Chapter 26
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
Sawyer stared at the blank canvas and couldn’t see anything in his mind.
No colors.
Nothing.
Inside his chest was a dead zone—like in the aftermath of Chernobyl or something where nothing would ever grow again. The canvas looked like a shape from his old geometry book now, not the gateway to a magical scene from his imaginary world.
He’d come back to his atelier after composing a long text to Phoebe beside the Seine, determined to paint. Maybe Axel was right. He needed to paint the little boy he’d been, the one who understood abandonment. Maybe the act would exorcise his pain.
The very thought had leached him of his last energy, though. Even squeezing different colors of paint onto his palette had been a chore. Picking up a paintbrush? One of the bravest acts he’d ever done.
But had he painted? No. All he’d done was stare at it and listen for his phone to signal a return text from Phoebe. Nothing had come. Finally, he’d sunk to the floor and set his tools aside.
Sawyer, I am, he repeated for the hundredth time.
He was not going quietly into the night. His gallery show was still on, and he was so close to having the paintings he needed. Just three more. He was not giving up on himself. He was going to paint.
Somehow.
He turned around to face his unfinished painting of Phoebe and felt his heart give an audible cry somewhere deep inside him. Right now, he couldn’t finish it, which is why he’d prepped a new canvas.
God, why couldn’t he face it with the same passion he’d felt for the others? Sure, it was a difficult subject, but other painters managed to unleash that passion on a canvas and produce truth and great art.
But this? He had nothing to give it. To give himself.
He’d been looking forward to painting all the other new scenes in his head. The ones he’d sketched in the simple black journal he’d brought on his last trip to Charvin when he’d gone to buy their beautiful shade of Provence blue.
He jumped up and raced toward his journal for painting ideas, flipping open the thick black cover.
The first page was a drawing of Thea and Madison cooking side by side in the kitchen, Pierre sitting on Madison’s shoulder as she bathed her duck with cherries from a pan.
Thea was off to the right, kneading bread, a beautiful smile on her face.
A spark shot through his heart. It might as well have been an old engine firing, but he felt it all the same before it faded.
He turned the page to the scene of Kyle and Madison dancing together as they had at Thea’s wedding, their bodies stiff and tense, yet their hands clutching each other as if afraid to touch as much as to let go.
Another spark came and went in his heart.
Like a shooting star appearing and disappearing in the sky.
But it was there.
Undeniably there.
The epiphany struck out of nowhere. He didn’t want to paint from a place of hurt and pain.
He paused.
Pain.
Pain-ting.
How had he never seen that pain was the root of painting?
Yes, the little boy he’d been deserved to be honored, but Sawyer didn’t need to exorcise his pain through painting.
That wasn’t his creative place. He’d tried it, of course—because so many of the greats had painted from such scenes.
Wasn’t Guernica by Picasso one of the most celebrated paintings of all time with its depiction of human suffering and the toils of war?
But it had never worked for him. Depictions of pain and hardship crushed his soul.
His teachers had made him paint banal still lifes of fruits or flowers.
More Old Masters shit. He’d failed to bring those to life as well.
He finally got why. Because he hated painting bowls of apples or vases of tulips.
Forget that the Dutch masters had loved tulips since the Netherlands had a thing for their famous flower.
Or the British masters had a thing for their apples since the Brits liked their orchards.
It was boring to him.
Another of his old painting teachers had told him that he could never be a great artist if he couldn’t look the horrors of the world in the face and paint them.
Well, fuck you, dude.
He didn’t want to, but he’d given in and tried painting those scenes anyway.
No wonder they’d sucked. His genius had only been recognized when he’d painted scenes of love with love.
With a tenderness he wasn’t completely comfortable people knowing about yet.
But he’d trusted his roommates with it, and Nanine, and here he was.
He’d felt it for Phoebe and celebrated it both in his process and on the canvas.
Who wouldn’t feel that kind of tenderness for the woman he loved?
“I’ve got it!” he bellowed.
To an empty space.
Yeah, he was becoming one of the masters. He was talking to himself like a lunatic. Van Gogh, here he we come. Except scratch that. Dude’s life had pretty much sucked from the asylum to the grave.
No way he was going that route.
He swung around, creative oxygen feeding the spark inside him. He could feel the fire growing until it was blazing through his whole middle, warming the coldness of his heart, making him feel like spring had returned to his life. He didn’t care if that sounded corny. He felt it!
Rushing over to his prepared canvases, he selected the smallest size his soul could accept and packed it up in his plein air storage carrier.
Striding over to the cabinet that held his oil paints, he pulled the colors he wanted.
Grabbing brushes, he shoved everything into the canvas carrier that held his travel easel.
Then he picked up his phone. Phoebe still hadn’t answered, but he’d take it with him, hoping she would.
Finished packing up, he marched to the elevator.
Stupid to take the stairs with this weight.
When he reached the ground floor, he knew Kyle was somewhere close. Dude had patted him on the shoulder when they’d come back home after leaving a worried Brooke, telling him to come and get him if he needed anything. Companionship. A stiff drink.
Damn, he had great friends.
He shouted, “I’m going painting, Kyle. I’ll see you later.”
As he was opening the front door, he heard quick steps behind him. “Good, but you should probably put a coat on.”
Right! He hated to put his wide load down, but it was cold out. “I must be an artist. Totally forgot about practicalities.”
Kyle was tugging at his lip, fighting a grin. “Good. Consider me your practicality helper. In fact, why don’t I help you carry some of this stuff?”
“I’ve got it, man.”
Kyle’s response was to shrug on his coat and pick up his canvas tote. “Paint is heavy.”
Sawyer snorted at the joke. “Your hundred push-ups a day is failing you.”
“Bite your tongue, Doc. I do five hundred. Since coming to Paris, I haven’t been going to the gym.”
“That’s because no one goes to the gym in Paris unless they’re looking to hook up.” He grabbed a scarf and wrapped it around his neck. “Did you know?”
“Nope. But I’m not looking to hook up.”
“No, because you’re in love with Madison. Let me say again that I hope you’re going to do something about that beyond the odd song at a wedding.”
“That’s the plan—although it’s a work in progress given the way she stormed off.” Kyle opened the door for him. “Where are we going, Doc?”
“To Nanine’s,” he told him as they braved the cold, because God it was cold. But there was the hint of chimney smoke from someone’s fire in the air and the waning afternoon light was so freaking glorious in its cream, blues, and pinks that it had him pausing and looking up.
“I’ve found my reason to paint, Kyle,” he confessed softly, as if he were in a sacred space. “Deep down.”
His friend—this amazing dude who’d been the prom king and played football and who would probably never have crossed his path in school if they’d gone together—squeezed his shoulder and grinned. “I’m happy for you, man.”
“Me too!” He took off, Kyle behind him. “And I’m going to get Phoebe back somehow.”
“Good for you, Doc. You’ve got my help there too—should you need it.”
“I might.” He sidestepped some pedestrians and turned right. “She was pretty angry. She hasn’t answered my text yet.”
“You’ll work it out.”
Yeah, he suddenly knew they would. Which was crazy. When had he ever been a positivist? Something had changed inside him. Because of his friends. Because of Phoebe. Because of himself.
Sure, he’d never subscribed outright to the school of pessimist, but he’d always figured life existed in an in-between place. Sometimes light and dark. Sometimes painful and joyous. Finding a way to exist through it all had been his guiding philosophy.
Now he realized all he wanted was to seek out the good things in life rather than stumbling upon them. He wanted to let in more light, like the skylights did in his studio. To enjoy more happy times with his friends, his found family.
And Phoebe…
He wanted to collect a whole lifetime of happy moments with her that they could share in Drink and Divulge with their friends.
Yes… Now he understood it all. He might as well have written his own personal treatise on the universe and the existence of men. And women. Because he wasn’t a sexist.
When they opened the back door to the kitchen, the chandelier gave a rat-ta-tat of a chime.
The scents of onion and warmed red wine reached his nose, chased by the lingering smell of baked bread.
Little sister was on her honeymoon, but she hadn’t forgotten about everyone else.
She’d made the dough and frozen it to be used in her absence.
The kitchen staff gazed at them as they continued to chop and stir and do other prep things. What time was it anyway? He hadn’t checked. Well, he would set up and stay out of their way.
Only, the kitchen lighting was atrocious! God, how could they work in this harsh cool white light?
When he went up to Nanine’s apartment to ask if she would indulge him and come down and make bread so he could paint her into the scene, he would bring a few of the lamps from upstairs.
“Doc, what are you doing in my kitchen?” Madison called, stalking between the stainless steel counters until she stood in front of him.
“I need to paint in your kitchen.” He pushed his glasses lower because she was a little blurry, the warmth in the kitchen making them foggy after being out in the cold. “I promise to stay out of the way.”
“I know you have dinner service soon,” Kyle added, “but he’s found his reason to paint again. He wants to do it here—”
“Good!” she exclaimed, punching the air. “Then you and Phoebe are back together? Where is she? When I left her, I thought she was going to need a little more time to pull herself together.”
His bag slid from his hands to the floor. “What? When did you see Phoebe?”
“Yeah, when did you see Phoebe, Madison?” Kyle drawled with a lopsided smile.
Pierre landed on her arm with a squawk. She patted the top of his head and said, “When I broke into her apartment—”
“You did what?” he and Kyle asked at the same time.
Crossing her arms, she gave an evil laugh. “You should see your faces. You’d think I’d run over and tore open her bed pillows with a knife or something.”
Sawyer gulped. “You didn’t take your cleaver, did you?”
“No, I brought her bread and soup, which got me into her apartment easy peasy.” She snapped her fingers.
“Phoebe needed to know what was what. I told her. We talked. You should see her soon. She needed some time to clean up her red eyes and cut ties with her mother. That bitch is as bad as the woman who spawned you, Doc.”
His brain caught up, and suddenly he was processing what she was saying. Phoebe knew the truth and believed him. She was coming back to be with him. He didn’t need to— “I’m…suddenly feeling—”
Madison lurched for a chair in the corner and shoved him into it. “Not again, Doc. You really need to stop making a habit of almost fainting in my kitchen.”
He stared at the blurry floor, all his emotions caught in his throat. “So she knows I didn’t—”
“Yep.” She clapped her hands. “Everyone, please ignore our dear friend here. He’s going to paint us and test our mettle doing so. It’s good mental training for us as we cook, knowing the Michelin people could be out there.”
“Did you really just say that to the staff?” Kyle muttered.
“You bet I did.” She preened, chest out. “Toughens them up. Can someone bring me the vinegar?” she called.
The rapid shuffling of feet sounded, and before he knew it, a bottle of vinegar was thrust under his nose, the acrid scent clearing his head.
“Works every time,” Madison said, tucking the vinegar bottle into her front chef pocket. “Now, I need to get back to work. You paint your heart out, Doc.”
Maybe it was the vinegar that had given him the clarity of what to paint, but suddenly he knew. “I need to watch you plate your duck with cherries. Would that be possible?”
She huffed out a laugh. “Only if you eat the portion I make. Because I hate being like Brooke, but have you eaten today?”
He shook his head.
“That’s the deal. Take it or leave it.”
“You’re really turning into a mama bear, Madison,” he tried to scold. How could he think of food when Phoebe was going to forgive him, and he was about to paint the restaurant that had changed his life.
“Bite your tongue, Doc.”
“Fine, I can eat. I’m not sick to my stomach anymore. Especially knowing you talked to Phoebe. What else—”
“Nope, that’s all you get from me.” She lifted her hand, palm out. “I’m not some love messenger. I’m going back to work. Tell me when you want the duck. Because I’m going to have to kill it.”
Her wicked laughter trailed off as she walked away. Turning to Kyle, he grinned. “She really is something, isn’t she?”
His eyes were following her, an almost dopey grin on his face. “Yeah.”
“I need to go find Nanine. I want her to be in this too.” He gripped Kyle’s shoulder. “Thanks, man.”
“Anytime, Doc.” He crisply nodded. “I probably should get back to the house in case Phoebe swings by. Be good if I can tell her where you are.”
His heart did a hop, skip, and a jump at that. “That would be terrific.” Now they had all the bases covered. He headed up the stairs to talk to Nanine. To share that she’d helped him find himself, again.
Soon he would be painting again for himself.
Phoebe was willing to reconcile with him.
He wanted to howl like a wolf on top of the proverbial mountain, Sawyer, I am.