“I’m not good at it.” She picked up her fork and took a small mouthful of her own pie, savoring the sharp, lemony flavor.
“What is it you do? No, wait—” he lifted a finger “—let me guess. You’re in charge of a major corporation and without you to keep it afloat thousands of people would lose their jobs.”
This time he was definitely teasing her.
“I’m an art teacher.”
He pushed his plate away. “I’m surprised. You have a corporate look about you. I see you working in a glass skyscraper in the city, not a studio. I wouldn’t have guessed artist in a million years.”
“I’m not really an artist. Not anymore.” Laying claim to that title would have made her feel like a fraud. “I haven’t painted anything in a long time. I teach others to paint.” She taught them about space and form, about tone and texture, about color.
“But presumably there was a time when you painted yourself?”
“Yes. I loved it.”
“Then why don’t you consider yourself to be an artist?”
Liza considered. “An artist is someone who creates art, and I’m not doing that.”
“Why not?”
The question created a layer of intimacy that was at odds with their brief and casual acquaintance.
“It was squeezed out by other things. And you’ll probably say that we can always make time for something we want to do, but—”
“No, I understand. Creativity requires space and time, and those two things are in short supply in the world
we live in. Your brain is crushed under the weight of mundane demands.” He steered a wasp away from the table. “Being overwhelmed can zap every last drop of creativity from your cells.”
How could this man who didn’t know her, understand so perfectly? “You sound as if you know.”
“Why do you think I’m living here? Although I also have the advantage of being intrinsically selfish, which helps.” He gave a half smile and stood up. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”
She followed him across the terrace, down steps to the tranquil pool area and then across the lawns to the sea. A small sandy path led steeply down to the small beach protected on both sides by cliffs. Here the Atlantic Ocean crashed onto the shore, surging forward and then retreating. The rhythm was mesmerizing, the wildness a contrast to the sheltered stretch of beach on the estuary near Oakwood Cottage with its sun-drenched sand dunes.
“I didn’t even know this existed.”
“It was the reason I bought the house.” He headed down the path and she followed.
Halfway down they passed a life preserver, secured to a post.
He gestured to it. “In case someone goes for a midnight dip during one of the many wild, drunken parties I’m rumored to throw between these walls.”
She trod carefully, trying not to slip. “I’ve seen the way you drive your car, so at least some of the rumors are true.”
He flashed her a grin. “Cars are my vice.”
“The roads around here are frustratingly twisty and narrow for a fast car.”
“The problem isn’t the roads. It’s the other drivers.”
The dogs bounded past her and would have knocked her off balance if he hadn’t shot out a hand to steady her.
“Sorry. They have no concept of civilized behavior. They forget we don’t all balance on four legs.” He kept hold of her hand as they headed down the path and she was conscious of his fingers, wrapped tightly around hers. She felt as if she should tug her hand away, but left it there until they reached the bottom of the path.
Liza slid off her shoes and felt instant relief as her bare feet touched the soft sand. The beach was secluded and private. It was like stepping into another world.
“Do people ever climb over the cliffs?”