Someone had unpacked all her things and had even arranged them, or had at least attempted the task. She began rearranging, needing the comfort of knowing things were where they should be and in order.
The first hour she spent putting her art supplies in order. By then she was itching to start creating so she settled at the desk and pulled out the leather-bound journal that had the first draft of her writing and her sketches.
Her process was likely more complicated than most, but it suited her and it gave her a measure of comfort. She always did preliminary sketches and the rough draft writing in the journal. When she was satisfied that she had things as she wanted, she then made hard copies that she’d eventually turn in to her publisher.
For each book she bought a different journal. She loved the feel of paper bound in leather. The pages had been faux weathered to give it a worn, aged look. And the cover was leather so worn and soft that she loved to caress it with her fingertips.
She was a very tactile person. She loved touch. Needed it. Lucas—and now Cole—gave her what she needed. They were openly affectionate with her. They seemed to need to touch her as much as she needed to be touched. Not every man she’d been with had been cognizant of her needs or perhaps they simply didn’t care to meet them.
But she found she suffered when she was denied close, personal contact. Which was contradictory given how closely she guarded her personal space and only trusted a few to get close enough to ever touch her.
She loved comfortable things, though. Shoes, furniture, journals. She surrounded herself with things that felt good and appealed to her senses.
But above all she needed and desired structure and routine.
She caressed the cover of the journal before opening it to the last page where she’d drawn the last sketch. Her pencils were in a cup to her right, colors in order of light to dark. As she reached for one to touch up a few lines in the picture, her cell phone signaled an incoming text.
Excitement surged through her. Lucas wasn’t much on texting. He much preferred direct communication, but she’d hoped that he’d at least contact her during the two weeks she was with Cole. Surely he would at least make sure she was happy.
She dug her phone out of the pocket of her jeans and opened the text. It was from her friend Savonna. She tried not to allow disappointment to eat at her. She shouldn’t even be thinking about Lucas.
Saw Lucas at club last night. Where were U?
For a long moment, Ren stared at the text, battling her reaction to it. Then, slowly, she blanked the screen and put the phone aside, not replying to the question. What could she say anyway?
It took all of her discipline not to text back and ask Savonna if Lucas had been there with another woman. The simple truth was there were some questions you didn’t want to know the answer to.
She picked up her pencil. A soft lavender she’d intended to touch up the morning sky over the lake in one of her drawings. It shook in her hand and doubt crowded into her mind despite her best effort not to dwell on Lucas.
But still she wished there was a switch that she could just flip and turn it all off. The doubt, the fear, the worry and the sadness.
The pencil dropped from clumsy fingers onto the open journal and the drawing of two young children sitting on a dock, feet in the water, watching as the sun rose higher in the sky.
Idly she turned back the pages, going back through the story, studying each of the drawings and the simple story of childhood in all its innocence.
Tears gathered as realization hit her. Maybe it had been in her subconscious all along but she’d never seen it until now. This was so much the story of her and Cole. Happier days. The sweetness of first love and the sadness that accompanied that first good-bye.
Even before she’d seen Cole again, she’d channeled those memories into this book. Perhaps it was her way of letting go. Only now he was back in her life. Why couldn’t she have met him again a year ago when she was coming off her relationship with Grant? There were no obstacles, no barriers, nothing at all to get in the way of their reunion.
She dropped her head as she slowly and carefully closed the journal. There would be no work done today. Instead she reached for her artist pad, opened it to a blank page and then chose the black charcoal pencil from the jar.
