Almost.
Theo snapped the last container shut and placed it in the bulging cooler. He withdrew the chilled glasses from the freezer and set them carefully inside.
With one last glance at the centermost painting, a rocky boulder shrouded by mist and pines in the middle of the ocean, he picked up the cooler.
It was now or nothing.
Twenty minutes later, as he sat on a picnic blanket laden with plates and bowls beside the thirty-foot fir, he saw her emerge from the woods.
Green silk flowed gently from her capped sleeves to the cream high heels at her feet. A belt of the same fabric was knotted at her waist. Her dark locks, twisted in dramatic curls, matched her smoky eyes, and as she stepped silently along the path between ferns and mossy undergrowth, she resembled a fairy.
A vision.
He felt his breath stop. He stood there in his suit, gazing and waiting, beneath the giant fir.
When she stopped at the blanket, she moved a twisting lock out of one eye and behind her ear and gazed down.
“You are—you look . . .” He paused, unable to select a fitting word from all the synonyms running through his head. So he said simply, “Beautiful.”
A rare shy smile crossed her lips, and when he saw the heat creeping up her neck, he waved at the spread. “Dinner is served.”
The rosy blush around her ears faded as she peered down. When she saw what the blanket contained, she threw her head back and laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He smiled. “And by that you mean nothing but highest compliments for the chef?”
“Where’s my caviar?” she said, slowly settling on the cream-colored pillow on the checkered blanket and adopting a cross-legged position. “I was expecting caviar.”
He raised a brow as he opened the cooler and pulled out the chilled mugs. As he spoke, he filled her glass with authentic root beer. “Do you like caviar?”
“I’d rather eat crawdads.” She raised a brow. “And in case you’re momentarily confused and assume all hillbillies in these hills eat crawdads, the answer is no. Still, when you said semiformal . . .”
“You didn’t expect ramen?” He handed her the chilled mug. “Skye, if we were going to eat out here, how could you possibly have expected anything different?”
She took a sip of the root beer, her cheeks glowing as the last rays swept across the horizon, then raised her glass. “I’ll give you that.”
He watched as she slowly took in the spread. Paper plates everywhere, featuring these items: Little Debbie cakes arranged like the Eiffel Tower, Swedish Fish candy arranged like one large piece of salmon. A New York–style cheesecake—the one thing he had made from scratch—with raspberry sauce dripping off its sides. Doritos piled on another plate. A pot of ramen noodles sat in the center of their blanket, two bowls empty and waiting in front of each pillow.
Snacks they’d hoarded throughout their childhood.
“You remembered it all,” she mused. “Down to the last Swedish Fish.”
“Sounds like you did too,” Theo said, then raised his own chilled mug. “To memories. I hope—” He paused. He felt words building up in him like water pressing against a dam. “I know what I did those years ago was unthinkable, but I hope in time you were able to forgive an old friend for his errors and remember fondly the good moments in its stead.”
Skye hesitated. Nodded. Raised her mug. “I forgave you for that a long time ago, Theo. But even so, to memories. The good ones.”
She clinked her glass to his, then raised it to her lips.
Theo followed suit but frowned slightly as sassafras root and vanilla bean washed down his throat. It tingled. He had what he wanted: her forgiveness. She was here, sitting beside him, willing to eat this meal again. But if his error fourteen years ago wasn’t the silent wedge still between them, what was it?
Even now, he could feel the tension.
But why?
Skye set the mug down and leaned back on both elbows. She looked up at the darkening sky. “Of all the pieces I’ve painted in my life, I’ve never been able to capture this view.”
A warm breeze swept over the field, and Theo looked up to the sparkling gems above them.
“It taunts me,” Skye continued, kicking her feet out so they rested one ankle over the other. “This view taunts me every night. In Seattle it wasn’t so bad. I had light pollution to thank for that.”
“Well,” Theo said, rolling up both sleeves to the elbows, “on the bright side, you now reside in the best place to try again to capture it.”
Skye let out a low chuckle. “Oh. I’ve tried. I’ve got a greenhouse studio full of trying. It’ll be the death of me.”
“I’d be . . . incredibly honored to see it.”
For a long moment Skye didn’t reply. Her clear eyes stayed focused on the stars, so long he began to doubt she’d heard him. But then she blinked. And before he knew it she was standing over him, reaching down to pull him up. “C’mon.”
Minutes later, they were at the greenhouse, Skye reaching into her silk pocket for a small, single key.
A trail of bulbs flicked on down the center of the greenhouse as they stepped inside, illuminating the floor-to-ceiling glass and overflowing greenery. The air was thick with the scent of fresh dirt and flowers and turpentine. Rows of carrot tops stuck out of the nearest raised bed, kale and arugula behind and beside them.
Skye brushed aside a geranium from a hanging flower basket.
The greenhouse was crowded, and Skye squeezed between the trailing tomato vines and rows of peas to get to the center of the room. She didn’t look back as he followed.
As the rows of vegetables cleared, she stopped at a wooden, paint-splattered stool. Put her hand on the seat that looked like it had been her sturdy companion for a decade.
“It’s messy but . . . here it is. This is my life.” Her tone held nervousness.
He smiled as he stepped out from the rows of vegetables. His gaze was steady on the canvas resting on the easel. “It’s breathtaking.”
She pulled a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ve only just begun that one,” she said, trailing her fingers along the row of freshly washed paintbrushes on the table. “It’s just the underpainting, really.”
“Nevertheless, those details—the juxtaposition of smooth and irregular forms in the fore- and backgrounds,” he said, moving toward it, examining it closer. He reached out with one finger and she took a step forward, her breath hitching. “It’s still drying,” she said, but his finger had already stopped an inch from the canvas.
He turned and smiled, keeping it soft. Of course he knew better than to touch her work in progress. “I love this line of light here, along the tree line.”
His gaze turned to her reference photograph. She’d taken that shot beneath the entrance of Evergreen Farm.
“Will this be a new series?” His gaze went to three completed canvases leaning against the greenhouse wall. All were different angles of Evergreen Farm. The rows of Fraser firs. Icicles dripping off the white pines. The Watkinses’ cabin nestled against the ridge.
Her eyes flickered to his, as though she was surprised by his expression of familiarity with her pieces. As though it was not possible that he had followed her career since she left for the University of Washington to pursue fine art all those years ago. That it wasn’t possible he knew the way she worked. Knew she always painted series.