by Donna Alward
Her eyes were rather extraordinary.
He took his glass of iced water upstairs and went out on the balcony. He could see the point so clearly here, and Jess had started bringing a folding chair rather than perching on a rock to do her sketching. He’d been watching her for a few hours now, wondering if she’d put sunscreen on her fair skin; the spring sun was still capable of delivering a sunburn even though the temperatures were cool, particularly near the water. After a while he wondered if she’d eaten anything all day. He certainly hadn’t seen her put her work aside to break for lunch. Did she get a crick in her neck sitting like that, as he did when he sat at his computer too long?
And why was he standing here thinking of all these questions?
It was going on two when he emerged from the house carrying a plastic bag in lieu of any sort of picnic basket. The wind buffeted his shirt and the chill reached inside him, even as the sun warmed the top of his head. Jessica didn’t hear him approach until he was a handful of steps away from her, then she looked up and a smile lit her face. It had been an unconscious response, he realized, and the idea that she’d been glad to see him sent a spiral of warmth through his body.
It was only some lunch. Nothing major. He didn’t need to feel...guilty. They were friends. Maybe not even friends. More like friendly.
“Hi,” she greeted, putting down her pencil. “What brings you out here?”
He lifted his hand. “Food. I don’t think you’ve eaten, and the last thing I need is you fainting and falling off a cliff and me having to rescue you again.”
She laughed, that light, easy sound he’d enjoyed the other night, too. He even smiled a little in response.
“I promise I would not faint. Or fall off a cliff. I’m made of tough stuff. But I am hungry. What time is it?”
“Nearly two.”
“Oh, my.” She stretched her neck, first lifting her face to the sky, then leaning it toward her right shoulder. “I had no idea.”
Bran lifted the bag. “It’s not much, but I thought you could use a bite.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
He handed her the bag and then moved away, turning to face the house again.
“Aren’t you going to join me?”
He shouldn’t want to. That he did—very much—was exactly why he shouldn’t. He turned back to face her and hesitated, long enough for her to nod at the flat rock nearby. “There’s room for both of us there, and I’ll share.”
A part of him said, What would it hurt? while a second part reminded him that Jennie and Owen would never again have picnics on a cliff on a spring day.
Jessica got up from her seat and tucked her sketch pad and pencils away in her bag, then grabbed the lunch bag and went to his side. “You have that hermit look on your face again. What is it?”
“I shouldn’t be here.”
“Why?”
She asked the simplest and hardest questions.
Then she reached down and took his hand. “Is it because it feels too much like living again?”
He pulled his hand away. “Stop it. Stop trying to get into my head.”
She didn’t get upset. Didn’t get mad or sad or indignant. That might have been easier. Instead, she just looked at him, her face open and honest and dammit, compassionate. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was quiet and sincere. “You have to get through this on your own time. Thank you for the lunch. It’s very thoughtful.”
He started walking back to the house. Got about fifty feet and turned back, his stomach churning. She was sitting on the rock, peering inside the bag and looking lonely. He’d snapped at her when she hadn’t deserved it. “Yes,” he called out, and she lifted her head. “Yes, because of that.”
Jessica nodded, then shifted over and patted the rock beside her. “The invitation is still open, and I’ll mind my own business.”
He doubted that. And the odd thing about it was that he wasn’t sure he wanted her to. There were so many feelings bubbling inside him, feelings he hadn’t been able to share with his family, or even with Jeremy and Cole. He could just imagine the looks on their faces if he shared his deepest thoughts. Those thoughts were pretty dark. But how long could he hold them inside?
Slowly, he made his way back to her and sat on the rock, resting his elbows on his knees. “Here,” she said, taking half the chicken sandwich he’d made and handing it to him. “Eat half. There’s too much in here for me anyway.”
He took the sandwich and took a bite. She did the same, and after she chewed and swallowed, she lifted her face to the sun again, drinking it in. He stared at the column of her neck and had trouble swallowing his bite of sandwich.
When she lowered her chin, he took another bite and moved his focus to the sea spread out before them. True to her word, she didn’t say anything. Just ate the lunch he’d prepared—the sandwich, some sliced apples and a couple of cookies he’d had in the pantry—and drank the water bottle full of lemonade he’d put inside.
She took a drink and then offered it to him. He accepted, took a long pull of the sweet and tart liquid, and then handed it back.
“Your lemonade is very good.” She smiled as she offered the compliment, and then bit into a chocolate chip cookie.
“Thanks.”
She grinned. “After your stories last night, I kind of thought you might have servants to help with things like picnic packing.”
Bran angled her a sideways glance, and realized she was attempting to lighten the mood by teasing him. “Oh, my parents still do. The perks of an affluent childhood—never having to lift a finger.”
“Or have the satisfaction of accomplishment?”
His lips dropped open in surprise. “Yes, I suppose.” He pondered for a moment. “I guess that’s the difference between entitlement and actual achievement, isn’t it?”
“There’s something rewarding about self-sufficiency.”
Jess’s lips set in a line as she said it. He wanted to ask her what she meant, but was afraid of either of them prying too deeply into past issues. Instead, he turned to the topic at hand, and gestured toward her bag with her sketching materials.
“Your drawings are coming along okay?”
She nodded. “I’m having so much fun. It’s a combination of things, I think. The location is simply amazing. But I also think I finally got to a place mentally where I am ready to create again. It feels like the magic happens from both things coming together at the same time. Just the sketching is giving me so much joy.”
He hesitated for a long moment, then said, “Do you ever feel guilty for being happy?” He couldn’t look at her, but he felt her gaze on him. Nerves churned in his belly just asking the question. Not that he was happy. He wasn’t. But could he go through his whole life like this? Did he want to?
“You mean do I feel guilty moving on after grieving someone so close to me?”
He nodded, unable to speak. It seemed they were going to get into the difficult subjects anyway.
“Not now. But I did for a long time. I felt as if I didn’t deserve to be happy. That I somehow owed it to Ana to be miserable. And so I was.” After a pause she added, “It’s a hell of a way to live. I did the same after my mother died, though it was different. My parents divorced when I was ten. I guess I just... I don’t know. Didn’t feel as emotionally safe with my family as I did with my best friend. She’d never given me a reason to doubt. Besides, I think we grieve different people in different ways.”
Another few moments of silence, and then she spoke again. “And I didn’t lose my spouse and my child. I can’t know what you’re going through, Branson. I just know that someday you should be happy again, and not feel as if you’re betraying them by moving on.”
Tears stung the back of his eyes. She had spoken in a plain manner, with truth and gentleness, and said words that not even his best friends could manage.
They tried to bring him back to the world of the living, but they didn’t talk about the grief. It was painful relief to be able to do so.
“It’s been two years. Owen would have been three now. We might have had more children. And I can’t remember...” He swallowed heavily, fighting tears. “I can’t remember the exact sound of his voice when he said Dada. Why can’t I remember that?”
He didn’t realize he was actually crying until Jessica put the bag aside and shuffled over, putting her arms around him. Then he noticed the wetness in his beard and on his cheeks. He was mortified to be falling apart in front of her, but he was helpless to stop it.
“It’s okay,” she said, rubbing his back. “Every single thing you feel and say is okay. There is no one way to grieve and no timetable.”
He sniffed and rubbed his hands over his face. “I’m so sorry. A week ago I was yelling at you and now I’m bawling all over you.”
“Don’t apologize. I get it. It’s probably easier with someone you don’t know.” Her hand still made circles on his back, and it felt warm and reassuring. He’d been so touch starved. He should move away, but he wasn’t ready to yet. She rested the crest of her cheek on his shoulder for a moment. “When Ana died, it was like all the light went out of everything. She was my rock and my best friend. She’d seen me through creative slumps and successes. Through relationships that came and went...she was my person. When I lost her, I lost my anchor and my compass all at once. But eventually I realized that she would be so angry with me for not living.
“It wasn’t like flipping a switch, you know? It wasn’t like I decided to live again and just started doing it. I had to take baby steps. I stumbled a lot. I pushed through when joy was just not showing up. But happiness is a little like creative inspiration. Sometimes we can’t sit around and wait for it to show up. Sometimes we need to go looking for it. Or at least put ourselves out there so we can grab pieces of it when it rushes by.”
“I don’t know how to do that.”
“You will. Something will snag in your brain, and you’ll feel the urge to write it down. Or little snippets will come to you, and you’ll write a bit and hate it, maybe, but little by little it’ll happen. And when it does, you mustn’t feel guilty about it.”
“Is that how it’s been for you?”
She nodded against his shoulder. “At first I started little random sketches. Then I thought I’d travel around and try to get back in the groove again. This past week, here? I finally feel energized and excited to work on something. And I know Ana would want me to.”
“What happened to her?”
Jessica paused, then sighed, a sorrowful sound that made him want to hug her back. “She had cancer. One day she was fine. The next day she had stage four pancreatic cancer. In less than three months she was gone.”
He could hear the grief in her voice, and he reached over and put his hand over hers. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
They sat, comfortable with quiet, for a few minutes. Then Jessica leaned away, taking her arms from around him, letting out a sigh. “It really is beautiful here. So wild and untamed.”
Gulls swooped overhead, and Bran let the sun soak into his skin as the dull roar of the ocean on the rocks below filled his ears. “It can be lonely,” he admitted. “And comforting at the same time.”
“I get that,” she agreed. She looked over at him. “You okay now?”
He nodded. “I am. Sorry I got all emotional.”
“You don’t have to apologize to me,” she replied. Then she smiled. “Though I do think this qualifies us as actual friends now.”
His gaze dropped to her lips. He shouldn’t be thinking it, but he wasn’t sure she was the kind of woman he could ever be just friends with. It was probably good she was just here for a short time.
“Friends,” he echoed. “You’re sure?”
“You brought me lunch. We shared stuff. Pretty sure that makes us friends.” She leaned back onto her arms. He smiled as he looked over at her. She was so artless. Now she was sunning herself like a lizard on a rock. He did like her. Very much.
“Well, then,” he answered, and adopted a similar posture.
They sat for several minutes, until the sun went under a cloud and the wind took on a chilly bite. “I should probably pack up for the day,” Jessica said on a sigh. “I’m going to lose the best light.”
“How much longer are you staying on the South Shore?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. A month? Two? Tori and Jeremy have said I can rent the boathouse for as long as I need. I’m going to start painting soon.”
There was a hesitation in her voice that told him maybe she wasn’t quite ready yet, but he wasn’t going to call her on it. As she said, it took baby steps. If she was finding joy, he was happy for her.
And maybe one day he’d find joy, too.
* * *
Jessica pressed the cell phone to her ear and let out a sigh. “I know, Jack. I know. It’s been a long time. But I don’t want this to be rushed. For God’s sake, I haven’t even started the actual paintings.”
His voice was sharp and clear. “Sure, but you’re excited. I can tell. And we can set up a showing now for fall. I just need the commitment from you.”
She pinched the top of her nose with two fingers. “That’s too fast. The fact that I’m even working again is a blessing. I don’t want to add the pressure of a show when I might only get one decent painting from this summer. I’m sorry Jack, but the answer’s no.”
He softened his voice. “Hey, I know you’re scared. Coming back is hard. The world just needs more Jessica Blundon art. You’re going to be back in Chicago by the fall, right?”
“I was planning on it. I can stay here for a few months, but I do have to go home sometime.”
“Then let me do some asking around. We might be able to work something really innovative without booking an actual show. An exclusive, a handful of paintings maybe. Tie it in with something else. Just say you’ll stay open to possibilities.”
She laughed a little. “I always stay open to possibilities. And you are too coercive for your own good, Jack.”
“Which is why I’m your best agent.” Affection and teasing came over the line, and she relaxed a bit. “I don’t want to stifle your creativity with pressure, but I also don’t want you to miss out on opportunities. I’ll be in touch.”
“All right.”
“Love you, kiddo.”
Her eyes stung a little from the easy declaration. “I love you too, Jack. Thanks for not bailing on me.”
“Never. Chat soon.”
She hung up the call and sighed. The idea of having a showing in the autumn was exciting, but she was sure she wouldn’t be ready. While she was ready to work, and even enthusiastic, there was no guarantee that every single work would be ready to show. For now she wanted to create and just revel in the process again. Feel the brush in her hand, the pressure of the bristles on canvas like a beautiful, private language only she could understand. The colors and the smell of paint and turpentine, acrid and as much a scent of home to her as bread baking or apple pie. The scrape of the palette knife. The process was the essence of who she was. She didn’t care about shows or accolades. Right now feeling like herself again was all she wanted to focus on.
The rest would come. In time.
She was late getting to the lighthouse because of Jack’s call, and the wind was particularly brutal, whipping her hair out of its braid and lifting the corners of her sketch pad. She clipped them down and tried to ignore the gusts that slapped at her, instead focusing on the door of the lighthouse. It was beautifully scarred, the rusty hinges crooked but strong enough that the door didn’t droop. It looked as if it hadn’t been used in ages, maybe decades, and the battered boards seemed almost like a fingerprint of what time had wrought.
At the foot of
the door, just to the side, was a small clump of daisies, stubbornly blooming against the elements and in the rocky soil. Jessica dashed her pencil across the paper, capturing their proud, resilient heads. She smiled, and wrote along the bottom right corner, Marguerite. It was the French word for daisy, and it felt right.
“Good afternoon.”
She jumped, grateful that her soft pencil hadn’t been against paper. Bran stood just beside her and behind, his hands in his pockets. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s so windy I didn’t hear you.” She rolled her shoulders. “I’ve been admiring the daisies. Pretty stubborn to be blooming amid all this salt and rock.”
He looked over her shoulder at her sketch. “You like the door.”
“It has character. And secrets.”
To her surprise, a smile spread across his face. “Are you interested in finding out what some of those secrets are?”
“What do you mean?”
He took a key from his pocket. It was big and old, and she wondered if it would still work. “It works,” he said, as if reading her mind. “I had the building inspected before I closed the purchase. The structure is old, but it’s sturdy.”
Excitement bloomed in her chest. “Of course I want to see inside!” She gave him some side-eye. “Unless it’s overrun with mice. In which case I’m not too keen.”
“Fair enough. And I haven’t been inside either, by the way. First sign of rodents, we’re out.”
She stood up and tucked her sketch pad away. “Are you kidding? You haven’t gone in, not once? You’ve been here since...”
“February,” he supplied. “And it is damned cold here in February. Now though... I’m curious. I thought you might be, too.”
“I am. I’ve never been inside an actual lighthouse before.”
This one was small compared to many, but she was interested to see what surprises and treasures were inside. Bran went to the door and fiddled for a while, jiggling the key in the lock. “I wonder if the salt rusted the lock?” he mused, but then the key seemed to find home and turned over with a solid click.
