Every Day (Brush of Love 2)

I waved toward him as a couple more people approached the cash register. I rang up the tags and got their information, taking note of the frames they wanted, so I could prepare the paintings to be shipped out. Some people wanted to take them home tonight and others wanted them shipped to other places, so I had to keep a running log of addresses and phone numbers in case I needed to contact someone.

“Wow, this place is packed,” Drew said.

“It’s incredible, isn’t it?” I asked. “I’m actually glad you came. I have a question for you.”

“What can I help with?” Drew asked.

“You can help me pull a few more paintings from the shed before Hailey talks your ear off,” Bryan said, grinning.

I rolled my eyes and shooed the men off, and it gave me time to make some rounds. I wanted to thank people for coming and shake the hands of the other reporters. They asked me a few questions and jotted down my answers while smiles graced their faces. I could see Jennifer eyeing me curiously, wondering if I was giving them some kind of scoop I wasn’t giving to her first.

I could tell she was going to have a problem with boundaries, but she was a wonderful resource to have nonetheless.

But then, I felt a hand descend onto my lower back.

“Hey Bryan, what’s—?”

“Sorry, beautiful. Bryan wants to see you out back,” Drew said.

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“He went a bit pale, that’s all.”

I thanked the reporters for their time before I rushed out back to find Bryan. He was sitting on the little stool in the shed, a large painting in his hands. I recognized John’s name scrawled across the back, but I never remembered him painting on that big of a canvas.

And the look in Bryan’s eyes was almost sickening.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” I asked.

But all Bryan could do was look at me with tears in his eyes.

“Bryan, what are you holding?” I asked.

I stepped around him to stand at his side, and suddenly, my blood ran cold. It was a beautiful picture of a sunset, with oranges and yellows and blues splashed along the top of the canvas. There was an apple orchard with apple trees blossoming and the grass swaying in the wind.

And in the forefront of the picture, there was a fox, a red-coated fox with a white stripe all the way down its back and tail.

Complete with brown eyes.

“Oh my gosh,” I said breathlessly.

“Did John paint this?” Bryan asked hoarsely.

My watering eyes leaned back, taking in John’s signature in charcoal on the back of the painting as a tear ran down my cheek.

“Yes,” I said, whispering. “He did.”

“I take it there’s a story here?” Drew asked.

“You’ve got no fucking idea,” Bryan said.

I put my hand on Bryan’s shoulder as the tears freely streaked down his cheeks. The two of us gazed at the painting of the fox, our minds back beside John’s grave as shocked smiles spread across our cheeks.

“He was there,” Bryan said. “That was him.”

All I could do was lean over and kiss the top of Bryan’s head as he held the painting in front of his face.

“Keep it,” I said breathlessly.