For a long moment Skye didn’t reply. Her clear eyes stayed focused on the stars, so long he began to doubt she’d heard him. But then she blinked. And before he knew it she was standing over him, reaching down to pull him up. “C’mon.”
Minutes later, they were at the greenhouse, Skye reaching into her silk pocket for a small, single key.
A trail of bulbs flicked on down the center of the greenhouse as they stepped inside, illuminating the floor-to-ceiling glass and overflowing greenery. The air was thick with the scent of fresh dirt and flowers and turpentine. Rows of carrot tops stuck out of the nearest raised bed, kale and arugula behind and beside them.
Skye brushed aside a geranium from a hanging flower basket.
The greenhouse was crowded, and Skye squeezed between the trailing tomato vines and rows of peas to get to the center of the room. She didn’t look back as he followed.
As the rows of vegetables cleared, she stopped at a wooden, paint-splattered stool. Put her hand on the seat that looked like it had been her sturdy companion for a decade.
“It’s messy but... here it is. This is my life.” Her tone held nervousness.
He smiled as he stepped out from the rows of vegetables. His gaze was steady on the canvas resting on the easel. “It’s breathtaking.”
She pulled a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve only just begun that one,” she said, trailing her fingers along the row of freshly washed paintbrushes on the table. “It’s just the underpainting, really.”
“Nevertheless, those details—the juxtaposition of smooth and irregular forms in the fore- and backgrounds,” he said, moving toward it, examining it closer. He reached out with one finger and she took a step forward, her breath hitching. “It’s still drying,” she said, but his finger had already stopped an inch from the canvas.
He turned and smiled, keeping it soft. Of course he knew better than to touch her work in progress. “I love this line of light here, along the tree line.”
His gaze turned to her reference photograph. She’d taken that shot beneath the entrance of Evergreen Farm.
“Will this be a new series?” His gaze went to three completed canvases leaning against the greenhouse wall. All were different angles of Evergreen Farm. The rows of Fraser firs. Icicles dripping off the white pines. The Watkinses’ cabin nestled against the ridge.
Her eyes flickered to his, as though she was surprised by his expression of familiarity with her pieces. As though it was not possible that he had followed her career since she left for the University of Washington to pursue fine art all those years ago. That it wasn’t possible he knew the way she worked. Knew she always painted series.
But of course he had. He did.
“I—I don’t know,” she said at last, turning back to the painting. “If I can ever quit wasting my oils on half-finished skies, then yes. Maybe.” Her gaze flickered to the other canvases of all shapes and sizes against the wall, all abandoned with stretches of black, blue, and silver paint streaked across them.
Theo stepped toward the painting on the easel. Carefully moved his eyes over the painting.
He felt her presence beside him. She crossed her arms over her chest, silently gazing at it as well.
“I never was able to cut it down,” Theo said at last.
“I know,” she said after a moment.
“You should’ve seen the lengths I had to go to to keep the family from doing so.” Theo chuckled, recalling the number of times he had to make his case to the twelve brothers, parents, aunts and uncles, and cousins. “I almost resorted to making PowerPoint demonstrations. I was almost at the level of strapping myself to the tree in protest.”
“The newspapers would’ve loved it,” Skye replied. “That was your chance for front-cover exposure.”
They both chuckled quietly in the vast room until their gazes slowly turned to each other.
Theo raised a brow. “Well, I suppose our ramen is getting cold out there.”
Skye grinned. “Cold ramen. The only thing possibly less appetizing than warm ramen.”
Tentatively, he extended his elbow. “Shall we?”
Tentatively, she took the crook of his arm. “We shall.”
As they entered the field once again, the toads in the distance began to hum. For several minutes, they just listened, walking in step, Theo feeling her arm pressed against his side. The grass Skye’s father mowed each week bowed beneath their feet with each step. Each fir shivered lightly in the breeze as they passed.
The world, in that moment, was perfect.
“I haven’t been completely honest with you, Theo,” Skye said, breaking the silence. But instead of feeling her pull away, she seemed to cling tighter to his arm.
