telling Jamie she’d been thinking about taking chances in her art felt like it had opened the door. Funny, the Celts believed trees themselves were doors, gateways.

Her palms started itching, wishing for her notebook so she might draw her Tree of Life. Look into its center, the gateway. See what was standing inside it—the new addition to her work that would take her to the next level she’d been craving.

A sudden peace came over her. It was past time for her to challenge herself—beyond what she’d been imagining—and let her work grow. These people would be behind her. No one was a fiercer proponent of the arts than Linc Buchanan, and this community would back her up. The same could not be said for every community. Some places caved due to public pressure. Some museums or art institutes caved because their grants were going to be pulled or donations would go down. That wasn’t an issue here.

Why wouldn’t she take this opportunity?

Jamie had gotten caught up talking to someone, she noted, and as she wandered over to play with Greta and her puppy, the thought spun in the back of her mind. Her daughter’s ongoing giggles and new kinship with Ollie Donovan needed no interruption, so she mingled like she knew she should. Ellie and Kathleen were eager to include her as they rested against their handsome husbands. She met Liam O’Hanlon, Bets’ son, and decided he could inspire a pirate portrait, what with the gold earring in his left ear. Jamie finally appeared, bringing her the whiskey like he’d promised, and then his brother and sister-in-law joined them. Within seconds, he was holding his new niece, Emeline, who cooed sleepily at him with her big blue eyes.

Blue eyes must run in the Fitzgerald family, although Jamie’s brother, Carrick, had eyes that were more Payne’s grey than cobalt. His wife, Angie—the American painter who’d been one of the arts center’s first teachers—had an infectious sense of humor, and they spoke about her recent pregnancy and birth as well as her nudes. She made painting them sound so easy and fun—nothing like the angst that had driven her mother’s painting. Then again, some of her mother’s most famous nudes had been inspired by her volatile marriage with Sophie’s father and a Ferris wheel of betrayals.

Suddenly the door opened in Sophie’s mind and she could see what was in the center of a tree. A goddess. Happily pregnant with child. And she was nude.

Her mind started doing somersaults. Yes. What was more beautiful than a nude woman pregnant with child?

Sophie had always thought she’d been her most beautiful when carrying Greta. She used to embrace her round abdomen and send all her love to the baby inside her. Every child should be so loved from the start, and so often it was not the case. She hadn’t been, she knew. Her mother had seen her as an interruption to her work and still told stories about how challenging it had been to paint with a large belly.

She mulled it over as she sipped her whiskey. Her art had always been about spreading beauty and magic and love. This would go further and say more. What could be more natural than a pregnant woman nude? In glass?

Excitement raced through her veins like quicksilver. This piece would say something she’d held inside her a long time and in her way.

“You’re somewhere else.”

Jamie.

She looked over to the right to find him watching her with a warm smile. “I had a flash of inspiration. I’ll need to think it through. The dimensions. The angles. Heck, the colors. Oh, stop me! I’ll talk your ear off.”

“Talk away, but perhaps we should get you and Greta settled at my home. It’s getting late and I wasn’t sure if she needed a bath or…”

Right. His home. Yes, that’s where she was going. “Good idea. Let’s make our excuses.” God, she was acting like they were a couple. “I’ll meet you outside in fifteen.”

He bit his lip like he was holding back laughter. “Or you can just start walking to the door. I’ll follow.”

“Oh.” Was it that easy? Her ex had always insisted on setting a timeframe for such things. But then again, he was an exacting man, more anal than a red-butted baboon.

“But I doubt you’ll be leaving in fifteen, Sophie.” His grin was contagious. “We Irish like to linger.”

Turned out he was right. Every time she stopped to say goodbye to people, they’d start to tell her a story, none funnier than Brady McGrath. Ellie was a lucky woman for sure. Then Sandrine had wanted to fuss over her, Eoghan fussing right along with her. When she finally started walking toward the door, hand in hand with Greta, the puppy managed to jump out of Ollie’s arms and race over, barking in little pips. Jamie just scooped the puppy up and took him over to Kade, who clapped him on the back. He had a knowing grin on his face, almost like—

She turned back around. Everyonewaswatching them leave—together—wide smiles on their faces. She found herself smiling back, her cheeks flushing slightly.

The late August night air was cold, much cooler than it was in Provence at this time of year. As she and Greta followed Jamie down the narrow roads, she paid attention to driving on the left side. His house was only six minutes from Bets’, and for that she was grateful. She was starting to feel the effects of the day.

The front porch light was on, and it showed a nice cottage painted white, like it seemed all the houses were painted in Ireland. One story, it boasted a single navy blue door and three big windows, two to the right and one to the left. There was a small garden, and she could smell the roses as they headed up the sidewalk.

“My mother’s work,” he said, gesturing to the plants.

“Maybe we can pick some roses for a vase tomorrow,” Greta said, walking slowly as she took things in.

“My table would be the better for it,” he said, opening the front door and turning on the lights. “I’ll make sure to give you a key, although I never lock it. You might prefer to if it’s your habit.”

“It is,” she said, smelling fresh laundry and a trace of pine as she stepped inside with Greta.

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