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They walked across the sand and back to the tiny path that snaked up to the garden.
“Is everything you make as good as your lemon meringue pie?”
“I hope so.” The path was steep, and she was already out of breath. She needed to make time in her life to take more exercise.
“In that case, invite me to dinner.” He held out his hand and pulled her up the last section of the path.
She hadn’t planned to cook, but for some reason she liked the idea of cooking dinner for Finn. She’d had a more honest conversation with him in the last hour than she’d had with anyone in a long time. His company had lifted her mood. Why not? He’d obviously been a good neighbor to her mother and she would thank him by cooking him something delicious.
“Are you allowed out without security?”
“You can protect me.” He smiled. “I’ll walk across the fields. No one will see me.”
The dogs bounded round the garden, snarling, barking and tumbling over each other as they played.
“In that case come for dinner on Friday.” It would be a chance to indulge her love of cooking, and she hadn’t done that in a while. Meal preparation was usually another chore at the end of a long list. “What’s your favorite food.”
He picked up the cups they’d abandoned on the table and carried them through to the kitchen. “I eat everything. I’ll bring wine. We can discuss the painting you’re going to do for me.”
Liza was already planning dinner. The heat wave was predicted to continue, so they could eat outdoors. She’d use vegetables from her mother’s garden.
“Here—” Finn handed her the bag she’d brought. “I’m glad you came over.”
So was she. It had stopped her stewing on what was happening with her family and made her think about life in a way she hadn’t before.
Feeling lighter, she’d walked back down his drive, along the lane and across the field that led to Oakwood Cottage.
She stayed in the house long enough to put the bag in the kitchen and pick up her car keys.
What had he said?
You have a corporate look about you. I wouldn’t have guessed artist in a million years.
Her clothes didn’t reflect who she was, they reflected the life she lived.
Having a neutral wardrobe with pieces that matched meant she had fewer decisions to make in a day that was packed with them. What would she choose to wear if she wasn’t driving the girls around, rushing to the supermarket, teaching a class?
Determined to find out, she drove to the village, parked the car and walked along the twisty high street until she reached the small boutique that was nestled between a bookshop and the deli.
With a touch of defiance, she pushed open the door. When was the last time she’d shopped for herself? Too long ago.
The shop was cool and spacious, with mirrors covering two walls. For a moment Liza saw herself as others probably did. Straight blond hair that settled on her shoulders, a narrow face and blue eyes. If she had to find one word to describe her look it would be ordinary. Her clothes didn’t say “look at me,” they said “don’t look at me.” And it wasn’t even as if she intended to send any message at all with the way she dressed. She had enough to do without thinking about messages.
“May I help you?” A young woman with cropped red hair and immaculate makeup emerged from a room at the back. “We have more stock in the back if you can’t find your size.”
Liza felt a moment of insecurity, and dismissed it. She was an artist. She knew color. She knew shape. She knew what looked good. She didn’t need help with that. All she needed to do was give herself permission to be that person and allow her creative side some freedom. It had been suppressed for far too long.
She headed to the racks of clothes, studied each piece and then selected a few items. And then a few more.
When she finally left the store half an hour later, she was carrying two large bags filled with a selection of pretty sundresses, linen tops in pastel shades, shorts, shoes, flip-flops for the beach and a pair of oversize silver earrings made by a local artist.
Happy Anniversary, Liza.
She’d tried on outfit after outfit. Even trying them on made her feel summery and relaxed, although she couldn’t use that excuse for her most extravagant purchase.
“How do you feel about red?” The woman had handed the dress to Liza. “With your coloring, it would look fantastic.”
The dress was red, strappy and totally unsuited to her lifestyle.
