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After stowing her bag in the small trunk of the moped she borrowed from her aunt, Eloise set the painting on the foot platform and secured her helmet before starting the little motorbike. This was how she'd get around the island this summer. She didn't mind. Most people used mopeds in town because parking was expensive and often scarce. Especially where Margaux lived. There were many perks to living by the beach. But as with anything, perks came with drawbacks—traffic being the main one.
Like now, cars and trucks lined the two-lane street, idling and inching forward while the cluster up ahead merged into one lane. Eloise drove into the bike lane. Doing so was against the law, but the local police didn't care, and if they did, they never said anything.
Eloise pulled into the driveway, pushed the kickstand down, and then shut the moped off. She removed her helmet, propped her canvas against the tire, and then gathered her things and went right to her small apartment and up to the second floor, where she would finish her painting. She only had a few details to fill in, and those she had memorized. She had always captured the majestic beauty of the sunset.
As soon as the sun touched the horizon, Eloise remembered why she had always longed to return to Seaport—the sunsets. Sure, in the other places she had lived or visited, they had amazing sunsets, but there was something about the way the sky always turned different hues of pink and red with a mix of blue and yellow.
Eloise sat on the stool and held her paintbrush in her hand. Her thoughts drifted to the man . . . Kiel. Images of him flashed before her. She had spotted him on the beach and knew right away he was a tourist. She had to give him credit. He tried to blend in but having lived in vacation destinations her entire life, tourists had an air about them. It was either the way they looked around at others, how they dropped their stuff and headed right to the water, or how they stood there and soaked everything in. In Kiel’s case, it was the way he tested the water before diving in. Yet, she still asked because she needed to verify her own curiosity.
And then he was there, standing on the boardwalk. It was clear to her he wanted to talk to her but he waited until she finished speaking to one of her high school teachers. Except, Kiel lingered, and she had no choice but to start packing up in hopes he’d come talk to her. It was a dirty and unfortunate trick, but it worked.
He asked her right away what she had painted, and she happily showed him. It wasn't the first time someone had come up to her to see what was on her canvas. Most people were curious and wanted to see what she was doing. Kiel was different. He complimented her work and was more concerned about the fact she hadn't finished the painting. Eloise could've easily stayed, but he would’ve kept her distracted with his smile and the way the right corner of his mouth lifted a bit higher than the left. Or how his voice was a smooth timber sending shivers down her spine. Eloise was thankful for the outside temperature because no one needed to think she was cold when she wasn’t. His presence flushed her, in every good way possible. The curly blonde haired, blue eyed stranger named Kiel was indeed a distraction she didn’t need.
The paint brush moved rapidly across the canvas, as if it had a mind of its own. Eloise shook her head to clear her thoughts and saw she had begun adding him to her painting.
“Shit,” she muttered as she stared at the object on her canvas. No one but her would know the figure on her painting, the one standing on the beach with his towel around his shoulders and his hands in his pockets was Kiel. It was unlikely he'd ever know either, so she finished what she had subconsciously started.
An hour later, she sat back and studied her work. Kiel stood in the sand, with the water lapping at his feet. His blonde, perfectly curled hair rustled in the breeze as he stared at the setting sun.
Eloise grabbed her sketch pad, a pencil, and began drawing Kiel. This was the benefit of having a photographic memory.
Before long, the moment he stood across from her chatting to her on the pier was on paper. He rested against the railing with his ankles crossed. One arm rested on the railing, while his other hand clamped down on his wrist. He had a look about him. Eloise could only liken it to a classic John F. Kennedy smirk—the kind that makes women weak in the knees.
Except for Eloise. She had zero interest in dating or summer hook-ups. She had her priorities, and they didn't include men. Eloise was there to paint and help her aunt.
Eloise set her sketch pad down when her aunt pulled into the driveway. She went downstairs to the car, and helped Margaux carry her bags inside.
“How was the beach?” Margaux asked.
Eloise tried to hide her smile but failed.
“You painted, didn't you?”
Her aunt knew her so well. Eloise nodded. “I couldn't help it.”
Margaux laughed. “I should've made you go grocery shopping with me.”
Eloise blanched. “That would just be mean.” She hated grocery shopping, mostly because she had a slight case of OCD and found herself straightening the products on the shelves or putting things back where they belonged because people were too lazy to return stuff they didn't want.
Margaux laughed again. “You need to relax, Eloise.”
“I need to paint.” She knew her aunt understood her desire to create.
“A rested mind is better than an overworked and tired one.” They went into the kitchen and set the bags down.
“I know, but sometimes . . .” Her words trailed off.
Margaux rested her hand on her niece's shoulder. “I get it. I used to be the same way and still am sometimes. The urge to paint until it's right can be strong, but I've also burnt out before and not having the spark to create something new is damaging to one's creativity. Promise me you'll take time for yourself while you're here. Mental health is important.”
“I will,” Eloise told her. She couldn't remember a time when her aunt hadn't painted. She seemed to always have a brush in her hand. Same with her grandfather. Between the two of them, that's where her love of the arts came from.
After dinner, Margaux follows Eloise to her apartment and then upstairs to look at her current piece. Eloise hoped her aunt wouldn't see the sketch she hadn't bothered to put away.
No such luck.
“Who's this?”
The man I met on the boardwalk who sent a shiver down my spine when he smiled, and the reason why I had to pack up and get the hell out of there before I said or did something stupid.
