Chapter 41
Chapter Forty-One
BLAKE
Ican't believe I'm painting! Dirty and elbow-deep in paint with my daughter and… a woman who looks and sounds like my wife, but behaves nothing like her.
The three of us huddle around the easel in the middle of the conservatory, painting a family portrait that we're building layer by layer.
Me at the center with Freya on my lap, and Carolyn beside us, wearing that soft smile I've come to crave. It’s like some scene straight out of a feel-good movie where the stoic businessman rediscovers his heart through family chaos.
Dust motes dance like tiny fireflies in the golden beams of light pouring in.
The air carries the sharp, heady scent of oil paints and turpentine. Freya giggles nonstop, her small hands smeared with cobalt blue and cadmium yellow from the tubes we've squeezed onto the palette, her curls tied back with a ribbon that's already slipping loose.
And Carolyn—God, she looks so sexy and alive in my shirt. Faint flecks dot her cheek like freckles. She guides Freya's brush gently, her voice soft as she explains the strokes.
And me? I'm right there with my sleeves rolled up on my casual shirt, pigment on my fingers, dabbing at the canvas, feeling like a kid again.
The brush feels foreign yet freeing in my grip.
It's surreal—this domestic bliss after years of emotional distance, my hands creating something real and tangible.
My heart swells in a way that's almost painful, a mix of joy and disbelief that this is my life, this warmth filling the cracks I didn't even know were there.
We work together, the three of us falling into sync like we've done this a hundred times, even though it's our first. Freya dips her brush too liberally into the crimson, splattering some on the drop cloth we've spread out, her laughter bubbling up as Carolyn shows her how to blend it properly on the palette.
"See, sweetie? Mix it like this—slow circles, let the colors marry."
I lean in, so close my shoulder brushes Carolyn's, sending a spark through me as her warmth seeps into my side. She demonstrates shading with a few careful strokes.
"Watch how the light hits here. Now use the darker tone to create depth, like this."
Freya nods seriously, her tongue poking out in concentration as she mimics Carolyn on her section of the canvas.
The paints glide smoothly across the surface, the oils blending creamy on the linen canvas stretched taut on the easel.
The bristles whisper softly as we build the image, bringing Freya's curls to life in swirling browns.
It's immersive, with time slipping away as we pause now and then for sips of tart and icy lemonade that Carolyn made earlier.
Soon enough, the family portrait is ready— imperfect but vibrant and wonderful.
Freya's enthusiastic blobs have added a unique charm to it and I plan to frame it and hang it in the study. It has everything. I’m rather proud of it: the three of us caught in oils like a frozen snapshot, capturing a day of pure happiness and joy.
Freya steps back with her hands on her hips, still smeared with paint, and beams at the canvas. "I can't wait to show Grandma!" she exclaims, bouncing on her toes with exhilaration.
Carolyn’s eyes meet mine. That's the moment we both realize my mother is missing from the portrait. "We can’t have that," I say, chuckling as I wipe my hands on a rag.
Carolyn nods, and the shared amusement warms me from the inside out. "No problem. I’ll add her in. It’ll take no time at all," she says softly, reaching for a clean brush and dipping it into the palette to sketch a quick outline beside us.
"Let Carolyn add Grandma in. You run along. Wash up and change. I’ll order a pizza for lunch."
“Yay, Pepperoni pizza with sweet corn on the side,” she orders and scampers off, her footsteps echoing down the hall, leaving us alone.
I extend my hand and step closer, and the scent of paint and her perfume mingle in a heady mix. "Finish it later. My mother won’t be back until tomorrow—come walk with me now."
She doesn’t hesitate even for a second. Her fingers slip into my hand, warm and soft.
We head out of the sliding glass doors and walk through the grounds toward the lake and garden, the path winding under ancient oaks planted from the original days when this whole estate belonged to my English ancestors.
The tree branches arch like protective arms overhead, and the gravel crunches softly under our shoes.
The lake ahead reflects the sun like a mirror, its surface still and glassy.
It's comfortable out here, with the air mild and a faint breeze rustling the leaves, carrying the earthy scent of soil mixed with subtle floral notes.
She leans into me as we stroll, her shoulder brushing my arm, her warmth seeping through our clothes.
It makes my pulse quicken, even as a deep contentment settles over me like I've never known before.
I decide to ask what theme she is planning for the yearly fund-raising event. It’s coming up soon and it has been her domain ever since she took over the job of organizing it from my mother.
"What's the vision this year?" I murmur, my thumb stroking the back of her hand gently.