Page 51 of Lucy Loves Him Not
“You know what?” he said, his eyes bright with a new idea. “I know of an incredible local artist that we could host at the festival. I don’t know their name, only their initials. But maybe you’ll know them, being from here?”
“Maybe.” I was intrigued. The bright sun made me squint, the air humid and hot between us. “What are the initials?”
“They had their piece listed under L.R. That was their signature on the painting, too.”
“L.R.,” I repeated. “Same as mine. Funny.”
“Oh, yeah. You’re right.” He chuckled in amusement. “You don’t happen to secretly be an amazing artist?”
“Can you show me the painting? Maybe I’ll recognize it,” I asked. My senses tingled in that slow burn of realization.
“I bought it through an online auction that was raising funds, but that link isn’t working anymore. It was the only place I found anything about the artist—and that was just the picture and their initials. I’ve searched online and haven’t found anything about this mysterious L.R. The painting is hanging in my dining room, though. I can take a picture later and send it to you?”
There was no way. No way.“Would it be weird if I came over to see it?”
“When do you want to come by?”
“You free now?” I bit my lip anxiously.
He glanced at his watch. “Sure.” He grinned at me as he said, “It’s always right now with you, Lucy Rhodes.”
I followed his green Patriot, weaving through town until we parked in front of a house in one of the historic neighborhoods. The house was a dark taupe with black shutters, but it still felt cozy and charming with the open porch and thriving garden out front.Adam is the type to stick to a thoughtful plant care routine, I thought to myself.
“This is my place, for now.” Adam welcomed me as I shut my car door. I followed him up the porch steps.
“It’s charming,” I said as he opened his front door.
Adam’s place was sparse, probably since he’d recently moved here, but what he did have felt warm and eclectic. I spotted a wooden bookshelf full of literature, a worn brown leather couch, and a coffee table in the shape of a leaf.
I could feel Adam’s fingerprints on all of it. None of it was purchased with a thought of anything other than what he liked.
He led me through the living room and turned the corner into a dining space with a long, walnut table surrounded by mix-and-match chairs. “Here it is, the mysterious painting.” He gestured toward the landscape painting of the sun setting over downtown Sweet River I had donated to the school auction.
My heart caught in my throat. Adam was the only person in the world who owned a piece of my artwork.A piece of me.
And he hung it proudly in his dining room. He had searched the internet to find more of me.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” he said, looking up at it, taking my silence as awe. “I had been googling Sweet River when I first moved here, trying to find out everything I could about the town, and stumbled on a charity auction. I was browsing it when I saw this painting.I had to have it.It made me fall in love with Sweet River. Now, it’s my favorite thing in my house. Every time I lookat it, it makes me feel like I belong here, in this house, in this town.”
“I’m L.R.,” I whispered.
His brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“I painted it.I only used my initials. I felt a little embarrassed, I guess, since this was my first painting out in the world. If no one chose L.R.’s work, then I hoped it would sting a little less than if they didn’t choose Lucy Rhodes’.”
His eyes were big, round sunshine as he took me in. “Youpainted my favorite thing in my house?”
I rocked back and forth nervously on my feet. I didn’t know what else to say.
“Lucy, you’ve never mentioned your art before.”
“That’s because there’s not really any art to mention. I’m not a real artist or anything. This was an impulsive fluke.” I gestured to the wall where my painting hung.
“Something like this is not a fluke. It is intentionally crafted. It takes talent and creativity,” he defended the piece. “What makes you say you’re not a real artist?”
“BecauseI’m not a real artist. Art isn’t my job. I’m not paid to paint. No one cares whether I paint or not. The only one who needs me to paintis me. But it isn’t helping anyone or anything.”
“Why does itneedto help someone?”
