If I Didn't Know Better (The Callaways #9)(14)

He wished he could give her mother back to her. He wished he could go back to doing what he knew how to do, but it wasn't only Ashlyn's appearance that made that impossible, he thought, rolling his shoulder back with a painful wince. He still had to get his shoulder back into the shape it had once been in.

As he walked into his own room, he hoped that tomorrow would be better, but he didn't know if he believed that any more than Ashlyn did.





Four

Mia woke up Tuesday morning, feeling refreshed and eager to take on the day. The locksmith rang her bell just after eight and within the hour had changed the locks on every door and given her a new set of keys to use.

After making coffee and grabbing a granola bar, one of the few snacks she'd brought with her, she walked through the sliding glass doors that led from the family room into the backyard. A horseshoe-shaped brick patio held a large, round glass table with a bright umbrella overhead and six chairs.

Beyond the patio were a grassy area and a rocky path that led to a two-story cottage, whose walls were covered with ivy. The cottage sat at the edge of a bluff that looked over the Pacific Ocean. The view was spectacular and always took her breath away.

She wandered across the patio and grass to the waist-high back fence and looked out at the sparkling turquoise sea. The waves were wild on this part of the coast and the white water splashing against the huge boulders below was intense and somewhat mesmerizing. It was nature in all its glory, and she felt a wave of intense emotion at the churning waves, the constant pull of the tide that came in and went out, reflecting the turbulent feelings within herself.

She'd been churning inside for weeks, and she'd let herself get pushed around in dizzying circles. But she wasn't helpless. She didn't have to go with the tide. She could fight back. She could find her own path. She just had to do it.

Looking at the horizon, she felt more inspired than she had in a long time. This was the same view that had called her aunt to explore the world, and while she wasn't itching to get in a boat or on a plane, she was yearning to start something new, to find a way to be herself and be successful, too.

She would figure it out, she thought, but first things first. Looking away from the view, she wandered around the yard. The rose garden was dying with the drought of summer, the hot sun, and no loving hands to tend the earth.

Someone must have come by and mowed the lawn, as it didn't look particularly overgrown. Maybe her aunt had a gardener come by to do the basics. She'd have to look into that.

Setting down her coffee mug on the table, she took the keys out of her pocket that the locksmith had given her and walked down the path to the studio. Unlocking the door, she stepped inside the cottage and stopped abruptly. While the house had been cluttered, the studio was filled to the brim with artist supplies, paints, easels, canvases, pictures, frames, a table covered with open containers of jewelry beads and hot glue guns, another table displaying a sewing machine and hundreds of scraps of fabrics that seem to be making up part of a quilt. There were clay structures on a shelf next to spools of yarn and colorful knitting needles.

It felt as if a dozen artists had suddenly gotten up in mid task and walked out of the building. Not one thing seemed to be finished or put away.

It was more than a little overwhelming.

She took a deep breath, reminding herself that nothing had to be done in a day. She could take her time. And she was excited about the possibilities. There could be some incredible art in this room. She moved over to the stairs, where stacks of paintings lined the steps that led up to the loft.

She climbed the steps and found a double bed, a small dresser, and a bathroom. The windows showed off another amazing view of the ocean. And an easel with a blank canvas stood by that window, just waiting to be brought to life with paint.

"Later," she muttered to herself, fighting the desire to stop taking inventory and play with the paints.

As an art historian, she didn't just love art; she also loved the stories about the people who made the art, and there were probably many stories that had been started in this very studio. Maybe she would discover a piece of art that hadn't yet been seen by the world. It could happen. And it could be amazing.

"I'm going to do it right," she said out loud. "I'll make you proud, Aunt Carly. I'll make sure everything in here is treated with respect. I know that's the way you'd want it." Smiling at her promise, she went down the stairs. She'd just reached the bottom when the door swung open, and a small figure appeared in the sunlit doorway. It was Ashlyn. She held the doll she'd gotten the night before, and she was looking at Mia with her heart in her eyes. It was so clear that she wanted to connect; she just didn't know how.

"Hi, Ashlyn," she said with a warm smile. "What do you think of my aunt's studio? She used to let artists stay here while they worked on their paintings or their sculptures or their quilts. Now I just have to figure out what to do with all this stuff."

Ashlyn didn't even blink, and Mia had to admit her wide-eyed stare was somewhat unnerving. No wonder Jeremy had been so happy to have someone to talk to the night before. The silence was probably making him crazy.

"I'm glad you like your doll," Mia added. "I was thinking we should probably wash the dress and see if we can tidy her up a bit."

Ashlyn's arms tightened around the doll. It didn't look like she was interested in letting go of her doll for any reason.