‘We don’t want to lose you either. I know that Lucas would have been so disappointed to see us argue . . .’ She tries to compose herself to continue. ‘If we had talked about all this more, you would have felt comfortable to tell us about Robert. I should have been more supportive. The last thing I want to do is push you away.’
I shake my head. ‘It isn’t your fault. I should have been honest with you, but I was worried about what you would think, and I was scared of hurting our relationship. I didn’t want to push you away. And then I found out who he was . . .’ I break off with a sob. ‘How can I expect you to forgive me?’
It’s her turn to squeeze my hand then. ‘There is nothing for me to forgive. You opened your heart again, and I know it’s something you need to do. I never met Robert, but it’s clear he had feelings for you and chose to lie to you about his connection to . . . us. That isn’t your fault.’
‘I feel so confused about it all. I hate that he lied to me. I don’t want to have connection to the person that . . . to his brother, but he inspired me to start painting again and I can’t deny that he was making me happy. It’s been a long time since I felt like that. He said he loves me and . . . I . . . I can’t seem to forget him.’
Gloria is silent for a moment and I worry that I’ve been too honest with her about my feelings for Robert. ‘No one can tell you what to do,’ she says eventually. ‘He’s made a lot of mistakes and only you can decide what you can forgive. I think we all have more questions for him. But there’s no time limit. If he really loves you then he’ll wait for you. And I’ll be here to help you if you need me to.’
‘I’ll always need you.’
Walking to Emma’s in the afternoon, I answer a phone call from Heather, who in a businesslike manner books an appointment with me so she can see the heart painting in the flesh. ‘You can’t gain any sort of perspective through a camera, I find. What is it called?’
I can’t gather any thoughts she has about it yet. I look down at my healing tattoo and tell her the name I’ve chosen for the painting: ‘Without winter, there would be no spring’.
She’s silent for a moment. ‘It’s perfect,’ she says before hanging up.
Emma is sitting on their patio when I arrive, the sun pouring into the small garden, promising a hot July on the horizon. I take out two glasses of ice-cold Coke for us and join her at the table. ‘Too early for alcohol then?’ she asks, taking the glass I offer her.
‘I’m working at the bar tonight.’
‘I don’t want too much time off. All I do is think about it. I want to think about something else.’
‘Give it time.’
She looks at me. ‘Talk to me about something else. Tell me about the retreat.’ I fill her in on my four weeks away and then I tell her about the email Robert sent me, finishing with my conversation with Gloria earlier. She sighs. ‘I wish Robert had just been honest from the start, but at the same time I can’t blame him for falling in love with you and being too scared to come clean.’
‘I understand why he did it, but does that mean I can forgive him?’
‘And he hasn’t seen his brother since it happened?’
‘He said that he went to rehab and then disappeared. I know that it wasn’t Robert driving that night, but he admits he didn’t help his brother or stop their father from covering it all up. I feel like maybe I don’t respect him now, you know? He acted very cowardly, I think.’
Emma nods. ‘He did. And it sounds like he knows it and is trying to turn things around. I can’t believe how happy we were just a few weeks ago and now . . .’
‘You will be happy again,’ I say firmly.
She looks off into the distance. ‘It feels very far away right now.’
When it’s nearly dinner time I get up to leave so I can eat before my shift, giving her a warm hug as I go. John is coming through the front door when I reach it.
‘How is she?’ he asks me quietly so she can’t hear us.
‘Sad, mostly.’
‘She doesn’t want to talk to me about it. I can’t seem to get through to her at all. It’s horrible to see her this heartbroken and not be able to help her.’
‘I’m not sure either of us can help her, she just needs time. She knows we’re here for her,’ I say, reaching out to touch his shoulder. ‘How are you doing?’
‘It was always going to be tougher for her, I know that. But it’s still hard, thinking about how excited we were and then nothing, you know? She said earlier she doesn’t want to ever try again. I don’t know if she means that or not.’
‘It’s so hard to even think about the future when you’re in pain like she is,’ I tell him, remembering how difficult it’s been for me to think of having one without Lucas. ‘You guys will be okay, I know it.’
‘Thanks, Rose.’ He forces out a smile and gives me a kiss on the cheek.
I don’t know a stronger couple than them. They will get each other through this tough time, I’m certain of it. I think about the drawing I did of them on the beach and know instantly that will be my next painting. After all they’ve done for me, I need to do something to help them. Hopefully it will remind them how strong they are together.
I can’t believe they’ve had to go through this. I hope better things are around the corner. We’ve all experienced enough pain to last a lifetime.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I’m in my painting room where the heart painting stands proudly on its easel and I set up a blank canvas next to it. Finally, this room doesn’t scare me like it used to. I turn on my iPod speakers so Little Big Town are blasting out and pull my hair into a messy bun. Taylor has followed me up here and is curled up on the floor in a patch of sunlight, looking up at me and wondering what I’m doing. I prop up the drawing of Emma and John at the beach and start to copy it on to the larger canvas.
I feel it again. That buzz I always got from painting. I tap my feet to the music and lose myself in the picture I’m creating. I don’t have to worry that the retreat was a fluke as the brushstrokes come as easily as breathing, and I’m even more excited by my work now that I’m able to paint exactly what I want to say.
I am pulled back from my painting haze by the shrill doorbell that Joe installed buzzing downstairs. I sigh as I step back, looking at what I’ve done so far and pleased it’s coming along how I want it to. Taylor follows me downstairs and I open the door to a petite woman who I’d guess is in her early forties who is wearing a dark blue suit, with her light brown hair cut in a chic bob. She holds out her hand. ‘It’s lovely to meet you at last.’ I look at her stupidly, pencil still in hand, then she smiles. ‘Heather Jones.’
Realisation dawns. ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry,’ I say, hurriedly shaking her hand and stepping aside. ‘Please, come in.’ I’d been so caught up in my work I didn’t realise morning had faded into afternoon and our appointment time had arrived. I instantly feel a mess compared to her smart appearance but reason she must know a lot of artists so is hopefully used to it.
‘I’ve spoken to Dan, who I’ve never heard enthuse so much about an artist on one of his retreats before,’ Heather tells me as I lead her upstairs.
‘I hope he hasn’t oversold it,’ I say, trying to be funny but suddenly feeling very nervous. I know that Dan was very excited about this piece, but it’s one thing to hear the opinion of another artist who knows how much you’re plagued by self-doubt, and quite another to hear from a critic who isn’t bothered about hurting your feelings. And this piece is part of me. I feel like she’ll be judging my heart and soul.
I stop and let Heather walk forward into the room. I scoop Taylor up into my arms and sit down in the chair in the corner to wait for her thoughts.
She stands a couple of feet away from the painting and stares at it. Then she starts walking back and forth in front of it, looking at it from different
angles. I watch her, growing more and more nervous as she stays silent, her brow furrowed in concentration. The silence feels deafening. I absent-mindedly stroke Taylor as I watch her stop again and tilt her head. Then she lets out a long breath and I can’t take it any longer.
‘Um . . . I’m dying here.’
She spins around and laughs. ‘I’m sorry, I forgot you were here.’
‘Is that . . . is that a good thing?’
‘It’s a very good thing. This painting makes me think about the people I have loved and lost. I didn’t study art, you know, I grew up surrounded by it, and what I learned at an early age is that technical ability is all well and good, but a true artist, someone who can paint something that people will want to buy and keep forever, is based on how they make you feel when you look at their work. You made me feel something with this, Rose. You are a true artist and this is a great painting.’ She takes my hand in hers. ‘Damn it, I hate it when Dan is right.’
I burst out laughing and she joins in again. When she laughs she looks ten years younger. It makes me wonder if she laughs enough. ‘Thank you, that means so much to me.’
‘You never need to thank me. I need to thank you. How about a cup of tea and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking we should do?’
I lift Taylor off me and he curls up in the chair, ready for a nap, so I leave him there and take Heather into the kitchen. I make us both a cup of tea and bring the mugs over to the table and sit down opposite her.
‘You were right before I’d even met you, that I needed to tap into how I felt to paint,’ I tell her. ‘I’d been scared for years to do it, to be honest, but I feel so much better now I have.’
‘As I said before, you have always been technically great, but I saw that you were missing a connection to what you were painting. I honestly didn’t expect quite such a turnaround. It’s really wonderful to see. And very exciting. You have such potential, I think the art community are going to want to snap your work up.’ Heather takes a sip of her sugary tea. ‘I have a proposal. Based on that painting, I’d like to show your work in my gallery. But I always think it works better to exhibit several paintings so people can get a real feel of your work. Do you think you can produce something else for me? Ideally, a concept that links all the pieces together would be what I’d be looking for.’
‘An exhibition?’ I repeat, unsure that I heard her correctly.
She smiles. ‘I want to show your work, Rose. I’m wondering if you could produce three other pieces and I’ll exhibit them at my gallery. I take a fifteen percent commission on what you sell at the exhibition, and I have no doubt you will sell out.’ She says this in a brisk, matter-of-fact way. ‘Don’t look quite so dumbfounded – you’re the one doing me the favour if you agree. You could go to a gallery in London but I’m hoping I can tap into your local loyalties; I know you’ve lived here all your life. I think it would be lovely if you had your first exhibition in Plymouth.’
First? As in there may be many more in the future? ‘I just sell pictures to tourists.’
‘Not anymore, if I have anything to do with it. I’d like to show your work before Christmas, maybe in November? But only if you feel you could produce the work by then. It will be great to build on the buzz from the retreat. Based on the time it took to produce this piece . . . and I noticed you’ve already started another one.’
‘That’s of my friends . . . I planned to give it to them.’
‘You still can if you want to. It feels as if it could work with your heart painting. A series about love, perhaps?’
I can’t seem to take this in. ‘Can I think about it?’
She looks a little disappointed but readily agrees. ‘This is your time, Rose,’ she says as she’s leaving.
I watch her go, thinking that just three months ago I was worried I’d never paint again and now I have a piece that a gallery wants to show, something that has never happened before. I have always been content with the artist I was and now I’m on the cusp of something completely different.
Am I ready for that?
Chapter Thirty
July is flying by at a rapid pace and I wake up at dawn on what would have been my fourth wedding anniversary with Lucas. I know there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep, so I get up and look out of the window. The sun is starting to rise and the sky is streaked with pink and orange. It’s a clear morning and promises to be a warm, bright day. I wonder how we would have spent today if he were still here with me. I think we would have gone to the beach for surfing, maybe taking breakfast to eat there afterwards. I haven’t been in the sea since he died and I suddenly am gripped by a need to be out there once again.
I go to my shed in the garden and pull out a wetsuit and surfboard, glad I didn’t throw them away. I walk to the beach in the wetsuit, carrying the board at my waist. It’s still early for tourists and I have it almost to myself save for a couple of dog walkers and a windsurfer in the distance. I have never surfed without Lucas. I sit for a moment on the sand, lifting my face up to the rising sun, and wish I could talk to him about everything. I know he would have been so excited that a gallery wants to show my work, and I wouldn’t have felt nervous about it because he always made me feel as if we could get through anything together.
But I’m on my own now.
I stand up and carry the board with me into the water. It’s cool and the temperature shocks me for a moment before I get used to it. I wait for a good wave, feeling my pulse start to quicken. I remember what Lucas taught me. I suppose like riding a bike I feel the wave approaching and my body automatically reacts to it. I paddle on the board towards the shore until the wave moves under me and I start to move forward on it, then I stand up and, hitting the right point, I am able to ride the wave. The adrenaline is there instantly and I laugh as the saltwater sprays over me when the wave carries me along with it. I don’t need to imagine Lucas here with me: it feels as if he is. I ride the wave as he taught me and I know he would be proud of me.
Afterwards, I lean on the board and float in the sea, watching the beach start to fill up now the sun is fully in the sky and the warmth is slipping through my wetsuit to my skin. That moment riding the wave made me feel fearless – which is exactly what Lucas loved about surfing. He won’t get the chance to feel that way again, so I should feel it for him. I don’t want to spend my life being scared of new things. It feels wrong somehow when he doesn’t have the opportunity. I know he would want me to live life for the both of us.
And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.
After I tell Heather I want to do the exhibition, I throw myself into finishing the painting of Emma and John. I think it will complement the heart painting, and the series can be about love as Heather suggested. Without winter, there would be no spring now stands next to the canvas with their picture on. Emma and John, linked by their eyes and hearts. A link that cannot be broken by anything that gets thrown at them. Without darkness, there would be no stars to shine.
Emma comes to the cottage at my request. Her eyes still lack their usual sparkle. I hate to see her in this much pain. ‘I’ve finished my second painting for the exhibition,’ I tell her, leading her upstairs. ‘And I want to show it to you.’
Curious, she follows me into the room and lets out a gasp when she recognises herself and John in the picture. I watch her as she looks at it. ‘I saw the two of you on the beach that day, and I saw so much happiness and love between the two of you. Most of all, though, I saw a strong and confident and beautiful women inside and out. You lit up with life; you always have done. I’ve always envied how it radiates from you. I had to capture you both that day, because I realised whatever life might throw at you, you have this strong link between the two of you that can’t be broken. No matter what you two go through, your love will get you through it. In the end, that’s all that really counts. Looking at this, I know that whatever
happens, you will get through it, because the girl in that painting can make it through anything.’
Emma lets out a small sob. ‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course I do. I would never have got through this time without you. You must know that. You’ve been so strong for me. You made me believe that I would make it through all the pain. I almost gave up, but you didn’t let me. I don’t say it enough, but I love you and I don’t know what I would have done without you in my life. You’re the sister I never had and it kills me not to be able to take away your pain, because you’ve taken away so much of mine.’ I let out my own sob then.
‘Oh, love.’ She wraps her arms around me and I give her a tight hug back. She pulls back to look at it again. ‘It’s such a beautiful painting. I’ve never seen you do one like it before.’ She looks at the heart painting then. ‘They’re both amazing; no wonder she wants to do an exhibition. This is the start of something wonderful, I can feel it.’
I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her closer. ‘I want you and John to have this after the exhibition. So you never forget how strong you are together.’
‘I can’t accept this. It will be worth a lot of money; you should sell it with the others.’
I shake my head. ‘It belongs with you two. Let me do this to thank you for being there for me. Please, Emma.’
She sighs. ‘If you’re sure . . . but you don’t need to thank us. You would have done the same if it had been—’ She breaks off with another sob then we hug each other tightly.
‘Did John tell you I don’t want us to try again? It feels like something I’ve dreamt of for so long came true then it was snatched away. I’m scared it will happen again. And that maybe I didn’t deserve my dream to come true.’
‘You deserve all of your dreams to come true,’ I tell her fiercely. ‘This is a shit time, but we’ve made it through worse, okay? You were my star and I will try to be yours. You and John love each other so much, and I know you guys will be okay.’
The Second Love of My Life Page 19