Chapter 12

RILEY

As I threw back my blankets and jumped out of bed, my heart pounded with excitement. Today was the day I'd start my next two paintings. After a quick walk and an even quicker breakfast, I'd finally transfer the ideas I'd sketched on paper onto the canvases in my studio.

Working on two new projects was exciting, but it came with a large dose of fear. Would the paintings live up to my expectations? Would Lorenzo like them enough to include them in the exhibition? And, most importantly, would anyone buy them?

I took a deep breath, trying to push away the avalanche of doubts threatening to bury me. My mom called it opening night nerves. I called it my worst nightmare.

After brushing my teeth, I went outside. It was another glorious morning, the kind that made you glad to be alive. There wasn't a wisp of wind anywhere. The sky was so blue it hurt my eyes, and the sun was already warming my skin.

I pulled out my phone and snapped a photo of the trees. Capturing the texture and feel of the landscapes I painted was crucial. Sketching scenes before starting on a canvas was part of my process, but taking hundreds of photos helped, too. The best images made it onto a board in my studio; the rest were saved on my computer.

A hawk squawked, drawing my attention to the lake. I snapped a series of photos as it circled the water.

"We'll have to stop meeting like this."

I jumped, then sighed when I realized it was Eric. "I wish you'd make more noise when you walk toward me."

"I thought I did, but you were miles away." His smile lit up his tired eyes.

"Were you writing all night?"

"No. I couldn't sleep, so I read someone else's book."

"Were you able to get any sleep?"

He rubbed his hand along the stubble on his jaw. "Enough for now. I thought you'd be painting."

"I wanted to get some fresh air before I buried myself in my studio." I searched the stony shore of the lake. "Where's Sherlock?"

"He'll be here soon. He never goes far."

"How did he end up living with you?"

Eric slipped his hands into his pockets. "He belonged to a friend in the NYPD K-9 unit. When Mike died, Sherlock came to live with me."

A deep sadness clouded his face. I knew how devastating it was to lose someone you love. "I'm sorry about your friend," I said softly.

"He was a great person."

I wanted to reach out, touch his arm, and let him know I understood. But that would cross a line I needed to stay away from. "There's a deep bond between you and Sherlock. I thought you must have raised him from when he was a pup."

Eric shook his head. "I spent lots of time with Mike, but Sherlock was definitely his dog. They did everything together. When he died four years ago, Sherlock came to stay with me. It helped both of us."

From between two trees, the big German Shepherd bounded toward us.

"He looks as though he enjoys living in Sunrise Bay," I said.

"He's never had so much freedom. When he was on patrol, his days were spent in Grand Central Station, the subway, or on the streets of New York City. Central Park was the closest we found to what's here."

Sherlock woofed, then sat quietly at Eric's side. I used my phone to take some pictures of him.

With a curious gaze, Sherlock lifted his head and looked straight at the camera.

"He's a supermodel." I laughed at the comical expression on the German Shepherd's face. "Why did your friend name him Sherlock?"

"Mike read my first novel before it was published. My main character's dog is called Sherlock. It stuck to this little guy when he arrived."

I knelt on the ground and rubbed Sherlock's thick coat. "Your name suits you." Sherlock's pink tongue licked the side of my face. I laughed and moved out of his way. "As cute as you are, I don't want your tongue anywhere near me. You can save your slobbery kisses for Eric."

I slipped my phone into my pocket and looked at Eric. For some reason, he seemed surprised. "I have to get back to the cottage. If you don't see me for a few days, don't worry. I'll come up for air eventually."

"You know where I am if you need me."

I smiled. "I do." I gave Sherlock another pat before heading home.

I imagined the blank canvas sitting on my easel, waiting for the first brushstroke to bring it to life. My mind was already racing over different possibilities, the twists and turns that would make the painting special.

By the end of the day, the image would be fully sketched and ready for the first layer of paint. From there, it was a matter of letting the painting tell its own story. A story that would be as unique as the man living next door to me.