“Maybe she left them here for you.”
“So buying the inn was her plan all along?” She laughed at his supernatural suggestion, but deep down, it gave her confidence. “Ben, I’m going to turn this inn into something we’d all be proud of. You, me, Mama, your parents and grandparents, and everyone who called the inn home for a night or a week or a month.”
Suddenly, Mama’s sweet voice whispered across her heart.
’Tis so sweet to trust in Jesus… Just to rest upon His promise… O, for grace to trust Him more.
Just as Cami started to sing, so did Ben. When they finished the song together, tears were streaming down his cheeks as well as hers.
It was then she fully knew she could trust her heart to Jesus.
“Come on,” Cami said, wiping the last of her tears and pointing to the furniture dropped off but not arranged. “Let’s get this place in order.”
Together they moved the pieces into place. The couch against the outside wall, a small white coffee table centered in front of it. Cami found a vase in the kitchen and arranged some flowers from the garden in it.
“The walls are a bit bare,” Cami said.
“Come see the artwork I found in the barn.” Ben moved to a box along the wall and pulled out a large painting of a red camellia.
“Oh my.” Cami’s breath caught when she saw the piece. The familiar strokes, the details that had taken hours to get just so. The dew on the petals, the shadows to give depth.
“Do you like it?” Ben sounded like he knew he’d found a buried treasure.
“Yes.” Cami stepped closer, lifting her hand to feel the textures she knew so well. She’d memorized this painting, done it several times. In fact, if she was willing to bet, she’d guess there were a few more variations of this painting in the box—ones in pink, white, purple, and blue. But the red was her favorite.
“This is mine.” Her voice sounded husky even to her own ears. She’d spent an entire summer working on these paintings—picking the flower Mama had named her after. She’d been fascinated by the strength, the dignity she’d found within the petals.
“Yours?” Ben looked back at the picture. “I thought you took all of yours home. They’re incredible.”
“Mama was teaching me the technique. I can see all my amateur mistakes, but you know, there’s an innocence about it.” Cami took the picture from Ben and held it in the sunlight coming through the southern window. The light played across the painting Mama had spent hours showing her how to shade, how to add depth and texture to. “I feel like I’ve found a lost piece of myself, Ben. Thank you.”
Thank God.
Ben pulled out a few more paintings and leaned them against the wall. “Maybe you should start painting again?”
“Maybe.” Cami set the painting down and looked at another. She’d not wanted to see the details anymore. To consider the One who made all the little things for her to enjoy. “I got busy after college, and it didn’t seem as important. I wasn’t really keeping Mama alive by trying to become her. Dad said I was good in business, so I followed him.”
“Do you want to take these pictures home with you?”
Cami shook her head. “No, let’s hang them in the cottage.”
Ben pulled out another painting. “Look, this one’s not finished.”
Cami covered her mouth. The bold strokes, the blending colors, the flowers, and the penciled outline of a barn. “That was Mama’s. That was the painting she was working on when…”
The lump in her throat cut off words. She shook her head.
“We, um, we’d spent the afternoon in the garden. We set up our easels, and I finished one of the camellias—I can’t remember which one. Mama had drafted that scene on a previous trip, and she started painting it that day she died. We were going to a movie, then dinner at Ella’s.”
Ben set the painting aside and wrapped his arms around Cami. She didn’t resist but leaned into him.
His hand stroked her hair. “I’m sorry, Cami. There are so many memories here.”
“Please don’t be.” Cami looked up at his face. “You helped me remember the good, and I really need that.”
“You really are very talented. You should paint for yourself. And for the Emerald. I’d hang it in the lobby and tell everyone it’s from a new, high-end artist.”
She laughed. “I’ll never be that person, and I won’t open a studio like I dreamed when I was young. Dreams change, but this has been good for me. I cut out a part of myself after Mama died. Now that we have the inn, I’ll come back as much as I can to pick up those lost pieces.”
