The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,47

An interesting event for a spa.”

“But a practical one for Grace-by-the-Sea,” Abigail said, returning the parcel to him and trying to fight off resignation. “We’ve had fishermen and boats in the cove since before the Romans arrived. Showing them off comes naturally.”

“And visitors arrive from up and down the coast as well, I believe,” he said. “How do you keep track of them all?”

Abigail leaned against the counter, suddenly as heavy as her arm. “The captains send registrations to Mr. Hornswag at the Mermaid, naming the time they will arrive. Jess records the information and compares it to previous years. She has a ledger going back decades, to when her mother and grandmother were in charge of the event.”

“Another of her books,” he said fondly. “I’d love to see it. It might give me an idea of how to stage such an event in Scarborough.”

Abigail made herself straighten as other customers came through the door, laughing and talking. “But I thought Scarborough had its own Regatta. One of the captains mentioned doing well there last year.”

“Yes, but we can always improve,” he insisted. Tucking the parcel under his arm, he bid her good day and made way for the others.

Abigail worked until she saw Mr. Carroll closing up across the street. Everything had gone so well she might almost think her arm was back to normal. Her studio whispered from behind the curtain separating it from the shop, but she passed it for the flat. Perhaps tomorrow, after she talked with Linus. Whether she liked it or not, he was the only one she truly trusted to address her concerns.

She was watching Ethan sketch when Linus returned that evening. Her mouth feeling dry, she rose to meet him.

“I had a few questions about my injury,” she told him. “Would you mind?”

“Not at all.” He raised his voice. “I’ll be a few minutes, Ethan.” He looked to Abigail. “How might I be of assistance?”

Abigail caught herself rubbing her arm and dropped her hand. “I tried painting earlier. It didn’t go well.”

“I explained some stiffness is to be expected,” he reminded her.

“Stiffness, certainly. But pain?”

He frowned. “What were you trying to do?”

“Just paint,” she assured him.

“I understand, but what exactly? Perhaps you could show me.”

Abigail stiffened. He’d asked her once before to show him her studio. It had been difficult then; it seemed impossible now. She didn’t share her workspace with anyone. Painting was personal; she put a piece of herself into every picture. It was hard enough to watch her work walk out the door, but at least she knew it was going with someone who admired it. To share its creation? No. It was as if he’d asked her to attend church naked.

“Perhaps I can just mimic the motion,” she said.

“You could,” he allowed, “but the pain might have been caused by the weight or the friction of materials against each other. I could diagnose the problem better if I could see how the action played out.”

So, to make sure she healed, she had to share every part of herself. She’d faced impossibilities before. She could do it again. “Follow me,” she said.

She felt him behind her as she walked down the corridor to the studio. The swish of her muslin skirts over the wood floor sounded overly loud. Once through the door, she tied on her smock again. She had to scrape the hardened paint off her pallet first, then prepare a fresh batch, only a little, only to demonstrate. It wasn’t as if she was really painting in front of him. Still, she found breath difficult as she rubbed the brush against her pallet, then faced the canvas.

“I was fine so long as I confined myself to a narrow field,” she said, dabbing the cerulean over the base. “But I need to use bolder strokes if I’m to cover the sky.” She forced in a breath and swept across the canvas.

Pain lanced her, and she cried out, jerking to a stop.

Immediately he was at her side. “Easy. Give me the brush.”

It fell from her fingers, and he set it aside. His strong hands cradled her arm. “Relax. Let me move it.”

She tried, but her muscles tensed at his touch. He rotated her arm this way and that, gaze on her face as if looking for the least twitch. She remained still until he stretched out her arm, then she gasped.

He lowered her arm carefully. “I believe it’s merely your muscles protesting being put back into action.” He turned