Page 12 of Paw Inspiring (Paranormal Dating Agency #86)

ELEVEN

D awn painted Meara’s loft in watercolor grays when her phone rang. She blinked awake, still wrapped in the previous night’s triumph—the successful exhibition, the sales, Betsy’s proud smile...

“Ms. Adams?” Ora’s voice trembled across the line. “I’m so sorry. Your grandmother... she passed peacefully in her sleep.”

The words hit like ice water. Meara sat up, her world tilting sideways. “No. I saw her last night. She...”

“It happened about an hour ago. She looked so peaceful like she was dreaming something wonderful.”

The phone slipped from Meara’s numb fingers. Morning light caught the infinity symbol tattooed on her wrist—Betsy’s seventieth birthday gift to her. “Anything is possible,” Betsy had said, watching Meara get inked. “That’s what artists know better than anyone.”

A sob ripped from her throat. Memories crashed through her defenses: Betsy kneeling beside her after the accident that took her parents, holding seven-year-old Meara while she cried. “We’ll get through this together, sweet girl. I promise.”

And they had. Every step of the way.

Betsy sitting cross-legged in the garden, watching Meara paint flowers on the fence. Not scolding when the roses turned into dragons, but asking what story they told. Teaching her that art came from the heart, not just the hands.

Betsy working extra shifts at the library to buy Meara’s first real easel. “Every artist needs proper tools,” she’d said, blue eyes twinkling. “Though the garden fence appreciated your earlier work.”

Betsy at every school art show, every gallery opening, every tiny triumph and crushing defeat. Always with a hug, always with wisdom wrapped in humor. “Life’s like painting, dear. Sometimes you have to step back to see the whole picture.”

Meara stumbled to her studio, vision blurred. Her hands found the small canvas tucked away in the corner—the last birthday gift she’d given Betsy. A simple scene: grandmother and granddaughter painting together in a sun-drenched garden, surrounded by flowers that might have been dragons.

“It’s perfect,” Betsy had whispered, touching the dried paint with trembling fingers. “You captured the joy.”

Joy. Even in the darkest times after her parents died, Betsy had found ways to spark joy. Making up stories about the shapes in paint splatters. Baking cookies at midnight when inspiration kept Meara working late. Dancing to old records while they cleaned brushes, turning chores into celebrations.

“Art isn’t just about beauty,” Betsy always said. “It’s about finding light in the shadows.”

But where was the light now?

Meara sank to the floor, clutching the canvas. Her phone buzzed somewhere in the bedroom—probably Ora again, or maybe Frenchy. She should call them back. Should start making arrangements. Should...

She was going to tell Betsy about Artek, about the exhibition’s success, about all the little moments she’d saved to share over their next Sunday brunch.

But there wouldn’t be any more Sunday brunches. No more gentle teasing about her love life. No more wisdom wrapped in warmth. No more Betsy.

Fresh tears spilled as another memory surfaced: her first gallery rejection at age twenty-two. She’d come home ready to quit, to get a “real” job. Betsy had listened, then pulled out an old photo album.

“Look at this,” she’d said, pointing to a picture of the garden fence. “Your first canvas. Those dragons started as roses, but you saw something different. Something magical. That’s your gift, sweet girl. You see possibilities where others see obstacles.”

“But what if I fail?”

“Then you’ll paint over it and try again.” Betsy had squeezed her hand. “That’s what artists do. That’s what Adams women do.”

Adams women. The last two, now down to one.

Meara’s fingers traced the edge of the canvas, finding the tiny inscription she’d hidden in the garden flowers: “For the woman who taught me to paint life in bold colors.”

Betsy had found it immediately, of course, and cried happy tears and hugged Meara close. “You’re my masterpiece,” she’d whispered. “Everything else is just practice.”

Sunlight crept across the studio floor, warming the tears on Meara’s cheeks. She should get up. Should face the day. Should be strong like Betsy taught her.

But for now, she let herself remember: the scent of lavender and paint thinner, the sound of old records and midnight laughter, the sight of Betsy in her garden, always watching Meara bloom.

“I love you, Grandma,” she whispered to the canvas, to the morning light, to the ache in her chest that would never quite heal. “Thank you for everything.”

Somewhere in the distance, church bells chimed—the same ones that used to wake them for Sunday brunch. Meara closed her eyes, imagining Betsy’s voice one last time: “Life’s like painting, dear. Every stroke matters, even the ones that hurt.”

She hugged the canvas closer and let herself cry.