Safe at Last (Slow Burn #3)

Or at least it would be once she let it go. Figuratively speaking. Thank God, Wade understood it—and her. That the painting in question wasn’t merely an object of commercial art meant to showcase her talent. For that matter, it wasn’t even for sale. It was too deeply personal to ever part with, and was the method of communicating her vow to herself. Not to others. She’d questioned even showing it at all, what purpose it truly served. But, it was, in many ways, symbolic of . . .

Well, there were many words applicable to the painting and its symbolism. Moving on—she nearly laughed, though there was nothing remotely amusing about the situation. Moving on indicated getting past something . . . difficult. The end of a relationship, perhaps. The death of a loved one. Personal recovery. Reaching a point where one decided to take a stand and refuse to allow oneself to dwell—and exist—solely in the past. Well, at least that last one was applicable to her situation.

For her, the title said it all.

Dreams Lost.

“Destroyed” was more apropos, but too dramatic for a painting that was almost whimsical when viewed through unknowing eyes. An image that would invoke nostalgia for the sheer innocence that seemingly radiated from the light and shadows captured on the canvas.

It had taken her many attempts before she’d settled on the look she wanted to achieve. And in fact, the title had been indicative, and settled upon, after her first rendition of the place that had played such an important role in her formative years.

It had been dark, haunting to look at. One couldn’t help but feel sadness when viewing the barren landscape and the sense of loneliness that was prevalent in the painting. For that matter, she wouldn’t have been able to look upon something that brought back such heartbreak and despair.

She readily admitted that it was the more accurate version, the one that most represented her pain and grief. It was just simply too personal to share with strangers, those who didn’t—who couldn’t—understand. How could they? But the original depiction represented the person she’d been for far too long now and it was time to portray herself differently to the world. Even if the world, for her, was still a narrow, shielded familiar path she never ventured from. No one else knew of her demons. She shared them with no one, and she preferred to keep it that way. Only in Wade had she confided, and it had taken a long, winding road to open up to even one person. She had no desire to broaden her circle of confidants.

And so, instead of simply portraying a gnarled, sprawling tree, weathered by time, its limbs thin at the ends as if no longer offering protection beneath its awning and an empty landscape with the lake beyond looking gray and stormy as though it were angered by the betrayal the title represented, she’d painted herself—alone—a survivor. Standing beyond the once-protective shelter of the limbs and intricate roots of the huge oak, only her back presented as she stared over the lake.

It was a sunny day, not even one wispy cloud to mar the canvas, and the blue of the water sparkled like tiny diamonds that had been scattered by a playful child. And the tree, while showing its age, looked more of a timeless guardian, spreading its arms outward, ever watchful and mindful of those in its protective embrace.

Escape. Freedom. Once it had been those very things to her. And now things had come full circle because the finished painting represented her freedom from her destructive past.

Now she only had to hang it. The final step in her metamorphosis from hopelessness and helplessness to strength and optimism.

“Have you changed your mind about displaying it?” Wade asked.

There was a note of hope in his voice, almost as if he knew that putting it out there was . . . acknowledgment. Baring all the things she’d hidden for the last twelve years. And he was afraid she wasn’t yet ready. He was worried she’d revert to the woman she’d been when they’d first met. God only knew why he’d persevered. Why he’d shaken off the countless aloof and cold rebuffs from her and dug persistently through the layers of numbness, fear and paralysis to the heart of her. Then settled for the only things she could give him. Friendship. And finally, inexplicably, her trust.

No, he didn’t think she was ready at all.

He was wrong.

She was ready. It was something she should have done so much sooner. She’d spent so much time numb, refusing to allow herself to feel . . . anything. Because emptiness was preferable to the overwhelming pain and grief she’d long ago resigned herself to, as though she had no choice but to suffer such a barren existence.

No, she didn’t feel desire for Wade. Not the kind of the lover he’d referenced. But she did need him. His friendship and unwavering support. She needed those things more than she was comfortable admitting, but she was also done lying to herself and living in constant denial that she was okay, that everything was fine, and she was all right. Normal.

Because she wasn’t. And she’d likely never be. But she’d finally accepted that and opted to make the best of what she did have and stop dwelling on all she’d lost.