I made myself breathe. “Sometimes.”
He moved, appeared at my shoulder, staring at my canvas and my skin prickled at his closeness. “You’ve captured it well. I guess it made an impression. I’m glad.” I could hear his smile in his voice. “It’s nice to find someone who appreciates the beauty in the things I find beautiful.” His fingers traced one of the trees. “I love the twist of these branches. I’ve spent a lot of time admiring them.”
“It looks like a hand,” I said. I raised my own hand instinctively, gesturing at the curve of the branch I’d considered a thumb, and for the briefest moment my fingers collided with his, skin against skin, and it sparked and jolted me. My fingers jumped away but his followed, curling around mine. His hand was warm, his grip strong.
“You aren’t alone, Helen, not even when it feels that way.” His voice was low and kind. I couldn’t even breathe evenly, couldn’t think of anything but the heat of his touch. “Creative spirits will always find their own, and you have your own place in this world, I promise. You’ll find your own kind, you’ll find where you belong, and in the meantime you can always talk, if you need to.” He let go of my hand, and my fingers dithered, lost. “I just wanted you to know that.”
“Mr Roberts, I…” No words would come.
He saved me the awkwardness. “You’re right, it does look like a hand. I’ve often thought so. It’s a shame it lost its leaves early this year, you’d have loved the colours.”
And I was sad I’d missed it. I forced my attention back to my art. “Autumn colours are my favourite. It’s like the world is doing a farewell dance before winter takes its breath. One final explosion, a celebration of life before the world turns grey.”
“I like that. Your analogy makes perfect sense. I like the way you see things, Helen.”
“That’s because you see the same things.” The words came out unbidden. My eyes flitted to his for just a moment, and my cheeks burned. “An artist’s eye.”
“That, too, makes perfect sense, but I think it’s more than that.”
My little heart beat like a drum. “You do?”
He made to speak, his lips poised in expression, but the creak and clank of the door opening stopped him in his tracks. He stepped away from me, recoiling as though he shouldn’t be at my side, and the space felt like a chasm, the mood broken. A cleaner backed through the open door, uncurling a bin liner and shaking it until it billowed wide. It took her a moment to realise the room wasn’t empty.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll come back.”
“No need, we were just wrapping up.” His voice was back in teacher mode, self-assured and calm, without a hint of fluster. “Are you ready to go, Helen?”
I nodded, grabbed my palette to empty into the sink but he took it from my hands and gestured instead to my scattering of art supplies. He washed up my palette as I packed, and my heart wouldn’t stop thumping.
I’d missed a moment, and I knew it.
The cleaner emptied the bins, then began wiping down the surfaces, and Mr Roberts finished up at the sink and then grabbed his bag — a well-worn satchel like Lizzie’s minus the glitter. He waited in the doorway until I was done packing my things. I followed him out into the dim corridor, and further still, stepping through the main entrance and into the outside air. It was a bright but chilly afternoon, a gust of wind chasing leaves around my shoes, but it was nice. He took a few steps in the direction of his car, easy to see now that the car park was virtually empty.
I held up a hand as I set off in the opposite direction. “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes,” he said. “Good evening, Helen.”
He took his car keys from his pocket, and I heard them jangle as I walked away.
His voice caught me off guard. “Do you have anywhere to be?”
I turned on the spot. “Sorry?”
“Are you on a schedule? Do you need to be home?”
I shrugged, then realised how stupid a gesture that was. “I have dinner, at six… Mum’s cooking pork…” I smiled. “No, I don’t have anywhere to be. Not yet.”
He smiled back. “Then let me show you something else I find beautiful.”
***
Mark