excitement flutters in my chest. “What is it?”
He chuckles. “Well that would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?”
“Tell me!”
“Let’s eat and then we’ll go.”
“Torturer,” I say, eating a bite of ham and eggs. It’s good, of course. Everything St. Clair does is good. Could this man be any more perfect?
St. Clair doesn’t take me far for my surprise, just a few minutes walk away. He turns of off a bustling street with chic cafes and boutiques, and stops outside a narrow townhouse. On the ground floor, there’s a small dry cleaners. I’m confused. “Is there something you’re trying to tell me?” I joke.
He laughs and pulls out a key that opens one of the doors. “Do you trust me?”
I look up into his deep blue eyes and feel it in my gut. I do trust him. I have from the beginning.
“Grace?” He looks worried.
“What?”
“That wasn’t meant to be a trick question.”
“Right.” I shake my head. “Of course I trust you!”
“Good. I was beginning to worry there for a second.” He unlocks the door beside the dry cleaners and leads me up a flight of narrow stairs. There’s another door at the top, and this time after he unlocks it, St. Clair stands aside. “Go ahead,” he grins, looking like he’s the one about to get a gift.
I slowly move past him, then stop in my tracks. It’s an art studio. A dozen canvases of varying sizes line one wall, and several easels are set up on the concrete floor that’s splattered with paint drops and a large spill in some dark color. A shelf against one wall is stocked with all kinds of paints: acrylics, oils, watercolors, and brushes of all kinds and shapes. The studio is filled with light from three windows near the ceiling, and an industrial sink sits in the corner, lovingly stained by past artists.
“Is this space connected to the college?” I ask, still a little confused. “Are we meeting the students?”
“Not exactly,” he says, grinning ear to ear. “This is your surprise. It’s for you.” He gestures at the room.
“For me?” I echo dumbly.
“No, for your art. So you can work, paint again.” He gives a bashful shrug. “Maybe it will help you find your inspiration.”
I’m speechless. “You got this space for me?”
“Do you like it?”
I’m fighting tears. This sweet and thoughtful gesture is more than money. He cares about me and my work. “How can I ever hope to repay you for all of this?” I whisper.
“I want the first Grace Bennett original in my house.” He smiles. “Deal?’
“Deal,” I say, my heart overwhelmed with emotion. He leans down to kiss me, his hands trailing down my cheek to bring my chin up to meet his lips. Our tongues brush each other, our breaths mingling, and it’s electric as always, but there’s more than heat, too; a deeper connection.
“Thank you,” I whisper when we pull apart.
He kisses my forehead. “Thank you, Grace, my lucky charm.” He checks his watch. “Now, I have to get back to some business, but you stay here as long as you like and see what creativity erupts.”
When he leaves I wander the room, lightly touching the paint bottles and running my fingers along the brush bristles in amazement. I can’t believe all this is mine. I ruminate on what St. Clair said about passion never disappearing, and remember what my mom told me about creativity, that it never comes when you try to force it.
Still, I’m nervous after all this time. So I decide to take the pressure off: I pour out some paint and just play around for a while, making lines in random colors, trying different pressures and mediums. I don’t even notice as the day passes until the light is fading from the windows, and I realize I’ve had fun. No-pressure painting, just like back in the old days, before there were outcomes attached to my work. Free. And I have St. Clair to thank for that.
I’m walking on cloud nine on my way back to my flat. I feel like even if I don’t paint a masterpiece anytime soon, today was the first time I put brush to canvas in years, and that is amazing. As I approach my street, I try to think of a way I can show my appreciation to St. Clair. He’s the man who seems to have everything, but I’m sure I can think of some little token to thank him for everything he’s done.
“Hello, Miss Bennett.”
I look up. A man