Page 39 of Against Ebony Irish Seas

Greta opened the front door with her mother behind her, and he swore he could hear his steady footsteps as he walked on the path toward them. The rightness of it blew through him, and when he crossed the threshold, it was as if something had changed within him. Like he was truly coming home. His whole life had changed in only a few days, and yet his Irish heart knew love could be like that.

“Hello, Greta,” he said, holding out his hand, which she took with a smile and a warm greeting. “It’s been ages.”

That had her giggling. “I just saw you, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“You’re so right.” Then he shifted his gaze to her mother, whose eyes were as bright as spring fields. “Hello, Sophie.”

“Hi, Jamie.” She gave him a dazzling smile. “Welcome back to your home.”

“Yes, welcome back,” Greta added, erupting into more giggles. “I’m waiting to go over to Eoghan’s house to be with him and Sandrine so you and Mama can work. You should see her drawings for her piece. They’resobeautiful. I told her I think she has the perfect one to show Ms. McGowan, but she’s still fussing. Maybe you can convince her.”

“Greta’s my best art critic,” Sophie explained after a shrug.

“You’re always telling me that you should never overthink art, Mama,” her daughter told her with a maturity that set her apart from others her age.

“I should probably listen to myself then,” Sophie said with a laugh, stroking her daughter’s head. Shifting her gaze to Jamie, she said, “See what you think. I’ve been working on the final since Bets and Linc gave me the news about their meeting.”

He hadn’t been fully briefed yet, but he hadn’t needed a long rundown. Malcolm Coveney and his kind were a dime a dozen. Greedy bastards. He couldn’t stand the lot of them.

“I don’t know too much about the workings of fine art,” Jamie said as he shrugged out of his coat and hung it. “I figure only the artist knows when it’s finished. But I’d love to take a look.”

“The artist should, yes,” Sophie said as she picked up a colored drawing and handed it to him. “Perfection and judgment are the death of creativity.”

He tucked that bit of wisdom away and gazed at her drawing. His heart seemed to slow. The beauty of it was palpable, but it was the emotion coming from the pregnant woman cradling her large belly that touched him the most. “I couldn’t begin to guess how you could improve on this. It’s stunning, Sophie. Moving. Powerful. Breathtaking.”

“I told you, Mama,” Greta said, hugging her leg. “I’ll bet Sandrine will agree with me.”

When they dropped Greta off, they brought the drawing with them to show Sandrine, who did indeed love it, but it was Eoghan who sealed it with his tears. “Isn’t art the most wonderful thing in the whole world?”

His question lingered in Jamie’s mind after they left his cottage. That sentiment was what he needed to convey in the children’s arts program.

“You said earlier perfection and judgment are the death of creativity. Well, I must be feeling it. I’m a little nervous about showing you my outline. Bets told me to just do my best, but I’m a teacher. I can’t in good faith only do an outline. The curricula has to support the plan, and that’s where the devil is in the details.”

She touched his arm, her hand lingering in a soothing way. “Thanks for trusting me, Jamie.”

He withdrew his plans from his satchel and handed them to her. “I’ll make us a cup of tea.”

Sinking onto his sofa, she was already reading the first page as he walked into the kitchen. Everything was tidy, he noted, and dishes were drying beside the sink. Another detail about her he liked. He filled the kettle and prepped the cups with Lyons, fighting off his nerves.

When he returned, she didn’t look up until he set the tea service on the coffee table and sat down beside her.

“Your ideas about art and brain development are a great frame.” She tapped the first page. “So many people pooh-pooh art for kids because it’s framed as some elite, hoity-toity pursuit that has no real-world practicality. I mean, what can you do with a suncatcher besides hang it in your window? But when you tell parents that you’re teaching shapes and critical thinking and motor skills? They’re more inclined to listen.”

“I thought so too,” he admitted, nudging the sugar bowl and milk toward her. “I wasn’t sure parents would see the purpose. Some might, but we have a strong bias toward agricultural programs for kids in these parts. Not surprising.”

“Art can be a product of one’s environment, a reflection of it, and a gateway to another world. It can be anything you want it to be.”

“Imagination,” he said, stirring in some sugar after she passed. “It’s hard to teach.”

“It only needs encouragement.” She paged through his papers before stopping toward the back. “I love the depth of your proposal…the way you suggest appropriate curricula for the different age ranges. Teaching teenagers the principles of color, styles of art, and perspective. Guiding younger children to put geometric shapes together to make art. I love it. I mean, it’s a nature walk meets art with the sticks, stones, and pine cones.”

“I like the idea of teaching them that art is everywhere.” He winced, hoping he didn’t sound lame. “When the Yanks first arrived, we used to joke how excited they got seeing a rainbow. We say only the tourists go crazy for them, but I got to thinking that we shouldn’t be so numb to the beauty around us. There’s an old saying in Ireland that’s stuck. You can’t eat a view.”

An absent smile crossed her face. “Hard times can do that, but to me, beauty gives hope that all isn’t lost.”

“Exactly!” He leaned forward, the stirrings of a good discussion racing through him. “Angie and Megan kept talking about the light and the colors—”

“For good reason,” she said with a compelling sigh. “It’s so beautiful here, Jamie. Even though I’m freezing my butt off at the end of August.”

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