He turned back. She stood in front of a long pane, again in an old window frame. He’d painted the frame an antique white and then distressed it to make it look old. Then on the back side he’d painted a winding profusion of hollyhocks climbing a cedar log fence with an oak tree in the background. The colors were vivid and yet soft on the clear medium. It was absolutely gorgeous. And worth money, she was sure of it. A lot of it. He should be selling these things, she thought.
“Jess…”
She went over to him then, took his hand, and pulled him into the porch. “Why are you trying to hide it? My God, Rick, this work is gorgeous. I had no idea…”
“And you wouldn’t have, either,” he said, pulling his hand away, “if you’d bothered to knock.”
Her brows pulled together. “I did knock and you didn’t answer. Your truck was out front and the door was unlocked. Anyway, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Don’t be so touchy.”
“I’m not ashamed. I just didn’t want to have to explain. It’s private.”
Her heart caught a little. This was a side of Rick she never knew existed. “It is for most artists,” she explained. “What they create … it’s a part of them. It’s like revealing yourself to the world. But Rick, this shouldn’t be hidden away. You’ve got a real talent. When did you start painting?”
“Just leave it alone,” he answered impatiently.
She frowned. “No.”
He shrugged, then sighed, as if he realized he might as well speak since she wasn’t giving up.
“Fine. When I was in the hospital, I guess. Sometimes I don’t sleep that great.”
“Most people count sheep.”
“God, you’re persistent.”
She smiled. “Well, duh. This can’t be the first time you’ve realized that.”
Rick’s mouth curled up in a half smile that caused a strange pang near Jess’s heart. His eyes looked clearer today, his face cleanly shaven. The air around them relaxed as the argument dissipated, leaving intimacy in its wake. Their eyes met and something zinged between them. Attraction? Maybe. Recognition? Definitely. They had history whether they wanted to admit it or not. They’d been friends a long time.
“Yeah, it’s not the first time.” He gave a low, grudging chuckle. “You’re a wicked pain in my ass, Saint Jess.”
When he smiled like that, when he teased her, it was hard to remember the reasons why she was so determined to keep her distance. “I try,” she answered. “So. You started painting when you were laid up…” She led him with a new question.
“It wasn’t painting at first,” he explained. “I started doodling in the hospital. I was bored, and I started scribbling pictures of things I remembered from home. It wasn’t just my hand that I lost. I’d been poked with a few more holes and had to stay in the hospital longer than I would have liked. The doodling turned to sketching. I enjoyed it, and thought maybe the sketches weren’t too bad. I got a new pad, a few different pencils. After I got stateside I went to rehab at a clinic and they had this neat painting. It was the ocean but it was on glass and with the light behind it, it almost looked like the waves were moving. I did a little online research into how to do it and gave it a try.”
“How long ago?”
“A year? Maybe a year and a half.”
She shook her head. “Remarkable.”
“Not really. It’s just something I do. Besides, the first ones were horrible.” He shrugged again.
He was determined to minimize it. To make it no big deal when the truth was seeing his paintings gave her goose bumps. She was good with her hands. She was creative. But she knew her limitations, too. What Rick had was special.
“I could never do this, not in a million years. There’s something about them, something so alive and yet soft and romantic.” She grinned up at him, impressed and proud. “Who knew, right?”
“Yeah, well, can you just imagine what would happen if I admitted to the population of Jewell Cove that I fiddled around with paints? First of all, they’d never believe it. And second … well, it’d be a big joke.”
“Who cares what people think? Shoot, they already think you’re…” She paused.
“Think I’m a what, Jess? A nuisance? A has-been? A drunk?”
She felt her cheeks heat. “Rick…”
“That’s what you were going to say, right?”
She looked away, ashamed. “It’s possible I’ve been a little judgmental in that regard. I’ve also heard you’ve been doing much better … despite having to deal with your mom’s passing.”