Chapter 41 Lachlan
Lachlan
Lachlan slammed on his brakes and swerved, searching his mirrors frantically for signs of the animal he hoped he’d just avoided. He’d been thinking about how he’d spoken to Deli. To Mo. Lachlan cursed himself for being distracted as he stepped onto the pavement.
He hadn’t thought his day could get much more distressing. His fault, really, for underestimating Douglas.
The wee man sifted through roadside stones, facing away from Lachlan, bent at the waist. His newly bedazzled mini kilt sparkled in the sun.
Lachlan didn’t shield his eyes. The damage was already done.
“Douglas?”
Douglas spun around with a palm full of pebbles. His bare chest and belly were so bright Lachlan nearly missed the fuzzy hat with antlers erupting from either side.
“You’re driving too fast, lad. Could’ve hit a deer.”
If he had killed Douglas, would that have counted?
“Mmhmm. And why are you standing in the road . . . half naked . . . dressed like a deer?”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Lachlan repressed many responses and settled on, “No?”
“It’s such a nice day, seemed a shame to deprive the sun of this sight.
” He brought his arm from his head to his lower body like a game show presenter.
“Considering I plan on being here awhile, I thought it kind to dress the part. Plenty of deer move through here. Wouldnae want to startle the poor dears.”
Douglas stared at Lachlan with a self-satisfied grin on his face. Lachlan refused to indulge the pun.
“So, you’re . . . sunbathing?”
“Goodness, no!” Douglas pointed to an easel in the road beside a small stool and crate of paint tubes. “I’m painting!”
“What are you painting in the middle of the road, Douglas?”
“Our home!”
He abruptly started back toward his canvas. Lachlan dropped his head, followed. He wondered if every small town came with an eccentric old man who preferred life mostly nude.
“You see?” Douglas said as Lachlan approached. “Look at that—worth remembering, don’t you think?”
Lachlan saw . . . the farm. They were the same unremarkable hills he drove by every day, spotted with sketchy heather patches and a sheep or two. “I . . .”
Douglas turned his canvas around. “Look.”
Through Douglas’s eyes, it was transformed.
Short strokes of greens and golds made up the grass, caught in sunlight.
Speckled lavender, lilac, and magenta nestled into dark streaks, punctuating the green.
Layers of blue, gray, and white adorned the sky like candy floss mid-pull, coming apart in a fragile web. It took Lachlan’s breath away.
“Douglas, it’s perfect.”
“Oh, I doubt that. I expect it will change before it’s done.”
Lachlan’s brow knit. “Why would you change it?”
“The season is on the brink. So is its portrait.”
“But you’re the painter.”
“Art isn’t about perfection. It’s about translating the truth of things.”
Lachlan thought of Douglas painting over what he’d done and felt an urgent need to save it. “Can I buy it from you?”
Douglas watched him thoughtfully for a long moment. “No, dinnae think so.”
His jaw tensed. “What do you want, then? Name your price.”
“The painting chooses the person, Lachlan. Besides, she’s still changin’.”
“But what if you ruin it?”
Douglas laughed so loudly and suddenly a sheep bleated on the hillside and ran. “Oh, Christ, my boy, don’t you know? You can only be sure of two things: what you’ve got right now and what you don’t. Being ‘ruined’—that’s a matter of perspective.”
Lachlan stood a little straighter. “I don’t believe that.”
Douglas dipped a brush and squinted at the hillside. The sun had already shifted.
“Best get where you’re going, lad. We’re losing the light.”