Page 32 of To Love a Beast

Large windows lined three sides of the studio, flooding the oversized room with late afternoon light. The tangy smells of paint and turpentine tickled her nose, and her shoe heels echoed loudly against the wooden floorboards. A worktable of sorts stood in the center of the room, covered with paint tubes, small jars of pigment powder, a variety of brushes, and an assortment of palettes bearing smears of colors. A stained smock draped over one corner of the table near a crate of what appeared to be blank canvases stretched over wooden frames.

Her companion said nothing as she walked deeper into the room, so she continued her exploration in silence. Four easels formed a U shape in front of the back wall. Her gaze shied away from the one at the front right. She'd glimpsed it the last time she'd been in this room and was too embarrassed to give more than a fleeting perusal. The one behind it proved much more welcoming. The rose. Fragile yet beautiful. Intricate details. So lifelike, she could practically feel the softness of the scattered petals against her skin. She wanted to study it more closely, but a stronger impulse drew her away. The lure of the yet unexplored paintings on the other side of the studio. Leaving the rose with a silent vow to return soon, Callista veered to the left.

The first canvas was unfinished, the bottom third untouched save for thin, charcoal markings sketching out what looked to be a hillside. A single tree stood atop the hill. An oak. Tall and sturdy, though its limbs were gnarled and scarred. At first, she marveled at the intricate details of the leaves and the bark and the shading of a sunset in progress in the sky behind the branches. However, when she shifted her attention from the individual brush strokes to the picture as a whole, a heaviness settled over her heart. The dark color palette emphasized the shadows cast by the setting sun, but something else panged within her breast. It took a moment for her to figure out what it was, but when she did, her eyes grew misty. The tree stood alone. Strong and proud in isolation.

She felt him watching her, could sense his apprehension as she examined his work. It took great courage for an artist to reveal an unfinished, imperfect project. She owed him the same gift of vulnerability, so she turned to him and let him see the rawness of her reaction. He stood a few paces behind her and to the right, and her chest ached at the vision he presented. The solitary oak, strong and proud but alone.

No more.

She stretched out her arm to him, her hand open. He hesitated then slowly clasped her hand. She smiled and drew him near, determined to banish his loneliness, at least for the short time they had together. Neither of them said a word, but palms pressed together in silent communion as they moved to the second painting.

Another tree. Only this one was not alone. Several others circled behind it in the background, their details blurred and indistinct in contrast to the lifelike starkness of the tree in the foreground. She didn't recognize the genus. Perhaps an elm? What she did recognize was the jagged bolt of lightning slashing through a dark, stormy sky to spear the tree like a fiery javelin. The bolt split the trunk in two, leaving it charred, broken, and hollow. Raw pain emanated from the brush strokes, but the hollowness depicted hurt her heart the most. It must have been one of the first pieces he'd painted after his injury. She squeezed his hand tight as a tear slid down her cheek. She wiped away the moisture as she moved to the painting of the rose.

He'd chosen such a dark palette of colors. Muted browns, reds, and greens filled the foreground. A single, faded rose stood in a vase atop a small table situated near a window. The flower had turned its face toward the sun, but not even the light had been able to halt its withering. Fallen petals formed a lopsided pile in front of the slender vase. The stem drooped, its neck bowed as if beneath an invisible weight. One petal remained attached, its edges browned and wrinkled, a mere shadow of its former glory. Yet a beam of sunshine poured through the window, bathing the flower in light. Welcome warmth banished the shadows of death and sorrow, infusing the image with hope. He hadn't given the viewer a glimpse of what lay beyond the window, but Callista imagined a beautiful garden filled with rose bushes in bloom. Roses ready to bring cheer and sweet perfume to the shadowed nook.

She thought to bypass the final painting, her cheeks heating as she recalled the subject matter on that particular canvas. However, Mr. Griffin resisted when she tried to cross to the small table and chairs at the back of the room. He tugged on her hand and drew her to stand before the unfinished portrait of the woman she saw in the mirror every day.

"Do you see what is missing in this one?"

His quiet murmur rumbled through her, stirring enough interest to overcome the awkwardness of viewing herself through his eyes.

"Missing?" She peered at the portrait, not looking at the face pictured there but at the overall design.

There was something different about this painting. It dawned on her slowly, like the sun pushing past the horizon in early morning. Pinks, whites, and cheerful yellows had replaced the shadowy hues of the other paintings. Instead of brokenness and grief and isolation, this painting spoke of joy and light. The woman in the painting smiled, her eyes alight with laughter. In truth, it was so different from the others that, had it not been housed in the same studio, she would not have guessed that the same artist composed them all.

"Pain," she whispered. "I don't see your pain."

Chapter 15

Atremor coursed through Everett at the emotion in Callista's voice. The connection of her hand in his caused his soul to swell to the extent that his skin felt as if it must stretch to accommodate the growth. He still couldn't quite believe she'd voluntarily taken his hand. He knew it had been an act of compassion. It carried no romantic meaning. Yet now that the link had been forged, he doubted his ability to sever it.

"I don't feel the pain when I look at you."

Her lashes dipped over her eyes, and the pink in her cheeks darkened. Drat. He'd embarrassed her.

"I shouldn't have painted your likeness without permission. If you wish, you can take it with you today. Slice it to ribbons, hide it away in one of your trunks, set it afire."

Though, any of those would be a travesty.

"Gracious!" She craned her neck so that she could face him. "I could never destroy a piece of art in such a manner. Even if you did take liberties and paint me in too flattering a manner."

"Too flattering?" A surprised laugh coughed out of him. "My feeble efforts fall far short of doing you justice, Callista."

The moment her given name slipped from his lips, he froze. He'd crossed a line, one that couldn't be uncrossed. One that left him dangling from a high limb, his hand outstretched to her, with no guarantee that she wouldn't hack off the branch and send him careening to a bruising collision with reality.

She blinked like a startled doe for a moment, then ever so slowly, that shy smile of hers reappeared to play havoc with his stomach. "I like conversing with you as if we're friends. I'd like to think it's not far from the truth. Rather like you and Mr. Lightfoot."

Good grief. He hoped not. His feelings for Callista bore little likeness to his friendship with Lightfoot. Yet he understood what she meant. Friendship, or any type of intimacy, between an employer and his employee created a natural imbalance in the relationship. Mutual respect and trust had to take precedence over the bounds of employment for the relationship to work. A trust he needed to be careful not to abuse.

"I do consider us friends, Miss Rosenfeld. Though, I apologize for using your given name without permission. I seem to be taking several liberties of late, don't I?" He gave his head a small shake in self-abasement. "Having you here in my studio, gazing upon my paintings, created an atmosphere of intimacy that made me forget myself. Please forgive me if I have made you uncomfortable."

Compassion lit her eyes, but something else sparked there too. Pleasure, perhaps? He hoped so. He really didn't want her pity.

She squeezed his hand, then brought her other palm around to cup his fingers from the outside as well. His heart banged against his breastbone.

"There's nothing to forgive." Her smile unknotted his gut. "To be honest, I liked hearing my name. I've never been away from my father for such a length of time, and I miss the easy banter we always share. And if you truly do consider us friends, then I see no harm in disposing with formality when we are in more intimate circumstances."

"In that case, you must call me Everett as well."