The Summer Seekers Page 20

  “Rogue? I’ve never actually heard someone use that word outside a costume drama.” He leaned closer, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “I am a rogue, Liza. I’m selfish, and if I’ve done something that helped someone it probably benefited me too.”

  She couldn’t imagine how helping her mother could have helped him.

  They walked across the sand until they reached the water’s edge.

  “Tide is coming in. I could sit here and watch it all day. Sometimes I do just that.” He stooped and picked up another shell. “I hadn’t written anything in a year when I found this place.”

  “You mean music?” Liza was embarrassed that she knew more about his reputation than his music.

  “Music and lyrics.” He turned the shell over and rubbed at the sandy interior. “It’s a funny thing. You can sit forever and try and force yourself to produce something. Hard work always plays a part, but in the end it’s about a magical something that’s as delicate as the new shoots of a plant. And you can’t force that. You’re an artist. You understand.”

  Oh yes, she understood. “I’ve told you, I’m a teacher. I don’t think of myself as an artist.”

  “Presumably you thought of yourself that way once?”

  She remembered the days when she’d slept with her sketchbook under her pillow. She’d wake at dawn, take her paints down to the beach and sit on the cool damp sand trying to capture the beauty of what she was seeing. It had been her way of channeling all the emotions she couldn’t express in other ways and it had been the one thing about her that had attracted the interest of her mother. They’d never baked together or done any of the things mothers and daughters often did, but Kathleen had always showed interest in Liza’s art. When Liza had won the art award at school her mother had turned up and clapped loudly. Given how rare it was for her mother to appear at a school event, it had been Liza’s proudest moment. That award represented so much more than a recognition of her art, which was why she was so disappointed that her mother had packed it away.

  “Yes.” She forced her attention back to the present. “I thought of myself that way.”

  “What medium did you work in?”

  “Everything. Early on I painted in oils, but later I tended to paint more with watercolor and then pastels. Acrylic, occasionally. I dabbled in mixed medium and I still love to sketch.”

  “Do you have any photographs of your work? I’d love to see what you do.”

  No one had showed interest in her paintings for years. “I don’t—oh wait—” She brought up a website on her phone. “Years ago I painted a series of oils that they exhibited in a small gallery near here. They still have the photos on their website. Goodness knows why.”

  He took the phone from her and was silent long enough for her to wish she hadn’t shown him.

  “They’re probably not to your taste, and it was a long time ago—”

  “These are stunning. I can smell the sea. The depth of color. And the way you’ve captured the movement of the waves—I bet they all sold?”

  “Yes.”

  He handed her phone back. “Do you accept commissions?”

  “I told you—I haven’t painted anything for years.”

  “So maybe it’s time. And what better place to start again?” He rubbed at the shell in his hand. “Do you miss painting?”

  “Yes, although I hadn’t thought about it in a while.” But now she was thinking about it. “It would feel selfish to paint when life is so busy.”

  “I would call it self-care. We need to make time for the things that are important to us. Here—” He handed her the shell. “Inspiration. You can put it in your studio.”

  She slipped the shell into her pocket, feeling as if he’d given her something special and significant. “I don’t have a studio.”

  “Where do you prefer to paint?”

  “When I was younger I’d paint in the summerhouse at the bottom of my mother’s garden. Big windows. North light. In London, we don’t have the space.” She wasn’t used to talking about herself. Uncomfortable, she bent and rolled her trousers up further and waded into the sea until the water rushed past her ankles. “Is this where you do your best work?”

  “Here and Ireland. I have a place in Galway. It belonged to my grandparents on my mother’s side.”

  “You’re Irish?”

  “American Irish. I was born in California, but we moved back to Galway for a few years when I was in my teens. That was when I got serious about music.” The tide swirled up around his calves. “How about you? Your family aren’t here with you?”

  “No. Sean is an architect and he’s in the middle of a big project. And the last thing my twin girls need is to be dragged down to the middle of nowhere.” She didn’t confess that she’d all but run away from them. Or that the girls would have taken the first high-speed train down to the West Country if they’d thought there was a chance of meeting Finn Cool in person.

  “Is that why you look sad?”

  “I look sad?”

  He lifted his hand and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. “Yes. Or maybe it would be more accurate to say you’re trying hard not to look sad. Also, you’re not painting. Or drawing. Or sculpting. Whatever your chosen form of expression is. And an artist not creating art, is never a good thing. If that part of you lies dormant, you become a shadow of yourself.”

  How could this man, this stranger, see something that Sean hadn’t?

  When had Sean last asked her what she wanted? When had he last looked at her the way Finn was looking at her now, with such close attention and interest? Was it simply that familiarity blinded a person? Did people see what they’d always seen, rather than what was there?

  “I’m tired, that’s all.” Tired. Hurt. Confused.

  “Then it’s a good thing Kathleen encouraged you to take a break.”

  She sensed that some sort of response was needed, so she kept it neutral. “Family life can be all consuming, especially when you have teenagers. I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “I understand. Why do you think I’m single?” His smile was so compelling she found herself smiling back.

  “I thought maybe you stayed single so that you could cause the maximum amount of gossip amongst the locals.”

  “There is pleasure in that, I admit.” He waded a little deeper. “Do you want to swim?”

  “Here? Now?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not dressed for it.”

  “I wasn’t suggesting you swim in your clothes. Leave them on the beach. Keep your underwear on if you’re shy.” He said it so casually that for a brief moment she considered it.

  Then she came to her senses.

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “Swimming is the most natural thing in the world. And swimming in the sea is the best feeling. What’s ridiculous about it?” He studied her. “Do you ever do anything spontaneous, Liza?”

  “No.” Although coming to Oakwood Cottage had been spontaneous. And so had her decision to visit him today to apologize in person. Both actions had required her to dig deep. “Occasionally.”

  “And how does it turn out when you do?” He was standing disturbingly close to her, and she took a step back, flustered by his teasing.

  “I’m not sure. Ask me in another week.” Instantly she was embarrassed. That made it sound as if she was expecting to meet up regularly.

  “I’ll hold you to that. Come and swim on my beach. Bring your bathing suit.”

  “Are you staying here all summer?”

  “Until September. Then back to LA.”

  She couldn’t imagine living such a globetrotting lifestyle. “Why hadn’t you written for a year?”

  He paused. “I lost someone close to me.” He turned and strolled back to the shore, leaving her wishing she’d kept silent.
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br />   “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. Death is part of life, isn’t it? Doesn’t make it easier, though.” He crouched down by a rock pool. “Seaweed is algae, not a plant. Did you know that?”

  “No.” She crouched down next to him, but it didn’t feel awkward. It felt companionable.

  She was ashamed of herself for all the assumptions and judgments she’d made about him.

  The pool was teeming with life. Tiny hermit crabs darted under the shelter of the seaweed. Limpets and mussels clung to the rocks, and anemones wafted in the still of the water. She could have watched it for hours, but the tide was licking at their heels, reminding them that it was about to claim back the beach.

  Finn rose. “We should go before the tide turns. Having already had a run-in with the police, I don’t want to add the coast guard to the list.”

  “You get an extra-massive lemon meringue pie if you have to call the coast guard on my account.”

  He laughed. “I’m tempted to throw myself in the water. Who taught you to cook lemon meringue pie?”

  “I taught myself. My father was a practical cook—” She paused. “Actually he was a terrible cook. He cooked on the highest heat, so everything was burned. My mother traveled a lot, so I took over. I enjoyed it, but to alleviate boredom I liked to experiment.”

  They walked across the sand and back to the tiny path that snaked up to the garden.

  “Is everything you make as good as your lemon meringue pie?”

  “I hope so.” The path was steep, and she was already out of breath. She needed to make time in her life to take more exercise.

  “In that case, invite me to dinner.” He held out his hand and pulled her up the last section of the path.

  She hadn’t planned to cook, but for some reason she liked the idea of cooking dinner for Finn. She’d had a more honest conversation with him in the last hour than she’d had with anyone in a long time. His company had lifted her mood. Why not? He’d obviously been a good neighbor to her mother and she would thank him by cooking him something delicious.

  “Are you allowed out without security?”

  “You can protect me.” He smiled. “I’ll walk across the fields. No one will see me.”

  The dogs bounded round the garden, snarling, barking and tumbling over each other as they played.

  “In that case come for dinner on Friday.” It would be a chance to indulge her love of cooking, and she hadn’t done that in a while. Meal preparation was usually another chore at the end of a long list. “What’s your favorite food.”

  He picked up the cups they’d abandoned on the table and carried them through to the kitchen. “I eat everything. I’ll bring wine. We can discuss the painting you’re going to do for me.”

  Liza was already planning dinner. The heat wave was predicted to continue, so they could eat outdoors. She’d use vegetables from her mother’s garden.

  “Here—” Finn handed her the bag she’d brought. “I’m glad you came over.”

  So was she. It had stopped her stewing on what was happening with her family and made her think about life in a way she hadn’t before.

  Feeling lighter, she’d walked back down his drive, along the lane and across the field that led to Oakwood Cottage.

  She stayed in the house long enough to put the bag in the kitchen and pick up her car keys.

  What had he said?

  You have a corporate look about you. I wouldn’t have guessed artist in a million years.

  Her clothes didn’t reflect who she was, they reflected the life she lived.

  Having a neutral wardrobe with pieces that matched meant she had fewer decisions to make in a day that was packed with them. What would she choose to wear if she wasn’t driving the girls around, rushing to the supermarket, teaching a class?

  Determined to find out, she drove to the village, parked the car and walked along the twisty high street until she reached the small boutique that was nestled between a bookshop and the deli.

  With a touch of defiance, she pushed open the door. When was the last time she’d shopped for herself? Too long ago.

  The shop was cool and spacious, with mirrors covering two walls. For a moment Liza saw herself as others probably did. Straight blond hair that settled on her shoulders, a narrow face and blue eyes. If she had to find one word to describe her look it would be ordinary. Her clothes didn’t say “look at me,” they said “don’t look at me.” And it wasn’t even as if she intended to send any message at all with the way she dressed. She had enough to do without thinking about messages.

  “May I help you?” A young woman with cropped red hair and immaculate makeup emerged from a room at the back. “We have more stock in the back if you can’t find your size.”

  Liza felt a moment of insecurity, and dismissed it. She was an artist. She knew color. She knew shape. She knew what looked good. She didn’t need help with that. All she needed to do was give herself permission to be that person and allow her creative side some freedom. It had been suppressed for far too long.

  She headed to the racks of clothes, studied each piece and then selected a few items. And then a few more.

  When she finally left the store half an hour later, she was carrying two large bags filled with a selection of pretty sundresses, linen tops in pastel shades, shorts, shoes, flip-flops for the beach and a pair of oversize silver earrings made by a local artist.

  Happy Anniversary, Liza.

  She’d tried on outfit after outfit. Even trying them on made her feel summery and relaxed, although she couldn’t use that excuse for her most extravagant purchase.

  “How do you feel about red?” The woman had handed the dress to Liza. “With your coloring, it would look fantastic.”

  The dress was red, strappy and totally unsuited to her lifestyle.

  Liza had bought it, along with a pair of shoes most definitely not designed for walking.

  Did she feel guilty? No, she felt light-headed and young. Instead of buying a dress to suit her lifestyle, she was going to choose a lifestyle that matched her dress.

  Liza walked from the boutique to the delicatessen next door.

  One of the advantages of being here on her own was that she didn’t have to think about creating meals for a family.

  Balancing a basket on her arm, she picked up a stick of crusty French bread still warm from the oven. Then she added Italian ham, a couple of French cheeses, ruby red tomatoes still on the vine and a jar of plump green olives.

  “Liza?”

  If she could have hidden, she would. She’d been enjoying her freedom. She didn’t want to connect with anyone. She wanted to be able to focus on herself without being considered selfish.

  “Oh my, how many years has it been?” The woman looked as if she’d stepped out of a yoga session, her hair in a ponytail and her face shiny and pink. “You do recognize me?”

  It took Liza a moment. “Angie? Angie!”

  “Why so surprised? I live here, remember?”

  “You moved to—” She racked her brains. “Boston. Your husband’s job?” What was his name? Jeremy? Jonah?

  Angie pulled a face. “He’s still there. We’re divorced.”

  “I’m sorry.” Life, Liza thought. It bit chunks out of all of them. “I wish you’d emailed me or called.”

  “We hadn’t been in touch for a while. I didn’t want to be the moany friend. It was rough at the time and for a few years after but we’ve both moved on. John remarried and has a baby.”

  John.

  “A baby?”

  Angie rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to be tactful. He’s fifty-three. My revenge is imagining him dealing with nappies and sleepless nights. Not that he handled those things first time around. Oh Liza—it’s so good to see you. Do you have time for a coffee? There’s a place around the corner.”

/>   Her instinct was to say yes. It was what she did, every time. To every person in her life.

  But there were things she wanted to do with her afternoon and evening, and she’d been looking forward to them.

  “I would love to catch up, but there are things I have to do this afternoon.” Saying it felt hard, but she said it anyway. But she was truly pleased to see Angie. “Why don’t you come over to the house tomorrow?”

  “To Oakwood? You’re staying with your mother?”

  “She’s driving across America. Route 66.”

  “Your mother is amazing. Still living the life of The Summer Seekers. I can’t imagine doing that now, let alone when I’m eighty. So if she’s not at home, why are you here?”

  I’m escaping. “I’m cat sitting.”

  “With your girls and Sean?”

  “No. They had things they couldn’t miss at home.”

  Once, she and Angie had been as close as sisters. They’d told each other everything. But that was a long time ago. College and life had separated them and then Angie had met John and moved to Boston and gradually their communication had dwindled. They were long past the stage where Liza felt comfortable exposing the details of her life to scrutiny.

  She felt a sudden pang. She missed the deep friendship she and Angie had once had. The sort where you laughed until your sides ached and knew everything there was to know about one another. They’d shared clothes, stories and makeup. When Sean had kissed her, Angie had been the first person she’d told.

  Once she’d had children her friendships had changed in nature and tended to be connected with lifestyle. At first, the common factor had been babies, then it had been school. It was friendship of sorts, but not the deep, authentic friendship she’d once enjoyed with Angie. Perhaps she’d treasured it all the more because she didn’t have that closeness with her mother.

  Still, those days were long gone and she and Angie were different people now, their bonds torn by time, distance and life experience.

  “Come tomorrow. We’ll take a picnic to the beach. We could swim if we’re feeling brave. We have so much to catch up on. Where are you living?”