Sea Glass Inn Part 14

But Mel wasn't Diane. Diane had been jealous of her art. Painting had defined Pam-and it was slowly starting to again-and she had felt constrained by the constant need to hide her talent, downplay the joy and pain of creating, stifle those unexpected urges to sketch and capture moments on paper. But Mel had encouraged and supported her, had eased her transitions between the worlds she created and the one she lived in.

Because Mel understood what it meant to give up part of your soul to please another person. Pam paused and braced her left hand against the wall. Why hadn't she seen it before? How different Mel was from Diane. How different she would be in a relationship. Pam had been so wrapped up in protecting herself against Mel and what she would take from Pam if she left. Pam hadn't given Mel enough credit, hadn't fully appreciated what she'd bring to her.

Mel insisted she'd never lose herself in a relationship again, never lose sight of her needs, her dreams, her desires. And Pam knew she'd never want her partner, her lover to suffer those losses. Mel would offer support because she had lived without it. She'd cherish and encourage her partner's dreams because her own had withered for so long. She would share without forcing compromise, love without demanding change. She had lost her ident.i.ty in her marriage and had fought bravely to rediscover it. She was strong and confident because she'd earned it. She had climbed out of her dark place on her own, not by stepping over Pam or anyone else. Instead, she had reached out and pulled Pam along with her.

Unlike Diane. Who had built up her own shaky self-confidence by expecting Pam to downplay her talent, hide it. Pam had tried to do whatever it took to keep her happy, to stay in Kevin's life. Even after Diane left, Pam had continued to deny her art, had almost stopped painting completely. As if punishing herself for failing Kevin. She hated being separated from him, hurt so deep inside she wanted to crawl out of her skin sometimes. But how long would she have survived with Diane? Starving her soul?

Pam stopped painting and stared at the canvas. She picked up a different brush and leaned close, adding fine lines to the portrait.

Coppery hair slightly mussed so it looked natural. Delicate strands, wispy and out of place, because he loved to run and play and explore.

She switched brushes again, swirling a flat one through the oils on her palette, darkening the flesh tones for the shaded areas of Kevin's neck, his chin, alongside his freckled nose. To give his face depth.

Her hand was smudged with oils, her short fingernails green like the gra.s.s she'd been painting. She felt the brush handles, so comfortable to hold. Wood. Smooth and fat, or delicate and narrow.

But as she worked, she felt connected through the brushes to the humid summer day at the park. Sand sifting through her fingers. The metal slide so hot to touch. Kevin's small hand tight in hers as they stood in line to get ice cream. The air filled with the sweet scent of cottonwoods and vanilla-infused waffle cones. She breathed deeply.

The narrow entryway was heavy with the smell of linseed oil. For years, she had barely survived on the empty air in her sterile house.

Now the scent of paint, of living, nourished her. But she craved other smells, too. Roses and citrus and freshly baked scones. Cinnamon and apples and the verbena she'd planted next to Mel's back door.

On a flash of inspiration, Pam tossed aside her small brush and chose a wider, fatter one. She squeezed some paint onto her palette and mixed rapidly, impatiently rummaging through her tubes in search of the right shade of red to add to the mix. Once she was satisfied with the color, she made broad strokes across the canvas and transformed Kevin's pale yellow shirt into a bright orange one he had loved. The sweeping strokes eased some of her tension. The vivid color brought back a series of memories. She had focused so often on the moment of loss and had too often forgotten the three years of happiness he had brought to her life.

Pam finished with Kevin's eyes, adding depth and brightness, blinking tears out of her own eyes when she stood back at last. A little paint on canvas, a few details and brushstrokes, and she had managed to put some of the pain of losing Kevin behind her while allowing the good memories to resurface. Pam put down her brush and palette. She had made a start on dealing with the past. Maybe it was time to look forward to the future.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Pam carried a blank canvas out of the laundry room and found Piper curled in a ball under the easel she had set up next to the dining-room table. She bent down to scratch her dog's ears before she set the canvas in place. Brushes arranged in a neat row, trays filled with scrunched tubes of paint lined up, a clean palette. She had everything she needed. Except an idea.

She stared at the white canvas and let her focus soften. A memory of painting the starfish surfaced. Her first commission piece for Mel, and an emotional battle to paint. Back then, the unpainted canvas had seemed threatening, a temporary respite in oblivion before the painting was finished and she was jolted back to the pain of real life. A foolish illusion of beauty and permanence, when all Pam had known was abandonment and grief. Now the pain of losing her son was like the distant roar of the ocean waves instead of a battering storm.

Always with her, in the background of her mind, it no longer eclipsed the joy of having been his mother for a few short years. His portrait hung on the wall near her, out of hiding. And someday, maybe, she would try to mend her relationship with Diane enough so she could see him again. But today the blank canvas was full of possibilities, of promise for the future.

When she'd painted portraits, she'd always had a model.

Landscapes and seascapes had been places she had seen, noticed, and felt compelled to paint. She'd always been driven by what she'd seen. Only after she had finished a painting would she recognize the emotions behind the composition, so she'd never minded when people read her paintings in a different way than she did. All that had mattered was getting the image out of her head and onto the canvas.

But now, for the first time, Pam wanted to paint emotion on purpose. Now she was trying to choose the subject to fit the message she wanted to express. And, more than anything, it mattered to her that Mel would be able to see the love Pam wanted to convey. She ran through her memories, searching for something to paint. The inn in its various stages of disrepair and renovation. The studio where Pam had sketched her garden design for Mel and Danny, where she had given her first art lesson, and where she hoped to paint for Mel and her guests. Or Mel, herself. Priming walls, laying floors, creating the geometric pattern of the garden path. Sitting on the steps leading to the beach with her arms wrapped around her knees and her eyes looking back at her past even as she stared at the ocean.

Pam's mind came to rest on the unsuccessful whale-watching trip in the park. She had felt like part of the family with Mel and Danny. It had scared her then, but now she could only hope for more opportunities like it. For a lifetime of them. She remembered Danny's hesitant questioning, his awkward approval of Pam as a partner for his mom. She thought of the kiss she and Mel had stolen, the night they had spent together. Even now, her body responded to just the memory of Mel between her legs, as if she were being physically touched. Pam had tried to fight against the sense of family and love she'd experienced that day. But now she was ready to embrace it, to ask for more. She just couldn't find a picture, an image to pull out of the memory and capture on canvas.

Maybe because she didn't want to recapture the day itself. Pam quickly plucked a few tubes of paint off the trays and squeezed color onto her palette. She wanted to paint a future that hadn't happened yet, a memory she and Mel and Danny had yet to make. She hurried to draw a gray whale breaching, breaking free from the ocean for one brief moment of weightless joy. She sketched the shape, the motion, before the vision disappeared. Once she had caught the broad outlines of the painting, her sense of urgency eased and she slowed down, even stopping to look up a photo in one of her nature guides to check the accuracy of her whale's flippers. She didn't need to hurry, didn't need to rush through the process or be afraid of the finishing point.

Pam layered more paint over her initial outline. She softened and arced the lines of the rectangles and triangles she had thrown on the canvas to give shape to the whale. She used a heavy hand for the ocean, thick paint to depict the weight and pull of the sea. She gave energy to the twisting, arching movement of the whale by lightening her touch when she painted the spray of droplets surrounding the creature. The motion was Mel bursting out of the secretive, unfulfilling life she had led and into an expressive, public, challenging new career.

Through her brush, Pam could feel the courage it must have taken for Mel to break free and start over. But more than bravery, Mel had shown a deep kindness, an expansive desire to offer to other people the same freedom she sought for herself. Pam had watched the first guests at the Sea Gla.s.s Inn find an oasis of acceptance in a world that didn't always offer it. And Pam believed Mel would beat the odds and make her inn a success. She would continue to provide a haven for many more people in the future. And Pam wanted to be part of it.

Swirling winter clouds mirrored the ocean waves. Pam stepped back to check her work, to make sure the heaviness of the sea and sky didn't overwhelm the whale's breach but, instead, emphasized its power. She felt the same power moving through her as she painted her feelings for Mel. Her break from the past hadn't been as sudden as Mel's. But her hope, her happiness, were as complete. She had healed slowly and quietly. As she'd silently sanded the floorboards in Mel's dining room after she'd painted her storm. As she'd dug yards of sod out of the backyard. As she'd licked a lazy trail of lime juice off Mel's neck...

Mel-and Danny-had given her the full feeling of being part of a family again. But Mel gave her the same encouragement and respect she offered her guests, without any of the jealousy and manipulation Pam had known with Diane. Mel had made sacrifices for her son, and she obviously wanted him around as often as possible, but Pam knew she had never tried to discourage him from staying in Salem with his dad. Mel's generosity of spirit, her ability to empathize with other people, gave Pam the courage she needed to make the final break from the pull of her past and trust someone again. If Mel would take her back. If she could understand the message Pam was trying to paint.

Pam sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the painting, next to Piper. She idly rubbed her dog's belly with one hand while she sifted her other through the box of sea gla.s.s. She hadn't searched for new gla.s.s for years, and she let her thoughts wander to isolated beaches she could visit with Mel. She concentrated on smaller pieces of gla.s.s for the drops of water around the whale. Mostly whites and blues to match the ocean, but also some multicolored chips of gla.s.s that would catch the light and add interest to the neutral tones in the painting.

Brown for Piper, green and yellow for Danny's school colors. A coppery-gold gla.s.s so a small part of Kevin would forever be in the painting. And peach and sea-foam green for Mel, because those colors reminded Pam of walking into the inn and finding Mel sitting in a patch of sunlight, caught between an ending and a beginning.

Pam carefully cleaned her brushes and palette and stowed all her supplies in the laundry room. She was torn between the desire to rush over to Mel's and show her the partially completed painting and the self-protective need to avoid the rejection she might face. The whale wasn't complete without its mosaic of gla.s.s shards, and Pam wouldn't take it to Mel until she had given the painting its full meaning. She grabbed her heavy coat and opened the back door for Piper. A walk on the beach would keep her mind off her upcoming attempt to talk to Mel. Unless, of course, her walk took her past the Sea Gla.s.s Inn.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Mel crawled along the studio floor on her hands and knees, dragging the pan of latex paint and glaze with her. A row of freshly sanded cabinet doors were lined up on a drop cloth. She had painted them a bright blue, and now she applied an off-white color wash in long strokes. She liked the striped pattern the stiff bristles made on the base coat, but she had to be careful to keep her brushstrokes long and even. She sang a song as she worked, something from a CD Danny had played countless times on his last visit. She didn't know the group or most of the lyrics, but she couldn't shake the song from her head.

"Those aren't the right words."

Mel started at the sound of Pam's voice. She glanced over to where she leaned in the doorway and then looked back at the door she had been painting. An arc of glazed drops cut across its surface.

"You made me mess up," Mel said, reapplying the wash before the drops could dry. She had been hoping to see Pam. Last night, she had even considered going to Pam's house and taking back her a.s.sertive speech, promising she'd be willing to just have s.e.x with no strings. Her weakness where Pam was concerned annoyed her, and she heard it in her voice. Plus, she had imagined several scenarios bringing them back together, but in none of them was she singing loudly and out of tune with old sweatpants on and blue paint in her hair. She hoped her irritation at Pam's unexpected arrival would help her keep a distance and keep control.

"Sorry," Pam said, stepping into the studio. "Can I help? Not that I think you need...I was just offering, but..."

Mel gestured at a bench near the windows. "There's an extra brush over there."

Pam knelt next to Mel and dipped her brush in the wash. She swept on the glaze with long sure strokes. Mel watched her hand move, her fingers flexing with the brush as if it were part of her. "Why are you here?"

Pam didn't look up. "I brought the fifth painting."

"Oh, I see." Pam had finished her commission. She had come to tie up loose ends, to be free from Mel and their business deal. She couldn't think of any small talk, so she continued painting in silence.

Pam seemed satisfied with the quiet, and between the two of them they quickly finished the remaining cabinet doors.

Pam stood up. "These are going to be beautiful in your kitchen," she said. "I love the muted color."

"Thank you. And thanks for your help," Mel said. Pam would probably want to drop off the painting and collect her check without sticking around, but Mel had to be a polite host. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

"Coffee sounds great," Pam said. "I'll get the painting out of my car and meet you inside."

Mel wasn't sure if she was more surprised by Pam's willingness to stay or by her friendly smile. She got a pot of coffee going and then went into the living room where Pam was unwrapping the painting.

She set it on the mantle and turned to Mel.

"What do you think?"

Mel stared at the whale breaching, its mottled gray coat and the blue sky and waves accented by the sparkling spray of tiny sea gla.s.s chips. Mel could feel the powerful joy Pam had managed to convey with simple stones and tubes of paint. No matter how many of Pam's paintings Mel would be privileged to see, she'd never look at one without the same feeling of awe she had experienced on that long-ago August day. When she had first spotted the seascape and had been startled and amazed by Pam's talent and drawn to the artist behind the brushstrokes.

Since then, Mel had learned about Pam. Pam didn't just depict emotion in her paintings. She lived it, experienced it. Whatever she felt moved through her and spread outward, onto the canvas. The whale was Pam breaking free, resurfacing as an artist. Mel knew Pam's struggle, knew she had been weakened by pain until even lifting a brush was too much effort. And she knew the profound release Pam must have felt as she painted this gravity-defying creature. What Mel didn't know was where she fit in Pam's new future.

"Well?" Pam prompted.

"I've been wrong before," Mel said. "I've looked at your paintings and wanted to see something hopeful even when it wasn't what you meant people to see. I'm afraid to interpret it the wrong way again."

"Mel, I painted this for you. I know how you see my art, what you find there even when I'm too scared to admit it to myself. You won't be wrong."

"Then I need to hear you say it," Mel said, still facing the whale, unable to look at Pam. "I see what you painted, but I need to hear the words."

Pam stepped close enough to touch Mel, but she kept her hands to herself for the moment. "I love you," she said. "I love you because you wanted to learn how to hang a painting by yourself. Because you make sanding and digging and installing water heaters seem like fun. And because you gave me back my art."

Mel released her held breath when Pam finally touched her.

Simply rested her palms on Mel's hips, against her worn cotton sweatpants. And it felt suddenly, explosively right. Pam was touching her like she was supposed to do, like she was meant to do. No chasing after an attraction that wasn't there from the first moment. No one else's hands should be where Pam's were. Where they belonged. Just as suddenly, Mel felt all her regrets vanish. Lingering regrets about her past, the choices she'd made, the way she'd lived her life. She wouldn't change any of her past decisions even if she had the chance because they suddenly had a meaning, a purpose. Because they had brought her here, into this house, into Pam's arms.

"I love you, too," Mel said, turning to face Pam without pulling away. The words were too simple to convey the grat.i.tude, the happiness, the elation she felt. She slid her thumb along Pam's jawline, her hand into Pam's hair, pulling her close and kissing her.

Pam had to use her art to say things she couldn't put into words. Mel knew her kiss would do the same thing. Would tell Pam everything she needed to know.

Pam pulled Mel's hips against her as they kissed. She was torn between arousal and an overwhelming urge to weep in relief. The journey had been so long, so lonely, so exhausting. But Pam needed to stop looking back at the past. She slipped her hands under the waistband of Mel's paint-smeared sweatpants and felt the much more fascinating texture of her lace panties. A tantalizing promise, a hint of pa.s.sion. She pushed Mel backward, not breaking their kiss, until they b.u.mped into the sofa. Pam stripped off Mel's sweatpants and nudged her into a seated position. She straddled Mel's hips.

"I want you," Pam said, taking Mel's chin in her hands. "All of you. I want to listen to you talk about your inn every night. What you repaired, what you painted, how much laundry you did. I want Danny to be best man when we have our wedding in the garden we made.

I even want your d.a.m.ned guests to wander through my studio while I'm painting."

Mel laughed. A perfect song. Relaxed and happy. Pam slid off Mel's lap and knelt between her knees.

"I want...you, too," Mel said, her voice catching as she lifted her hips so Pam could pull off her panties. "I want to trip over your easels and hunt for sea gla.s.s with you and-oh, yes, that's nice-have your paintings covering all my walls."

Pam heard Mel's voice falter to a stop as her fingers gently wound through Pam's hair. No more words were necessary. Pam had been so afraid to trust another person with her heart and her emotions and her creativity. But Mel would take care of them, cherish them.

And Pam would do the same for Mel. Simple as that. Their future was a blank canvas, but Pam wasn't scared of it anymore. She and Mel would paint it together.

Mel struggled to control her breathing, determined to make this moment last a lifetime. Pam's mouth on her, their bodies and souls connected. Mel had fought against losing herself in a relationship, losing her ident.i.ty again. She glanced at Pam's mosaic. This painting represented everything strong and beautiful about Pam. Her talent, her sensitivity, her honesty. But it didn't overshadow the wall Mel had painted, the fireplace she had tiled, the wainscoting she had stained. The mosaic didn't eclipse Mel's more practical expressions of creativity. It enhanced them. Mel turned her attention back to Pam and her increasingly insistent tongue. She closed her eyes and gave in to the irresistible force of her o.r.g.a.s.m. Finally, after so many years, she was home.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Pam turned her sketch pad so it was horizontal and separated the large page into several panels with light strokes of her pencil. She drew an outline of the cove in each square. The pine-covered bluff, the distant lighthouse, the jagged basalt formations.

"I guess I shouldn't have been so worried about him drowning," Mel said.

Pam glanced at Mel. She sat low in her folding chair, one long leg draped over its canvas arm. An interior design magazine was propped open on her lap, and her mouth curved in a half smile. Pam reached out and rubbed her hand along Mel's thigh. She loved the lack of interruption between desire and action. Loved being able to touch Mel, hold her hand, kiss her so freely, with no need to hide or suppress her desire. Loved the way Mel's smile deepened at her caress.

With effort, Pam shifted her attention to the beach in front of them. Danny lay on his stomach on the hard-packed sand. He braced his arms and swung up to a crouched position on the surfboard and then stood with his knees bent.

"He'll be in the water soon enough," Pam said as Danny repeated the motion several times. She felt a pleasant rush of pride as she watched how fluid his movements were. "He's a natural. See? There they go."

Danny turned and waved before he picked up the surfboard and waded into the water with his instructor. Mel waved back and then took hold of Pam's hand where it rested on her leg.

"Ouch," Pam said. Mel appeared at ease, but she tightened her grip on Pam's hand as they watched Danny visibly struggle against the incoming waves. "Honey, I can either hold your hand or draw Danny's lesson. Not both."

Mel hesitated. "Draw," she said, releasing Pam. "But tell me again how safe this is."

Pam shook her fingers to get the blood flowing again. "It's very safe. Danny is an excellent swimmer, and Jeff is a great instructor.

I've known him for years, and I wouldn't have recommended this if I didn't believe Danny would be okay." Pam wanted to rea.s.sure herself as much as Mel. She had grown so close to Danny over the past months, since she and Mel had told him they were together. Pam already felt like part of their family. No, she already was part of their family. She watched Danny paddle toward the sh.o.r.e with a wave.

"Besides, look how much fun he's...oh, well, everyone falls a few times before they figure out how to balance."

Mel gave a small gasp, but it turned into a relieved-sounding laugh as Danny's head resurfaced behind the wave. "Be sure you draw a picture of him falling, but don't you dare tell him I laughed."

Pam looked at the paper in front of her. She still felt a brief hesitation before each new drawing or painting. A moment of worry, followed by a breath of relief and wonder as the picture in her mind poured onto the page or canvas. Maybe she'd always feel this way, with each new creation. She didn't mind. Somehow it seemed right, seemed fitting to appreciate what it meant to paint because she knew what it meant when the painting stopped. Art had been effortless when she was younger, and she had hoped to find her way back to that place of ease and simplicity. But the moment of struggle only added dimension and depth to the process.

Today was meant to be fun, though. No deep artistic con templation necessary. Mel laughed as Danny flipped off his surfboard again. He popped back to the surface and waved at them with no sign of embarra.s.sment or concern before he climbed on the board once more. Pam quickly filled in each panel with a picture of him, in the style of the graphic novels he loved. She drew him practicing on the beach, lying p.r.o.ne as he paddled through the waves, toppling off the board when he met his first wave. And, because he was his mother's son and wouldn't give up until he succeeded, a picture of him riding a wave all the way to sh.o.r.e.

Mel cheered as Danny returned to sea for another ride, a big grin on his face. "See?" Mel said, leaning over to give Pam a kiss. "I told you everything would be all right."

THE END.