“She’s all right,” the woman said, but she sounded resigned. “She had a bit of a turn last week and she needs to rest.”
Lucy nodded, not wanting to ask any more questions and seem nosy. With a tired smile the woman left, taking the little boy with her.
“And when you go back to Boston,” Alex said as Lucy loaded her latte with sugar and took a frothy sip, “what will you do?”
“Honestly? I have no idea.”
She saw remembrance flicker across his face. “You worked in an art gallery, didn’t you?”
“Is that what I told you?” He raised his eyebrows at that. “Well, yes, I did work in a gallery, but in the café part. I was a barista. And before you say anything, I know it seems like a waste of a perfectly good education. I do have a university degree, even if you’re surprised to know it.” Now where had allthatcome from?
Her mother, obviously.I spent three hundred thousand dollars on your education so you could pour people coffee?
Lucy had replied, as cheerfully as always, that it was a little more complicated than that. She could operate fairly complex machinery, after all. But she’d taken her mother’s point. How could she not?
“In what subject?” Alex asked, and Lucy dragged her mind back to the conversation.
“Art. I know, I know. Most useless degree ever, but I really did want to have a career as a serious artist.”
“You still could,” Alex answered. “You’re what, twenty-six? Not many people are making it professionally as artists by then.”
“My mother was.” Actually, her mother had been thirty when she’d gotten her big break, winning an emerging female artist award. Lucy braced herself for the obvious question about who her mother was, but Alex didn’t ask.
“Well, like I said, you still have time,” he said after a moment, shrugging as he took a sip of coffee. Lucy felt a rush of relief that he wasn’t going to press. Maybe he wasn’t that interested.
They both lapsed into silence, and Lucy gazed out the rain-smeared window, wondering if she’d ever pick up a paintbrush again. The funny or perhaps the sad thing was, she didn’t feel tempted to. She didn’t miss painting, so maybe her mother had been right.The brushwork is amateurish at best, revealing a lack of both focus and passion.
And the whole world had read that. The whole world knew she sucked at art.
“You’re frowning.”
Lucy jerked her gaze back to Alex. “So are you,” she answered, and his usual scowl morphed into a small smile.
“So I am. I was thinking about Charlie. I really should take him to obedience school.”
He glanced away, and Lucy had the distinct feeling that he hadn’t been thinking about Charlie at all. “No time, you said,” she said lightly.
“Right.”
“How long have you had him?”
“Eighteen months. He’s seven, though. I got him from a rescue center. His last owner had died.”
“Eighteen months,” she repeated, and he nodded in answer to her silent question.
“Since Anna died. I got him for my two daughters, because they’d been begging for so long.” He glanced away again before turning back to her with a wry smile that wrapped right round her heart. “But a dog doesn’t make up for a mother.”
“No.” Belatedly she registered what he’d said:twodaughters. Just like Thomas had two sons. But it was stupid to compare Alex to Thomas; yes, they were both single dads, and yes, they both happened to be teachers. And yes, maybe they both had a bit of a pompous thing going on, but really, the similarities ended there. And in any case, she wasn’t going to date Alex.
“Looks like it’s clearing,” he said, nodding towards the window. The sun was emerging from behind wispy white clouds, and though the horizon was still dark, bits of blue were breaking through. Perhaps it was because of the discussion of her degree, but Lucy could suddenly imagine how she’d paint the scene: the contrasting darkness and light, the choppy waves breaking on the shore. She’d do it in oils, maybe, rather than her usual watercolors—an insipid medium, her mother had called it. But oils . . . thick, dark oils soaking into the canvas seemed right for such a scene of wild beauty.
“So it is.” She turned back to Alex, sensing the dismissal. Twenty minutes of small talk was all Alex was up for, although actually it had ended up not being all that small.
“I should head back.” He stood, awkwardly, and Lucy reached for her purse. “I’ll pay for the coffees,” he said, and she glanced up, frowning.
“I was the one who—”
“I know, but I should have suggested it first,” he said firmly. “And a couple of coffees really isn’t all that much.” He left enough change on the table to cover the coffees and they went out to collect the dogs, saying stilted good-byes over tangled leads before they finally managed to separate.
