CHAPTER FIFTEEN
LINDY
I left the blue painting at Witnot and regretted it. Mind, the canvas would have been a pain to bring home on the flight back, but I could have sold it in a gallery locally. Besides, it felt right to leave it with Al, who was under instruction to keep the door shut and not to show Covin its location under any instructions.
Then I sneaked out like a child running away from home early on a Tuesday morning and caught the ferry across to the mainland. A bus trip and two flights that hopped across the ocean later and I was home.
The whole trip felt both momentous and an utter waste at the same time.
I loved Scotland. I missed the Christmas tree forest. I missed Al.
I’d fallen in love with Covin.
And we never did get our picnic.
A whole lot more happened, too, but those were the parts I couldn’t get past. My heart refused to admit it couldn’t be glued back together no matter how hard I tried to make it work.
Until suddenly I was back at my tiny little house I inherited back in SoCal, with a blank canvas in front of me, staring at tiny white caps with no more inspiration in mind than I had before I left.
I was drained. Empty.
What I gained in Scotland I also lost in the same period.
And the only thing I felt now was sore in the chest, a nauseating feeling that roiled in my stomach no matter how much I ate or didn’t, and a butt that went numb on the seat I used as I eyeballed my canvas and dared it to be something epic.
None of that changed.
Not a damn thing.
I let out a sigh as tears blurred the same white canvas I’d been staring at for the last few days and dipped my brush into gray paint that threatened to congeal and set for the duration I’d left it unattended.
May as well. It’s not doing anything else right now.
I made a few strokes, then added some black. Why not? It wasn’t like color was what I needed right now. The gray merged with the black and after a while I added some white. Even the tiniest, finest hint of blue. Not the color of the bay, but the glistening sort of a clear sky that reflected over the loch the day I left.
Or snow beneath an impossible cornflower blue clear sky.
Damnit, I missed that painting.
Finally, I placed my paint brush down and stared over the edge of the canvas. I didn’t want to look at it. Whatever I had made, it was wrong. For this place, this time.
This version of me.
“I liked the other one better.”
Not now. Not him .
My heart just went numb again.
But the sound of Covin’s voice flared pain out in all directions radiating from a central point deep in my chest.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I whispered. “You weren’t meant to find me.”
“But I did.” A touch of pride and triumph edged into his voice.
“Because that’s what you do,” I said numbly as salt trickled into my mouth. I swiped the tears away with my knuckles, not looking at him.
Warm fingers caught my chin, turned my face toward him anyway.
So much for that resolve .
Warm hazel eyes shot with slivers of pure gold stared back at me. “I never gave up on you, Lindy. I just gave you space. By the time I came to find you, you were gone.”
I nodded, dislodging his hold. “I know. That was the plan.”
“Yeah?” He crouched in front of me, tenderly swiping away my tears as fresh ones I couldn’t stop fell. “How’s that feeling right now?”
I laughed at him because what else could I do? “You know the answer to that as well as I do.” Or you shouldn’t be here with me.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He cupped my cheek, squeezed gently. “I really do, Lindy. Then I heard a story. About a girl. This girl, she showed up at my college. Made one hell of a ruckus at the dean’s office. Offered to teach him how to paint on his weekends. You know that? He doesn’t know what a weekend is.” He laughed.
That sound ignited something in me. A speck of hope, maybe.
“She sounds batshit cray cray to me. You should steer clear of her,” I muttered, though the tears stopped flowing, for now.
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. I like a good dose of crazy. Matches mine.”
“Yeah, you have enough of that. It’s true.” I nodded enthusiastically, squeaking when he wrapped his arms around me and pulled me off my stool, numb bum and all, and onto his lap where we tumbled onto the stones below.
“This girl,” he shushed me when I started to talk, “She also raised hell with Oxford. No fucking sense at all, right? Anyway, Ras called. Apologized to the castle owner. Made sure the ghost would be respected. Actually, there’s a uh, an article being printed about historical rights of the dead, and their stories to be told. Who owns those, etc.,” he muttered.
I looked at him, unwillingly impressed. Again. “Not bad, professor.”
He laughed, and blushed. He blushed . Cuteness factor. “Thanks. So…she did something crazy. And so did I.”
“Yeah? Apart from the article of the dead?”
Yeah.” He squeezed my waist in that way of his, resting his forehead against mine.
I giggled, hope burning eternal in my artist’s heart so damn bright it threatened to engulf us both.” What did you do, then, professor? Impress me.”
“I bought a castle.”