PROLOGUE
Elinor
I breathe in the magic of Big Sur—sea mist scented with pine boughs, sage and a whiff of woodsmoke. The setting sun caresses steep slopes as they meet the cold blue of the Pacific. The glory of it all is impossible to capture.
Guests often ask if I’ve become jaded to the beauty of living here; I usually answer with a simple, “No, never.” I can’t put into words my deep affection for my home in the midst of the towering redwoods. Only while painting do I begin to express those feelings. I study the water scattered with gold flecks in the lowering sun. How to replicate the ever-skittering light? Should I use a buttery yellow, the palest of blues, or a pink-hued purple? I pause before dabbing at my watercolors. Birds chatter in the trees above, and in the distance, the surf murmurs and sighs.
“I’d buy that.” A voice interrupts my reverie. Startled, I brush an errant stroke on the canvas.
A man stands on the trail behind me. Backlit by the setting sun, he isn’t much more than a promising silhouette, with a voice pleasing enough to make me almost forgive him for intruding on my personal sanctuary. Few people know about this rocky outcropping only a short scramble off the main trail.
“It... it’s not for sale,” I stammer. The stranger steps closer.
“Everything’s for sale... for the right price.” He pivots slightly, and with the change in lighting I can see that he has light brown hair—a shade my mom refers to as “old-money blond.” His eyes flick to mine briefly, and I feel a zing of interest.When encountering a man in the woods, I naturally put up my defenses, but something about this guy sets me at ease. It’s as if my mind has automatically sorted him into the “friend” category. Still, a girl alone in the woods can never be too careful. I trust no one—not even my own instincts. I reflexively tap the bear spray attached to my crossbody bag.
“It’s really not that good... it’s not even finished.”
“I disagree,” he says warmly. “I like it as it is—it speaks to me.”
I eye him suspiciously, noting his new boots, expensive hiking pants, and perfectly pressed shirt. Each item appears fresh from the store, as if the tags have just been removed. I can practically smell that new clothes scent. This guy isdefinitelynot an avid hiker, though his lean muscular build denotes a high level of fitness. If I had to guess his sport, I’d pick tennis.
“We can agree to disagree,” I say in a friendly but not-too-friendly tone. As attractive as he might be, I need this tourist to move on.
“Hmmm...” His eyes dart between my painting and the spectacular view of the cliffs and the ocean.
“I’ll give you $500 for it.”
My guffaw startles a squirrel in a nearby live oak, setting off a high-pitched chatter of alarm.
“Is that too low?” he asks, running a hand through his hair. If possible, he is even more enticing with rumpled hair. “I’m sorry—I don’t normally buy the art.”
Buy the art—sounds like money. I steal another look and spy his vintage Rolex. Yes,lotsof money. Well then, he probably isn’t staying at Norland Park. We do have our share of old money clients, but most of the uber-wealthy find the resort I manage too rustic. He’s probably staying at the Post Ranch or another luxury boutique hotel in Carmel. Maybe he’s just taking his new sports car for a scenic drive. I wish he’d continue on hisway. I don’t like how I am inhaling every detail about him... stunning profile, strong jawline, good cheekbones, perfect nose. I had no idea I held such strong opinions on noses until seeing this one—strong and straight with a slight bump.
“Was my offer too low? I hope I didn’t offend you.” An evening breeze ruffles his hair. “I can pay more.”
My mind whirls back to his earlier comment.
“Who normally buys your art?” I ask.
“My mom. She’s quite the collector.”
“Really?” I ask with genuine interest. There is no way I’m selling my amateur painting to this guy, especially now that I know his mom is an art collector. However, my mom is a real artist with real talent, and though it has been years since she’s touched a canvas, she still has a few good paintings left to sell.
“Yes, she’s obsessed with art. I’ve never been as interested. But this painting... something about it...” He goes quiet as he studies my humble dabs. It really isn’t much more than a vague impression of the view, like a blurred reflection in rippling water.
“It’s not finished,” I point out.
“That’s what I like. It holds promise.” I look at the painting again and can almost see what he’s talking about. It isn’t half bad, but it isn’t half good either.
“What about $1,000?” he asks.
I laugh outright. “Ummm . . . you’re kidding, right?”
“Not one bit.”
“I can’t take your money. I’m not a real artist.”
“I don’t know what you mean by that. My mom always says, ‘Good art makes you feel something.’This”—he points to my painting—“makes me feel something. I can’t name the emotion, but I know I want to buy it.”
