Country Roads(8)

Unable to sit still as her fate was being decided, Julia shoved up out of her chair, and Paul came to his feet beside her. Together they walked closer to the easel.

Claire took a pair of scissors from the desk and carefully cut the tape holding the plastic covering in place. She put down the scissors and peeled the plastic down from the surface of the canvas.

The terror roared back to life, clogging Julia’s throat with the conviction her new work was garbage. Blackness crept along the edges of her vision as memory transported her back to the day of her first public portfolio review at art college. The professor was notorious for his scathing criticism, and Julia had wanted so badly to do well. As he walked up to critique the first painting, Julia had blacked out, regaining consciousness to find the teacher and her classmates staring down at her as she lay on the floor, their expressions ranging from concern to downright fear.

Trying to stave off the panic, she reached out and grabbed Paul’s hand. He looked startled, but he wrapped his fingers around hers and tucked her hand in against his elbow.

Julia closed her eyes. She focused on the pressure of Paul’s fingers over her hand, the solidity of his rib cage against her forearm, and the steady beat of his pulse where his wrist touched hers.

When she had beaten the fear down, she opened her eyes to see Claire standing in front of the painting with her hand to her mouth. Both the woman and the painting were clear and well-defined.

If Julia was going to have a seizure, this would be the moment, but no aura darkened her vision or heaved at her stomach. She swallowed and tried to speak, but all that came out was a croak.

Paul’s fingers tightened on hers. “Claire, you’re torturing Julia. What do you think of the painting?”

“What? Oh yes.” Claire’s hand dropped as she turned. Julia struggled to draw in air. “It’s extraordinary. Such a huge leap forward from what you’d been doing before. It’s got so much more power and intensity.”

“You like it?” Julia had to gasp for breath as she spoke.

“I think like is too mild a word for what you’re doing here. I’m blown away.”

“Oh, thank God!” She sagged so hard against Paul, he dropped her hand to wrap his arm around her waist.

“You need to sit down,” he said, shifting his grasp as he grabbed the rolling desk chair and eased her down onto it.

“Let me get a bottle of water,” Claire said, starting toward the door.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Julia said. “I just need to breathe for a minute.”

As oxygen flowed into her lungs, a tear of sheer relief zigzagged down her cheek. She let her head fall back, muttering to herself, “I knew it was good. I knew it.”

Someone touched her knee, and she tipped her head forward again to find Paul kneeling in front of her, his brows drawn together in a frown of concern. “Are you all right?”

“I’m better than all right. When you’re barraged with criticism all the time, you begin to doubt your own judgment. You can’t imagine the relief of knowing I wasn’t crazy or blind.”

Claire was unwrapping the next painting Bud had carried in. “This one is as good as the first!” she said, leaning it against the wall and walking away to gaze at it. “Maybe better.”

Paul was still hovering in front of Julia. Reckless in her newly restored confidence, she asked, “What do you think of them?”

His eyebrows shot upward in surprise. “Me? I told you I’m not an art expert.”

“Neither are most of the people who buy art,” Julia pointed out.

He gave her a searching look and pushed off the floor, towering over her as he straightened to his full height. He moved in front of the easel, and she felt nerves squeezing her throat closed again. As he said, it shouldn’t matter what he thought. After all, Claire was the expert, and she was bubbling over with excitement. But Julia wanted his approval too. She wasn’t sure why. She just did.

She surged out of the chair, sending it rolling into the desk with a bang. “Oh gosh, I’m sorry,” she said as Claire started. Paul didn’t seem to notice. He stood stock-still, his arms crossed over his chest.

Julia tiptoed around so she could see his expression and wished she hadn’t. He looked as though someone had walloped him in the belly when he least expected it.

“You don’t like it,” she whispered, the jubilation draining out of her.

It took him a moment to focus on her. “You painted this?” He shook his head in wonderment. “It’s so…so big and wild and you’re so…so, I don’t know.” He made a gesture toward her.