“I started painting about two and a half years ago,” Jane said, her voice changing slightly. Tightening with something that sounded like old pain. “It helped me...” Jane trailed off, looking at her canvas instead of at him. She gave a tight smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Through some rough times.”
She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t offer details. And Gabe didn’t ask for them. He understood that, too. Some pain was too private to share, even in the sharing.
“I get that too,” he said quietly. “Only my art is…”
“Rushing into danger under the guise of saving the world?” Jane guessed. Her eyes filled with understanding.
Gabe stared at her in shock for a few minutes and knew she recognized in him what he had in her—deep grief, pain, and devastating loss.
They fell into comfortable silence again, both watching the sunrise paint the sky in increasingly brilliant colors. Jane’s brush moved across the canvas, capturing the light in ways Gabe didn’t quite understand but found beautiful anyway.
After several minutes, Jane made a sudden decision as she turned to him. “Want to give it a try?” She was already moving, pulling a second easel from her bag before Gabe could respond. “I always bring a spare in case I want to do two paintings,” she explained, setting it up beside hers.
Gabe surprised himself by not immediately refusing. “I’m not good at art. Not good at all, actually.”
Jane handed him a palette with already mixed paints and a selection of brushes. “It’s easy. I’ll show you.”
Her smile was encouraging, without a trace of judgment or expectation as he picked up a brush. “Okay.”
“Just feel it,” she instructed. “Don’t think too hard. Let your hand follow what your eyes see.”
Gabe took the palette dubiously. His hands were trained for weapons, for precision instruments, for the careful choreography of combat. Not for art.
But Jane was patient, coaching him through the basics. How to mix colors to get different shades. How to hold the brush for different types of strokes. Where to start. That was with the sky, and then work your way down.
Jane took time to show him how to blend colors while they were still wet, creating that seamless transition between shades.
Her voice was calm and encouraging. When his strokes were clumsy, she just offered gentle guidance. “Try less pressure there. Let the brush do the work.”
Gabe found himself relaxing into it. His painting looked like a child’s attempt compared to Jane’s masterpiece beside it. His sky was uneven, the colors muddy in places where he’d mixed them wrong. But there was something peaceful about the process. Focusing on brushstrokes and color choices. Trying to capture the light he could see with his eyes and translate it onto canvas.
The nightmare from earlier was fading from his mind. The tension in his shoulders was easing. His leg still throbbed, but somehow it didn’t matter as much.
Jane’s company was easy, undemanding. She didn’t ask about his scars or his past. Didn’t pry into why he was up so early or why he flinched at sudden sounds. Just shared her space and her art supplies, and her quiet presence.
An hour passed in comfortable near-silence. Just occasional instruction from Jane, offered gently. “Try more orange there.” Or, “Let that dry before adding the pink.” And, “Don’t be afraid to layer it. That’s how you get depth.”
Both paintings were taking shape. The sun had fully risen now, and morning had properly begun. Other people were starting to appear on the boardwalk. There were joggers, dog walkers, and early risers heading out for the day.
The magic moment of solitude was passing.
They both seemed to realize it at the same time, setting down their brushes and stepping back to look at their work.
Gabe looked at his painting and had to laugh. “It’s terrible.”
The sky was lopsided, the ocean looked more like a blob than water, and the whole thing was amateurish in the extreme.
Jane smiled at him. “It’s your first sunrise. It’s perfect.”
They packed up the supplies together, Jane efficiently cleaning brushes while Gabe tried to help without getting in the way. She carried both canvases, making him feel ungentlemanlybecause his crutches made him useless for anything requiring two hands.
The walk back to the inn was not awkward. They fell into easy conversation about nothing important, like the weather, the Christmas decorations going up all over town, and Trinity’s excitement about the Winter Ball.
“Trinity speaks about you and the inn nonstop,” Gabe admitted. “You’ve had such an impact on my daughter. Thank you for letting her help you with the ball.”
Jane’s face softened immediately at Trinity’s name. “She’s a special kid. You’re doing an amazing job with her.”
The compliment hit Gabe harder than it should have. His throat went tight with emotion he couldn’t quite name.
