Chapter Sixty-One

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

Present Day

Even though I know I don’t need one, I pretend I need a nap when we get back to the boathouse. It’s close to four when I emerge from my room again. I find Gil in the back bedroom, hands on hips, staring at a tester patch of paint on the wall. ‘What do you think?’

‘It’s more important what you think.’

He turns and smiles at me, and my stomach flips like a pancake. ‘I think I like it. Thanks, Erin.’

‘No problem,’ I say hoarsely. We both stare at the wall for a moment and then I feel the need to fill the silence. ‘Did I tell you I’m handy with a roller?’

‘You did. And the answer is still no. I’m not letting you paint my house for me.’

I huff in mock outrage. It has absolutely no effect on him.

‘You and I both know that painting can be quite physical, especially in this heat.’

‘I don’t mind,’ I bleat, aware this really isn’t the point, and pick up a clean brush that’s sitting in an empty paint tray on the floor.

Gil gives me a long, hard look, then eases the brush from my fingers. ‘You’re not very good at taking care of yourself, are you?’

I don’t say anything, just try to make my eyes large and appealing. I hate myself for resorting to my puppy-dog look, but I’m desperate for something to do beyond picking paint colours. I like to be busy. Useful.

Gil lets out good-natured snort. ‘I’ve seen you pull that on Simon. It’s not going to work on me. But I do have another bit of painting you might be interested in,’ he says over his shoulder as he turns and walks from the room.

I trot after him. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

He heads into the living room and opens a drawer in a long sideboard that graces the only wall that doesn’t have a window in it, pulls out a wooden box and hands it to me. ‘These were my mother’s,’ he says as he opens a door, bends down and rummages inside for something else. ‘I thought you might like to use them?’

I open the box to find a set of artist’s materials. Watercolour and acrylic paints, gouache and pencils, brushes in different sizes. ‘Oh! I … I don’t know what to say.’

He stands up and I see he’s holding an artist’s sketchpad. ‘Didn’t you say once that you enjoyed painting when you were at school?’

‘I … I did.’ I don’t remember saying that to Gil, but I must have at some point. ‘But Mum wasn’t so keen on it as a hobby. I think she thought it was indulgent. She encouraged me to develop what she called “physical skills”, you know, things that had a practical application.’

He gives me a bemused smile. ‘Paintings aren’t physical?’

I close the lid of the box and hold it close to my chest. It’s lovely. Made at a time when things weren’t automatically shaped out of plastic because they were cheaper to produce that way. I feel honoured he’s letting me borrow it. ‘Well, of course they are … But Mum meant doing something to help other people.’

Gil walks over to the long dining table and lays the pad down on it. ‘If there was a time in your life to indulge yourself, Erin, this is probably it. But I won’t press you if it’s not something you want to do.’

I clutch the box a little tighter to stop him taking it from me. ‘I’ll give it a go, if that’s okay?’

‘And maybe it will end up helping someone ,’ he adds, giving me a knowing look.

‘Maybe,’ I reply quietly. ‘But the results might not be very good – I haven’t messed around with paints since I was eighteen.’

‘Maybe that’s not the point.’