His phone rang. “I’d better get that, then go out and see if I still have a customer.”
I stood up, anxious to leave, my emotions raw from the day. “I’ll be in touch.”
I opened his office door and slipped out, going my usual route of exiting the back of the building. Rounding the corner, I came to a complete standstill at the sight in front of me; my heart began to pound hard in my chest, as waves of small electric shocks ran through my body.
It was the woman I had seen on the beach last night and again this morning. Elliott’s low bark had alerted me to the fact something was outside, and when I checked I saw her on the beach. She had stood, drawn in on herself and motionless, staring at the water. I wondered what she was looking at—what was holding her attention. This morning, she was running and playing with her small dog, her long hair blowing in the wind as she laughed, the lilting notes drifting up to where I stood in silence. The sound had fascinated me and drawn me off my porch to get closer to the source of the sweet noise. As I watched her, the way she had twirled around on the sand and thrown her arms open made me smile. There had been something so simple and joyful in her actions; I even chuckled as she fell to the sand, the dog jumping on her and licking her face.
Then she had waved when she saw me on the stairs, trying to get Elliott back to my side before she came over. I had barely acknowledged her friendly wave and slipped into the house. I didn’t want her to get some silly idea in her head of following me; that thought alone almost caused a panic attack as I rushed up the stairs to safety. Nonetheless, I had stood at the window and watched her disappear into her own house a short time later. I had seen her again, as I drove down the street on my way to the gallery to pick up some supplies Ashley had ordered for me. She was standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street, not doing anything to draw attention to herself, yet I found her quite captivating. I had slowed down to watch her again, unsure of my reaction to this stranger.
Now, she was standing, frozen, her hand outstretched in front of my Tempest painting. Her fingers were reaching, caught midair, not touching the canvas but simply hovering, trembling. She was mesmerized; her face a study of shock. It was as if her entire being was caught in the swirls of paint. I could feel her emotion from where I stood, gazing at her in wonder. Never before had I seen such a visceral reaction to that piece, prior to today. Her body was expressing the emotions I felt when I painted it. Pain, longing, and unending chaos were etched into that canvas, and she was feeling every stroke, living them herself. Her display of emotion caught me unprepared, and I steadied myself against the wall before I did something I would regret; like move forward and touch her. I wanted to feel the satin of her skin under my fingers.
The angle I had offered me a perfect view while I stared; her entire being lost in my work. When I first saw a woman on the beach last night, I assumed it was my neighbor, Karen. I knew this morning, though, I’d been wrong. This was definitely not her. Small and petite like Karen, but her features were soft, almost delicate in a way. Karen carried an intense, confident beauty I remembered from our brief first encounter, when we bumped into each other in the shadows of the woods and a couple other awkward meetings. This woman’s stance was timid, her bottom lip caught up in her teeth as she worried the plump flesh. For some reason I yearned to step forward and pull her teeth away, wanting to see if her lip was as soft as it looked. I wanted to taste it. Sweep my tongue over it before I kissed her.
I shook my head at the strange thought. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted to kiss a woman or be close enough to another person the way I wanted to be close to her.
The gallery was filled with natural light and it caught the color of her hair: deep, rich coppery auburn, which contrasted dramatically with her pale skin. There was a smattering of freckles on her cheeks, standing out in contrast to her pallor. Her hand was small, the fingers tiny, as she reached toward the canvas. I noticed how tired she looked. Her dark, wide eyes were weary as she lost herself in the image in front of her, and her entire face awash in emotions. A sudden, intense longing tore through me—a feeling that seldom, if ever, happened in my life—I wanted to help her. The need to offer her comfort, to ease whatever pain made her look so vulnerable, had me reaching out, wanting to grasp her hand in my larger one and soothe her. However, I realized what I was doing when I caught sight of the back of my hand, bringing reality crashing around me. She would never want or accept soothing from me. No woman ever would.