Modern abstracts sat beside watercolours. Monochrome paintings beside framed prints so vibrant I almost felt the need to pull out my sunglasses. I perused each one, walking around the lounge as though I was visiting an art gallery. The styles were too diverse to identify his preferences. But they did tell me that the man loved art, although as he was a graphic designer, that was hardly breaking news.
There was just one wall I’d yet to examine, bare of all artwork except for two drawings in matching black frames. That was their only similarity. The first one I instantly recognised. I saw it in my dreams every night. It was burnt into the retina of my memory. Rhys had perfectly captured the dignity of the majestic old oak. I stepped closer, awed by the intricate detail that so clearly depicted the grainy bark and the individual leaves of the tree. This was no ordinary sketch; it was a piece that exuded so much emotion I could feel my throat tightening in response. This was how art was meant to make you feel, I acknowledged, as my eyes were drawn to the gouge marks the lightning had left in its wake. I lifted a hand and gently ran my fingers over the glass of the frame.
The second picture was just as powerful, but in a totally different way. The subject was a newborn infant, held in a pair of slender feminine arms. I immediately recognised what I was looking at. The baby was staring upwards towards its mother, whose face wasn’t visible in the sketch. But it didn’t have to be. I knew the strands of hair that fell down like curtains towards the infant were blonde. I knew the fingers lovingly touching the soft skin of the child’s cheek belonged to Annalise. I just knew it. I didn’t need to look at the lower right-hand corner of the frame... but I did anyway. Rhys’s name was there.
He was barefoot following his shower, so I didn’t hear him enter the lounge. I was alerted to his return by a kind of sixth sense that seemed to go into overdrive whenever I was near him. One of my regular senses also kicked in as my nose captured the aroma of cedar and apple from whatever products he used in the shower.
I turned around to find him much closer behind me than I’d realised. I jumped and he immediately stepped back.
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.’
I turned back to the two pictures again. ‘These are amazing.’
He gave a small gracious nod of thanks.
‘The one of Tasha is obviously quite old.’ I wondered if he knew how his expression softened when his gaze fell on the sketch of his daughter and his partner. Ex or otherwise, there had been love there when he’d drawn that portrait. It was visible in every line of his pencil.
A totally different expression slid onto his features as his eyes then went to the oak tree.
‘This one is – obviously – more recent.’
I gave a slow nod, stepping even closer to the picture of the tree.
‘I’ve got an entire sketch book full of similar drawings,’ Rhys admitted, looking a little rueful. ‘I was starting to worry that I was getting obsessed. I was afraid that tree would be the only thing I’d ever draw again.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Which would have been very bad for my career prospects.’
It was surprisingly hard to tear my eyes away from the image of the oak tree. ‘I ignorantly thought you just created book covers and stuff like that. I had no idea you were such a talented artist.’
He gave a small shrug and stepped away from the drawings to sit at one end of the black leather sofa. I took a place at the opposite end.
‘The book covers pay the rent and the bills. The other stuff is just for me, at least for now.’
‘Well, if those two examples are anything to go by, you need to get a gallery interested enough to show your work. You’re that good.’
He looked modestly embarrassed but also a little bit pleased, which made me feel like I’d done something right today.
An idea was whispering in the back of my head, refusing to be silenced. It was sharpening and crystallising, even as I began to speak.
‘Do you paint houses?’ I said with absolutely no preamble.
It’s no wonder he got the wrong end of the stick.
‘Do you mean like decorating them?’
I spluttered inelegantly into my wine and narrowly escaped a coughing fit.
‘No. I mean like drawing houses. In ink or charcoal or some other medium.’
Rhys gave a casual shrug. ‘I guess I’m what they call a pen for hire. I could do any of those.’
‘Then I’d like to hire you.’
His head tilted again, less adorable puppy this time, more curious collie.
‘I’m always looking for new ways to make my business stand out from the competition,’ I explained. ‘And I wanted to have something unique to give my clients when a deal is completed, be it a house sale, or letting a property.’ I nodded, as much to myself as him, as the idea grew larger and sharper in my mind. ‘If you’re interested, I’d like to commission you to do sketches of the properties my clients are leaving behind, as a keepsake gift for them.’
There was something very warm in those green eyes as they looked back at me.
‘That’s a really nice idea. It’s way more personal than simply sending a bunch of flowers.’