need. You’re very talented. I’d say quit stressing about your artist’s block. Things will work out in their own way. You may be surprised. Just keep getting your grid together.”
She walked ahead of him and followed the long twelve-foot-high walls, imagining what her mural would look like when she’d finished. “Wow, this is great. See, I’m getting goose bumps.”
He politely took a look at the raised hair on her arms. “I’ll get right to work prepping these walls for you. When you’re ready to start, nothing will hold you back. I guarantee.”
“I wish I had as much confidence as you do.” What if she couldn’t break through the mental block about the beginning of Heartlandia’s history? What would she do then? She’d been hired based on two reasons, and she was sure the first carried the most clout. Her great-great-grandfather had designed and built the town monument. Also, the mural committee liked her style of painting. She’d only done extralarge canvas paintings so far and they were much smaller than these walls, but the committee had chosen her once she’d submitted her preliminary vision for these walls. They must have seen something they liked.
“Are you kidding? You’re a fantastic artist. Listen, if it will help I’ll arrange with the school librarian and the history department chair to get you more books and photographs from our town. We have a great Maritime Museum with loads of old pictures, but it’s undergoing renovations after a recent fire. There’s all kinds of stuff for you to look at right here.”
“That’s really nice of you. Thanks.” It meant a lot to her to hear Leif praise her work.
“I want to help in any way I can. I built this college and I want to see it at its full potential. Your mural will make all the difference in the world.”
If she could only believe in herself half as much as he did. She couldn’t let her personal circumstances and disappointment hold her back on this project, or let the insecurity of not being wanted by the father of her child spread to her art, and she silently vowed to make this mural her best work yet. She needed the job for financial security and the recognition it would bring for her and the baby’s future.
“So what will you need?”
Lost in her thoughts, she glanced at him blankly.
“For painting,” he said.
“You mean paints?”
“Yeah, and brushes and drop cloths and any other supplies.”
“Acrylic mural paints are a must, and I’ll be needing gallons and gallons of the colors. It might be tough on the city budget.”
“Do you have a list of your colors yet?”
“I have a good idea what I’ll need.”
“Then, let’s go shopping.”
“Are you serious?”
“Dead serious. It’s four o’clock, so we better hurry because our hardware and paint store closes at six on Sundays.”
With that they rushed back to the truck and hopped inside. Marta hadn’t felt this excited and full of energy in weeks.
“Tell me about your family,” she said as they drove, deeply curious about the man, a near stranger, who had so much faith in her abilities.
“My people came here in the 1800s. They were fisherman, like most of the other Scandinavians in this area. I think my first relative might have been an indentured servant on a fishing boat from Denmark. I’m Danish, by the way. Well, I’m actually an American of Danish descent. I guess you’d say that is more accurate.”
She understood. “My ancestors are from Argentina, but like you, I think of myself as American with Latino roots.” Her mother had always been too traditional for her taste, and overprotective, but that was to be expected and it was her way of showing she loved Marta. But they’d argued constantly about her free-living lifestyle, and it had driven her away. Now she wished with all of her heart she could have mended their differences before her mother had died. Family had taken on a whole new meaning eight weeks ago.
Leif ran down his brief genealogy chart while they headed for the paint store, then he suddenly hit a bumpy patch in the story. “My father died eight years ago, so we moved my mother back here from Arizona where they’d retired. I’d originally built the guesthouse for both of them to come and visit whenever they wanted. Five years ago, Mom had a massive stroke and died on the way to the hospital.”
“I lost my mother last year and can only imagine how tough it must be to lose both parents.”
“Yeah, I guess that makes me an orphan.”
“I believe you’re right.” So who had he built that big gorgeous house for? “Were you ever married?”
“Yes.”
Of course he was a traditional kind of guy. The kind of man she’d never run into while living her sophisticated artist’s life.
“I built my future wife’s dream house as a wedding gift. I had to do something to get that woman to marry me.” He worked at a smile, but it came off as wistful and far from his eyes. “My wife was Norwegian, since we’re talking about Scandinavian ancestry.”
“Are you divorced?”
“No.” He grew quiet for a moment. “She died from ovarian cancer three years ago.”
Things suddenly added up—why he’d offered her the master bedroom and studio, why he hadn’t slept in that room for three years, why he stayed in the big house by himself rather than sell it. “I see. I’m very sorry to hear that.” Not only was he an orphan, but he also was a widower and had lost everyone he loved. “That’s a lot of people to lose in a very short time.”
“You’re telling me.” He inhaled as he parked and cut the engine. “But losing my wife was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through in my life.” He gazed solemnly out the windshield. “Ellen... She was the one who suffered the most.”
The thought sent a chill through her. “You don’t have children?” She turned toward him rather than move to get out of the car.
He faced her, too. “That’s how we found out about her cancer. We wanted to be a family. A big family. Decided to have a bunch of kids. We tried for that first baby for a couple of years and finally decided to go the fertility clinic route, first checking out my plumbing, then hers. That’s when they found her cancer. Already too late.”
His distant glance over her shoulder was tinged with agony. It nearly broke her already raw heart.
Overcome with compassion and respect for this man who’d lost everything he’d loved, making her own situation pale in comparison, Marta leaned across the bucket seat, reached for his forearm and squeezed. “You suffered, too, Leif. I can only imagine.”
Their eyes locked for a couple of moments. New understanding passed between them. He studied her as if he was trying to figure out if he appreciated her concern, or if he resented the pity. It wasn’t pity, as far as she was concerned. This connection was an honest desire to offer him comfort. She wondered how he’d managed to survive losing his entire family. How
