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Oh yes, she understood. “I’ve told you, I’m a teacher. I don’t think of myself as an artist.”
“Presumably you thought of yourself that way once?”
She remembered the days when she’d slept with her sketchbook under her pillow. She’d wake at dawn, take her paints down to the beach and sit on the cool damp sand trying to capture the beauty of what she was seeing. It had been her way of channeling all the emotions she couldn’t express in other ways and it had been the one thing about her that had attracted the interest of her mother. They’d never baked together or done any of the things mothers and daughters often did, but Kathleen had always showed interest in Liza’s art. When Liza had won the art award at school her mother had turned up and clapped loudly. Given how rare it was for her mother to appear at a school event, it had been Liza’s proudest moment. That award represented so much more than a recognition of her art, which was why she was so disappointed that her mother had packed it away.
“Yes.” She forced her attention back to the present. “I thought of myself that way.”
“What medium did you work in?”
“Everything. Early on I painted in oils, but later I tended to paint more with watercolor and then pastels. Acrylic, occasionally. I dabbled in mixed medium and I still love to sketch.”
“Do you have any photographs of your work? I’d love to see what you do.”
No one had showed interest in her paintings for years. “I don’t—oh wait—” She brought up a website on her phone. “Years ago I painted a series of oils that they exhibited in a small gallery near here. They still have the photos on their website. Goodness knows why.”
He took the phone from her and was silent long enough for her to wish she hadn’t shown him.
“They’re probably not to your taste, and it was a long time ago—”
“These are stunning. I can smell the sea. The depth of color. And the way you’ve captured the movement of the waves—I bet they all sold?”
“Yes.”
He handed her phone back. “Do you accept commissions?”
“I told you—I haven’t painted anything for years.”
“So maybe it’s time. And what better place to start again?” He rubbed at the shell in his hand. “Do you miss painting?”
“Yes, although I hadn’t thought about it in a while.” But now she was thinking about it. “It would feel selfish to paint when life is so busy.”
“I would call it self-care. We need to make time for the things that are important to us. Here—” He handed her the shell. “Inspiration. You can put it in your studio.”
She slipped the shell into her pocket, feeling as if he’d given her something special and significant. “I don’t have a studio.”
“Where do you prefer to paint?”
“When I was younger I’d paint in the summerhouse at the bottom of my mother’s garden. Big windows. North light. In London, we don’t have the space.” She wasn’t used to talking about herself. Uncomfortable, she bent and rolled her trousers up further and waded into the sea until the water rushed past her ankles. “Is this where you do your best work?”
“Here and Ireland. I have a place in Galway. It belonged to my grandparents on my mother’s side.”
“You’re Irish?”
“American Irish. I was born in California, but we moved back to Galway for a few years when I was in my teens. That was when I got serious about music.” The tide swirled up around his calves. “How about you? Your family aren’t here with you?”
“No. Sean is an architect and he’s in the middle of a big project. And the last thing my twin girls need is to be dragged down to the middle of nowhere.” She didn’t confess that she’d all but run away from them. Or that the girls would have taken the first high-speed train down to the West Country if they’d thought there was a chance of meeting Finn Cool in person.
“Is that why you look sad?”
“I look sad?”
He lifted his hand and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Yes. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say you’re trying hard not to look sad. Also, you’re not painting. Or drawing. Or sculpting. Whatever your chosen form of expression is. And an artist not creating art, is never a good thing. If that part of you lies dormant, you become a shadow of yourself.”
How could this man, this stranger, see something that Sean hadn’t?
When had Sean last asked her what she wanted? When had he last looked at her the way Finn was looking at her now, with such close attention and interest? Was it simply that familiarity blinded a person? Did people see what they’d always seen, rather than what was there?
“I’m tired, that’s all.” Tired. Hurt. Confused.
