watercolors is its own art form—from the way you use the water to the texture of the paper.”
“I can understand,” Nash said, because he could. “More elements to deal with from the water spreading, the way the paper absorbs it, to the thinness of the brush.”
The doorbell ringing suddenly interrupted their conversation. Lydia hopped up from her chair with her painting in hand. “I bet that’s Mommy.”
“I bet it is, too. Be careful with your painting.”
Cassie opened the sliding screen door for Lydia. The little girl grabbed her cane and, as fast as she could, went to greet her mom.
“Why is she using a cane?” Nash whispered close to Cassie’s ear. It was her shampoo he was smelling. And as his jaw brushed the side of her hair, he realized it was as soft as he imagined. Thoughts about kissing her were getting harder and harder to push away.
“She was in an accident riding her bike. She wasn’t supposed to go onto a main street, but she did. A car sideswiped her. Fortunately, she was wearing a helmet and knee guards. That was three months ago. And she’s just getting back on her feet. Her mom started bringing her to art lessons right after the accident. Lydia needed an outlet for all of her energy. Her mother had taken notice of her drawings at school, and she thought it would be a good idea. And it was. She’s talented.”
“It’s bad enough when adults have to deal with disabilities, but kids—” Nash shook his head.
As Cassie gazed into his eyes, he felt that connection with her again. It was hard to believe he’d only known her a few days, yet his pulse was beating fast.
Quickly, she turned away from him, took a few steps back and said, “I have to say goodbye to Lydia’s mother.”
In case Cassie had something private to say to Lydia’s mother or vice versa, Nash stayed on the porch, waiting for Cassie. When she returned there to clean up the paints, Nash said, “Will you show me your paintings?”
She hesitated for a few moments. “I suppose I can. The attic is my studio. It would have been too difficult to make it into another bedroom for the B&B. But it is the perfect place for a studio. Come on. I’ll show you.”
As Nash followed Cassie up the staircase, he wasn’t sure exactly why he wanted to see her paintings. Maybe because he thought they’d give him a glimpse into who she really was. Was she as sweet and caring as she seemed? Or was it an act because she was the hostess of the bed-and-breakfast? Hard to say. But he was an investigator, so he was going to investigate.
Cassie ran up the stairs ahead of him. When she reached the second floor, she waved down the hall and pointed to the rope that hung from the ceiling. She reached up and grabbed it and pulled down a staircase. The steps were narrow.
Nash commented, “This isn’t exactly ideal working conditions if you want to carry paintings up and down.”
“Do you know any situation that’s really ideal?” Cassie asked as if she’d had a lot of experience dealing with curveballs life threw at her.
He knew exactly what she meant. People had expectations and what they envisioned rarely came to pass. At least, not without some adjustment.
Cassie wasn’t as naive as he’d first thought she might be. It took years and life experience to know that nothing was perfect, that you couldn’t wait around for it to be perfect. Just like his relationship with Sara. He hadn’t realized until too late that it was never going to work...that in fact it was a lost cause.
After he’d climbed the stairs behind Cassie, Nash glanced around the attic. Light streamed in windows from both sides. Cassie had an easel set up with a drop cloth underneath much as she had downstairs on the porch. Only this easel was taller and wider, and it had a half-finished painting propped on it.
Before Nash studied that painting, he looked around at the others propped against the walls. The canvases were lined up, some overlapping. The colors were very much like the ones Cassie had chosen to use in the house. They were vibrant, with hot pinks and yellows and lime green, teal and even orange. And with those colors she’d captured her subjects beautifully—a hummingbird at a feeder, bluebonnets in a field with a child sitting with her back to the viewer, her blond hair blowing in the wind. Another one showcased an abstract cat, black and white against a sky-blue background. She’d also painted buildings that were a little more muted, a red barn and corral, a ramshackle house sitting in the woods, a blackbird sitting on a white fence. He could tell she was practicing styles, trying to find her own. Finally, his gaze fell to the canvas on the easel. This one was different from the others. Done mostly in pastels, it depicted an angel hovering over a child who was sitting on the grass reading a book. If it was up to Nash, he’d say that was her best work yet.
“How long did it take you to do these?” The creative process really did interest him.
“The past two years,” she said. “I sell them when I can. Art shows are the best, but I often don’t have time to give up a whole weekend for that.”
“You’re talented.” It wasn’t idle flattery. He meant it.
“Talent doesn’t always pay the bills,” she said, obviously being realistic about it. That was probably why she wanted to teach—for the consistent income.
Cassie was standing in front of the easel and he crossed to stand beside her. “I think that’s the best one.”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “Not the barn or the landscape outside of Austin?”
“Those are good,” he conceded. “And if I had a den I’d probably hang them there. But aren’t paintings supposed to evoke emotions?”
She pushed her hair away from her brow. “I’m surprised you know that.”
“Because I’m a financial consultant?” he teased.
She shrugged. “Something like that. I mean, most people don’t even know that that’s why they choose a particular painting. I think art customers buy the paintings they do because that particular work resurrects a memory or a feeling they once had...or a feeling they want to have now.”
Again, Nash was surprised at her insight.
“What?” she asked when she saw him studying her.
“You just surprise me, that’s all.”
They were standing very close now, facing each other. He could easily reach out and touch one of the waves of her hair that flowed near her cheek. He was so tempted to lean in a bit to see what she would do. But he knew he was playing with fire. He knew he was being foolish, and she must have known it, too.
Suddenly she took a step back.
But he wouldn’t let her escape just yet. “Are you sorry you brought me up here?”
“No, not sorry...” she trailed off, her voice a bit breathless.
He felt as if Cassie and her paintings had taken his breath away. “What then?”
In the afternoon light glowing through the window behind her, she looked vulnerable. “I don’t often show my work to just anybody.”
“You
