Page 82 of Beyond the Stroke

The space is modern, but warm. Thoughtful.

In the living room, there’s an oversized sectional and a pair of deep linen armchairs facing a big screen television. A gaming system is tucked in the console; a Victrola vintage record player sits on top.

Floating shelves line the wall near the TV. Mystery novels and sports biographies make up most of his collection, with a chunk of sea glass serving as a book end.

While Rory being in my van had felt overwhelming, he seems to relish in my exploration of his things, watching me peruse his space with an easy smile.

It hits me. He probably renovated this place with Daphne.

As if he reads my mind, Rory says, “Whitney helped. She’s got a good eye. She thought about majoring in architecture and design but her swim schedule made it impossible.”

“She did a great job.” I nod, relief flooding through me that I can enjoy the space without feeling like I’m in his ex-girlfriend’s house.

“I cleared this area so you can put some of your plants here.” He motions to an empty shelf in a sunny corner of the dining room.

“You did?” I ask, surprise lifting my brows.

“Yeah, you can’t leave them in your van. They won’t get any sunlight.”

I know he’s right, but I hadn’t expected him to anticipate the need and have the space ready for me.

“Thanks.”

He nods, motioning me down the hallway.

“This is the primary bedroom.”

He flips on the light to reveal a bedroom painted in a soft gray. A huge Bird of Paradise plant in the corner adds the perfect amount of greenery.

A cozy chair with a rustic floor lamp sits in the corner. On a dark wood dresser rests one of my paintings.

My gaze snaps back to the painting. No, not just one of my paintings.The painting. The one of this very beach house that I’d thought about not giving up, but ultimately decided to part with.

“Where’d you get that painting?” I ask, pointing toward the dresser.

“I found it. It’s one of those Coveys everyone has been talking about.”

His eyes search mine, and I do my best to keep any emotion off my face.

“You know, the anonymous artist that leaves paintings around town for people to find?”

“Yeah.”

“I was surprised to find a painting at all, let alone one of my house.”

I swallow hard, emotion rising. “That’s wild.”

“I heard he mostly paints beachscapes so this was the first painting of a structure.”

“He?” I question, my defenses rising. “Why do you think the artist is a ‘he’?”

Rory shrugs. “I guess I hadn’t thought about it. I just said ‘he’ out of habit.” He chuckles. “Going forward, I will refer to the anonymous Covey artist as ‘they.’”

“Hmm.” I set the painting back on his dresser. “You should frame it. Something simple. A tray frame in coarse-ground wood would look nice.”

Rory moves to stand beside me, and I’m suddenly aware of the heat from his body. His fingers brush mine as he takes the painting from me.

“I have no idea what you just said. You’ll have to help me remember that.” He smiles, and suddenly the air between us is thick.

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