Sweet Joymaker (Indigo Bay Christmas Romances #3) - Jean Oram Page 0,22

across it. She gasped. “Hey!”

“You have to make that work.”

“What?”

“You have to keep the green stroke and work it into your design.”

“I don’t have a design.”

He checked his watch, then the clock above the display cases of sea glass jewelry. “You have approximately fifty-six minutes to make one.”

The room grew quiet as people contemplated what to paint, then chatter built once again until it filled the room.

Clint hunched over his ball, adding brushstroke after brushstroke. Maria couldn’t think of a single thing to paint.

She pressed against him, trying to see what he was doing. He leaned away, body curved around his ornament. “Hey! Don’t steal my ideas.”

“I wasn’t! I just wanted to see.”

“Fifty-three minutes,” he warned.

Maria sighed and contemplated the fist-sized ball. It had been so long since she’d held a brush she wasn’t sure she recalled how to do it.

Eventually she began adding more green around Clint’s mark, turning it into a palm tree. The room around her began to fade as she zeroed in on the smooth glass in her hand, the fine-bristled paintbrush and the colors that subtly changed depending on which tones neighbored them. She loved that about painting. Colors were flexible in how they could take on the tones of others. Kind of like people. When she hung out with Clint, she relaxed and laughed more. She liked that. She liked how hopeful and upbeat she felt. If she were a color, she’d be one of joy. Maybe a sunny yellow or a pink that popped.

She wondered how she made Clint feel. She turned to ask him, caught sight of his painting and burst out laughing.

“No?” He fought a smile, twisting his wrist so she had a better view of his completed ornament.

“It’s charming.”

He’d taken a stab at painting Santa Claus, the rounded ornament enunciating the size of Santa’s belly. Proportionally, he had done quite a good job, the painting playful and endearing. A lot of the qualities she saw in Clint.

She looked at her own ornament. She had painted the beach she’d been walking each day. Uninspired. Too much brown. Too much green. Too much blue. Too boring. Too flat.

She had checked off all the appropriate “good painting” boxes when it came to proportion, color, tone, balance, adhering to the rule of thirds and all the rest of it she’d learned in art class. But her ornament lacked character. It lacked a story, originality and life. It was precise, the technique shaky but solid. Overall it was cliched and forgettable.

She set down the ball.

Clint was watching her.

Maria tried to catch sight of what others had painted, but most people had already set theirs in the cardboard holders and boxes for drying and taking home. Maria had been the last one still painting.

Miss Lucille didn’t seem to have painted anything, but had been gossiping about the Ashland Belle Society and the upcoming gala as though she was in charge of it all.

Feeling an uncontrollable urge to correct her, Maria stood, saying to Clint, “Let’s get out of here.”

“What was wrong with your painting?” Clint asked as they left Coastal Creations. He had collected his ornament, having the mostly-dry ball carefully boxed and bagged. Maria had left hers behind, telling him she’d meet him outside.

“You didn’t like it?” he asked, when she dug her hands into her sweatshirt pockets and walked faster.

“It was boring.” And it represented everything she had been ignoring in her life until now. The worst part was that everyone else could see it. Roy had left her. Kit wanted her to loosen up, as did Clint and Fiona. Maria had been having a midlife crisis without even realizing it.

Clint hustled to keep up with her. “Boring?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Did you enjoy it?”

She picked up her pace.

“Hey, slow down.”

Her steps faltered. “Have you ever taken a moment to look up after working hard all your life?”

“Sure.”

“And then realized that none of it…” She gestured futilely, unable to find the right words to express how she felt. It had all been worth it. She had her boys, a thriving ranch that supported several generations. She knew her sons loved and appreciated her. She didn’t have regrets. Not specifically.

But still, something was missing.

“None of it matters?” Clint offered, his features lined with concern. “Defines who you are?”

“This isn’t a fill-in-the-blanks test.”

“Talk to me. Just keep talking until it all makes sense.”

Maria exhaled, trying to collect her thoughts. She didn’t know what to think. What to say, or where to start.

“Who do you see when you look