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“I’m sure,” she quickly interrupted her mother. The last thing she wanted was to be reminded of Gavin holding her hand, touching her. She swallowed down the lump in her throat. “Besides, now Sarah is here. I have to get started; I have so much to do. Give Connor a kiss from me?”
“Of course. Do you need help packing up the last of your things? I could come and help anytime.”
“I will let you know. But right now, I have to finish a painting first. I’ll be okay. Please don’t worry about me. Goodbye, Mom.”
“What can I do? You’re hurting. I have to do something!”
“I’ve been through worse, Mom, I’m okay.”
“Please remember to eat and sleep!”
“This from the woman who never sleeps or eats while she’s painting?” Brooke teased.
“I don’t need that much sleep nowadays. But you’re still so young and beautiful. I—”
“I’ll be fine, Mom. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
Brooke ended the call and switched off her phone. One foot in front of the other—that was how she’d survived Adam’s death. That was how she’d survive this.
But Gavin wasn’t dead. Yes, but he’d left her. Literally left her for another woman.
The tears started at the same moment a huge hole opened up inside her. Taking the steps to the top floor two at a time, she didn’t wipe the tears away; she let them fall.
Use the pain. Work through the pain. Paint the pain.This would be her mantra until she was finished.
By the time she had a fresh canvas on the easel and had the oils she wanted to use out, pain had penetrated every cell of her body and her face was wet with tears.
With her gaze flickering between the white canvas and the glass palette in her hand, she mixed oils. Sniffling, she wiped her face. A painting was taking shape in her mind, in her heart, in her soul. All she had to do was get it on the canvas.
Reaching out with her hand, she picked up the palette knife. She’d also use a brush for the more delicate strokes later, but first, some sharp lines. The knife slid over the canvas, leaving dark grey strokes. Frowning, she added another stroke. Grey. She seldom used greys. It was for pain, for heartache, but she’d also experienced so much pleasure over the course of the last two nights.
Pleasure. She had to get that right, as well. The next swipe of her knife left a bright, red stroke. Red. Love. Bleeding. Why was she hurting so much? Could it be she actually bled? In a trance, she looked down at herself. No, she was fine. The pain was just so unbearable.
Her hand moved swiftly, securely over the canvas. She stopped thinking and let her feelings bleed through her hand and palette knife onto the canvas until she wasn’t sure where her pain ended and the painting began.
––––––––
Gavin hammered on herfront door. “Brooke!”
He’d been calling her and sending messages ever since Sarah had left, but all he’d been able to reach was her voicemail. She was working and had probably switched off her phone, but surely she had to hear the knocking on her door? Why wouldn’t she open her door?
Stepping down from the porch, he looked up toward the second floor. The windows of the room she used as a studio were open, so she should be here. What the hell?
“Brooke!” This time he yelled. Why didn’t she answer?
With his eyes on the window, he called her again on her phone. Still just a voice message. Damn it to hell. Dread was building up inside of him. Why wouldn’t she talk to him?
“Brooke!” He sprinted up the steps and knocked on the door with his fist again. And waited. Nothing.
Maybe she wasn’t here. Maybe she was on the ranch. He was dialing Eleanor’s number as he raced back to his SUV.
“Gavin?” Different to other times, her voice was cool. Very cool.
He started his car. “Eleanor, thank goodness! Is Brooke on the ranch?”
“No.”
“So where is she?”
