“I still don’t know what you mean. How can my paintings help anyone else?”
“I haven’t thought it all through yet, but I have a few ideas. You could show them at a gallery in a special viewing for injured veterans and their families. Maybe they’ll help someone understand what their loved one is going through, or help a soldier realize he’s not alone in his dark feelings. Or you can sell them and give the money to families of amputees, or fund an art therapy program for wounded veterans so other people can work through their emotions in a constructive way. Maybe you could do that through a foundation and staff it with disabled soldiers. I can’t imagine it’s easy to get work after life in the military. I mean what training do soldiers get beyond fighting? Those are just a few ideas, and maybe they’re unrealistic. But I feel like there has to be a way to use your artwork to help people in similar situations. I know it won’t get you any closer to where you want to end up, but you might be able to touch a few lives along the way.”
“Christ, Pix,” he said just above a whisper, and scrubbed a hand down his face. “Do you have to help everyone all the time?” He turned away, his shoulders rising with a deep inhalation.
“Maybe,” she said honestly, sadness blooming inside her. “I’m sorry. I definitely overstepped. I’ll take them down right now.” She turned with a heavy heart and lifted a painting off the wall.
His arms circled her waist from behind, and his whiskers brushed her cheek. “Don’t take them down.” He lifted the painting back onto the hook and turned her in his arms, gazing at her with an anguished expression. “I hate that you saw them.”
She lowered her eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“Look at me, Pix.” When she did, he said, “I didn’t want you to see them because I didn’t want you to feel all that ugliness.”
“I don’t think they’re ugly. They’re real and raw, and like I said, they’re part of you, which makes them painfully beautiful.”
“Only you could look at those paintings and find beauty in them and see them as a way to help others.” He sighed heavily. “That’s what makes you so special.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, unraveling the knots in her chest.
“You don’t hate me for keeping them? I mean, technically since you threw them out, they were up for grabs, right?”
He laughed softly. “I could never hate you, Pix. I’m not thrilled that you did it behind my back, but you didn’t take them for your gain.”
“But I put them in my office for my gain.”
“So you could understand me better. That’s really for me, babe, not you.”
“I’m sorry I took them without telling you, and I guess I should show you these.” She led him behind her desk to the three other pictures she’d taken over the last few days. “I didn’t leave you gifts, because you told me not to, but I couldn’t let these end up in the landfill.”
“I should have guessed.” A small smile lifted his lips. “I missed your gifts.”
“I missed leaving them, and I kind of hate that now you know for sure that I’m the one who left them for you.”
He embraced her, laughing softly again. “I always knew it was you, babe.” He gazed into her eyes. “I’m sorry I got mad. I’ll think about your ideas.”
“Really? Don’t just say that to placate me. I’m a big girl. I can take it if you want to just put them in a closet somewhere.” Even if I hate it.
His brows slanted like he wasn’t buying that.
“Okay, I can’t take it. They’re too good to hide away from everyone. I like looking at them. They make me feel closer to you. But I promise not to stick my nose into your business again.”
“We both know that’s not true.”
“I can try not to.”
“About a dozen canvases, paints, a cactus, and several other things prove otherwise.”
IF SOMEONE HAD told Grant a month ago that he’d be spending a Friday night pulling a wagon full of autumn wreaths along Main Street, he would have laughed in their face. It came as much of a surprise to him as the woman who was making him slow down and think about more than just getting off the island or going back to a job he could never do again.
“I’m glad you’re doing this with me,” Jules said when they stopped in front of Oceanside Boutique.
“Me too. It’s not something I ever imagined doing, but I like watching you in action.”
OPEN flags waved in the entrances of the colorful shops along Main Street. Window boxes boasted mums and other fall flowers, and a handful of people meandered along the sidewalks. Jules and Grant had started on the opposite side of the street, and each of the shop owners greeted Jules with enthusiastic embraces and raved about her beautiful wreaths. She’d made the wreaths even more special by putting something personal on each one, like a plastic four-leaf clover for the woman who ran the jewelry store because her nephew was waiting to hear from a graduate school he’d applied to and a tin heart for the antique store owners’ wreath because this month was their tenth anniversary. Despite having a wagonful of wreaths to deliver, Jules didn’t rush anyone. She asked each shop manager something personal about their spouse, pets, children, or an event she remembered from weeks or months earlier. Grant remembered when he’d been the affable guy who did the same.
And now I’m the guy who is too worried about the stares and pitying looks to really listen to what people have to say. That nugget of truth tasted vile. He didn’t want to be that guy, especially not if he was with Jules.
Jules held up a wreath with pink baby booties dangling from it. “Ready?”
“Yup. Who had a baby?” He parked the wagon and readied himself for another chatty greeting.
“Mrs. Smythe’s son, Jay, and his wife, Linda. Little Missy was born last month, and she’s adorable.”
Grant had grown up with Jay. He’d known Jay had gotten married after college, but other than a few brief conversations over the years when their paths had crossed on the island, they’d lost touch.
He followed Jules in, and as she’d done in all the previous shops, she took his hand. He hadn’t had a special woman in his life since before he went into the military, and when she’d first done it, he’d found himself looking around to see who was watching them. To see if anyone was judging them. What must they think? What is sweet, upbeat Jules doing with the distant and angry Grant? But by the third shop they’d visited, even the thought of that had pissed him off, and he’d kicked that ridiculous insecurity to the curb.
Fuck ’em if they think that.
Instead of focusing on the glances at his leg, he focused on Jules from that moment on, wanting her to be proud to be with him. He knew the kind of man he was when he had his shit together, and once he got his life in line and figured out his future, they’d know it, too.
“Autumn wreath delivery,” Jules said in a singsong voice. “Happy November.” She handed the wreath to Mrs. Smythe, a short, stout brunette.
“Thank you, sweetheart.” She embraced Jules. “It’s absolutely beautiful. I love the gold pine cones and colorful fabric leaves.” She gasped with surprise. “Baby booties. You are the dearest of the dear. I wish you’d let me pay for this.”