“Sounds as though you have friends who care about you. You can never have enough of those,” Dr. Oliver said. “Just stay warm andkeep doing what you’re doing. Also, if you’re not too weak, it’s good to get up and walk around every so often.”
Heinz found Kerry in the studio with a lukewarm cup of tea in one hand and a sketch pad in the other. He lowered himself carefully onto a wooden chair and peered over her shoulder.
“What’s this?”
“I’ve been trying to come up with an idea for a Christmas gift for Austin. It’s Christmas Eve, and he and Patrick are going to come over to see you tonight, and I have nothing for them.”
“And what is that supposed to be?” Heinz asked, pointing at the sketch while simultaneously trying and failing at diplomacy.
“Trying to draw a picture of Spammy. And Queenie, of course. Something to remember us by,” she said.
“It’s so serious-looking,” Heinz said. “Dark. Even brooding. Why not draw it the way you did with your little storybook?”
She considered the sketch. Ripped it from the pad, wadded it up, and tossed it in the trash.
“I think I’m stuck. I’ve been sitting here for ninety minutes, trying to come up with something that will be meaningful to a little boy.”
Heinz cocked an eyebrow. “And his father?”
“Am I that transparent?”
“You must be. I’m not a very astute judge of people’s emotions, but even I can see the attraction between you and Patrick.”
“He wants me to stay here. In the city.”
“And what do you say to that?”
“It’s impossible, of course. I have no job. No place to live, almost no money. And we’ve only known each other for three weeks. Like it or not, I’ve got to go home after the holidays, try to reboot my career.”
“That’s what your rational self is telling you. Now, what about your soul? What does your soul tell you?”
Kerry bit her lip. “I think… I know, that Patrick is the one. The kindest, most decent man I’ve ever met. I feel like me—my truest, most authentic self—when I’m around him.”
“Right.” Heinz clapped his hands. “There is your answer. Everything else is… details.”
“Having a way to support myself and a place to live is not just a detail,” she countered.
“Your art, that’s how you will support yourself. You are very talented, Kerry. This picture book you created yesterday—this is a book that can be published. And the story that we drew with Austin. Also a book.”
“I don’t know…”
“Here is what George taught me all those years ago,” Heinz interrupted. “Your potential as an artist will never be achieved until you believe in yourself. Nobody else’s opinion matters, unless you honestly believe you are making good art. Do you believe that?”
Kerry looked down at the sketch pad. “Yes,” she whispered.
“Good. Now, get out of your own way. If you have a dream to make art for a living, do that. With all the passion and energy you possess. Everything else will follow.”
“How? I don’t know anybody in the children’s book world.”
“We knock on doors,” Heinz said. “Many people in this neighborhood work in creative fields. Someone we know knows someone who can help.”
“Who is we?”
He ignored the question. “Next. A place to live. Simple. You live here.”
“No,” she said quickly. “This is only until you’re back on your feet and feeling better.”
“I meant in this building. There is a very small studio unit that has been vacant for some time. The building manager’s son was livingthere and paying next to nothing in rent because it has never been modernized, but he has moved on. If you like, it can be yours.”
