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Old memories seeped into Vivienne’s eyes, casting shadows. “Your father remembered how hard it was for me when we first married. A black man marrying a white woman might have been legal in all fifty states, but it still wasn’t considered acceptable in many people’s eyes—my family included.” Her voice filled with a quiet strength and determination Nathalie found awe-inspiring. “I survived and our marriage thrived despite what other people thought of us. Your father was wrong to project his fears onto you. Ryder’s father did the same, and he was wrong, too.”
Nathalie wiped the tears that had fallen down her cheeks and sniffed. As sad as she was, an enormous weight lifted off her shoulders now that Ryder and her mother knew her secret. “I was too young to fight for what I wanted.” She met her mother’s gaze. “Daddy never got over Reese’s death.”
Vivienne’s face sagged, weighed down by a pain that had faded with time but would never be gone completely. “We can mourn, but we still have to go on living. Reese would have never wanted you to sacrifice your happiness because your father couldn’t let go.”
They sat for a moment in silence. Remembering.
Vivienne shook off her sorrow. “Enough of that. Does Ryder still love you?”
Another tear escaped to slide down the side of Nathalie’s nose, pooling at the corner of her mouth. “He’s still attracted to me. But now that he knows the truth about why we broke up,” she shrugged, her voice cracking, “I’m not sure he’ll ever forgive me.”
“Maybe his reappearance is fate—an opportunity for you two to clear the air and decide if there’s still something there or if it’s time to move on.” Vivienne dug through a hidden pocket in her dress and fished out a rumpled Kleenex.
Nathalie accepted it with a watery laugh. “That’s so gross, Mom.”
Her mother looked affronted. “It’s clean.” Vivienne stood and gathered her belongings. “You have a lot to think about. I’m going to leave you to your painting. The process always helps me sort through whatever’s bubbling beneath, in my subconscious.” She cupped Nathalie’s cheek. “You’ve sacrificed enough, my baby. Go after what you want.”
Nathalie fought back another round of tears.
After Vivienne insisted on making a sandwich to take to Danny, Nathalie kissed her mom goodbye. The bag of art supplies beckoned like a siren’s song. Digging through them, she pulled out a pad of medium-weight paper, two half pans of Winsor & Newton paints, and a set of brushes.
Thank you, Mom.
Her wooden desktop easel was still upstairs in the guest bedroom closet. She fetched it and brought it downstairs. Even though she’d stopped painting, the dining room, with its bay window and lots of natural sunlight, had potential as a studio and had been what sold her on the townhome.
She spread out newspapers and set the easel on the table, then poured water into a bowl and clipped on her first sheet of paper. Her brush dipped into the water. It hovered over the paint pans, waiting for direction from her brain.
Air left her lungs in a slow glide.
Don’t think, paint.
At first, her brushstrokes were tentative, her technique rusty. She kept moving; the strokes coming more quickly, her eye growing more discerning. Nathalie got lost in the rhythm, her mind flowing freely as calm settled over her.
One hour slid into two.
She cleaned her brushes and stepped back, giving her last piece a critical once over.
It was good.
Vivid slashes of purple monkshood and royal blue salvia the color of Ryder’s eyes, clumps of feathery inula in her favorite shade of sunny yellow, the orange petals of Mexican sunflowers with their bright golden centers, and the deep scarlet of red amaranth.
The images flowed from memory. They should all be blooming now.
Caught in the moment, she hadn’t consciously focused on what she was painting, letting the brush flow. Her contentment shattered like glass hitting tile as her watercolor came into focus.
She’d painted the Autumn Border in the Oxford Botanic Garden.
Nathalie slumped onto a nearby chair. After that terrible morning in June, she’d never returned to the garden. Ryder’s gaze had burned a hole in her back as she left. Head high, shoulders straight, she’d taken the path to the right and walked away from the life she’d so desperately wanted but couldn’t have.
Headlights lit up the bay window as a vehicle turned into her driveway.
The Suburban.
Ryder was back.
Chapter Fifteen
RyderlistenedtoDanny’sreport, then said goodbye to the former SEAL and mounted the steps from the garage to the main floor of Nathalie’s townhome.