quiet together, that neither of them felt the need to fill the space with empty words.
Jack took the keys from her hand and opened the front door for her, nudging the dogs out of the way with a gentle knee so that she could walk in first. In the hallway Ellie dropped her bag on the side table and placed her hands on her back, stretching while Jack examined the life-size nude painting of a blonde on a scarlet velvet couch on the opposite wall. She wore only her long hair and a waist-length string of pearls...and a very come-hither grin.
‘I can’t stop looking at this painting.’
Since it was a nude painting of a gorgeous woman, Ellie wasn’t surprised. Most men had the same reaction.
‘Who is that?’
‘My best friend Merri.’
Jack stepped up to the portrait and lightly touched the canvas with the back of his knuckle. ‘I meant the artist. The way he’s captured the blue veins in her pale skin, her inner glow... God, he’s amazing!’
Ellie felt a spurt of pure, unadulterated pleasure. ‘Thanks.’
Jack’s mouth fell open. ‘ You painted this?’
‘Mmm. I studied Fine Art at uni and lived in London for a while, but I couldn’t support myself by selling my art so I came home and started work at the bakery.’
‘It’s brilliant. But you left out quite a bit between uni and coming back to Cape Town.’ He touched the frame with his fingertips. ‘And this is more than something you pass time with.’
Ellie felt the familiar stab, the longing to immerse herself in a big painting that sucked her into a different dimension. ‘It used to be my passion. It isn’t any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘I painted that just before I went to the UK. I’d finished uni and was going to conquer the world. I was so in love with art, painting, creating. I was... infused by art.’
Jack sat on the bottom stair and patted the space next to him. Ellie sat down and rested her arms on her knees, looking at Merri’s naughty smile.
‘Were you always arty?’
Ellie shrugged. ‘I think I started when I was about six. I remember the first time I fell into a drawing.’
‘Tell me.’
Ellie felt her voice catch. ‘Mitchell was home. He’d just come back from somewhere in Africa. He was working in his study—nothing strange there—and the door was open. He was reading aloud an article he’d written...he did that. He read all his articles aloud.’
‘He still does.’
‘It was a report on the genocide happening in Rwanda—Burundi—somewhere like that. The report was graphic, horrific...’ Ellie shuddered and felt Jack’s strong arm around her waist, his hand on her hip. This time there was nothing sexual about his touch. It was pure comfort. ‘Mitchell called it like he saw it: women, old people, children. Severed heads, limbs...’
‘I know, sweetheart. Skip that part. Tell me about the art.’ Jack rested his chin on her hair, shaken by the idea of a little girl hearing that. Damn Mitch and his stupidity. The man was a talented journalist, but as a father...useless.
‘I couldn’t get the pictures his words conjured out of my brain and the only thing I could think of to do was draw. Happy things—butterflies, princesses. I had nightmares for a while, and I’d wake up and hit my desk to paint or colour.’ Ellie sighed. ‘Mitchell could never censor himself. He had no conception of sensibility—that young kids didn’t need to know that sixteen Afghan rebels had been executed and their decapitated heads paraded through the streets as a warning and that he’d witnessed it. It drove my mother mad that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut in front of me.’
‘But you had your art?’
‘I did. He reported on brutality and war, violence, and I tried—still try—to counter that by producing beauty. It used to be through oils. Now it’s through cake and icing.’ Ellie shrugged and managed a smile.
Jack saw her staring at Merri’s portrait and caught the pain and sadness in her eyes. There was more to
Jack took the keys from her hand and opened the front door for her, nudging the dogs out of the way with a gentle knee so that she could walk in first. In the hallway Ellie dropped her bag on the side table and placed her hands on her back, stretching while Jack examined the life-size nude painting of a blonde on a scarlet velvet couch on the opposite wall. She wore only her long hair and a waist-length string of pearls...and a very come-hither grin.
‘I can’t stop looking at this painting.’
Since it was a nude painting of a gorgeous woman, Ellie wasn’t surprised. Most men had the same reaction.
‘Who is that?’
‘My best friend Merri.’
Jack stepped up to the portrait and lightly touched the canvas with the back of his knuckle. ‘I meant the artist. The way he’s captured the blue veins in her pale skin, her inner glow... God, he’s amazing!’
Ellie felt a spurt of pure, unadulterated pleasure. ‘Thanks.’
Jack’s mouth fell open. ‘ You painted this?’
‘Mmm. I studied Fine Art at uni and lived in London for a while, but I couldn’t support myself by selling my art so I came home and started work at the bakery.’
‘It’s brilliant. But you left out quite a bit between uni and coming back to Cape Town.’ He touched the frame with his fingertips. ‘And this is more than something you pass time with.’
Ellie felt the familiar stab, the longing to immerse herself in a big painting that sucked her into a different dimension. ‘It used to be my passion. It isn’t any more.’
‘Why not?’
‘I painted that just before I went to the UK. I’d finished uni and was going to conquer the world. I was so in love with art, painting, creating. I was... infused by art.’
Jack sat on the bottom stair and patted the space next to him. Ellie sat down and rested her arms on her knees, looking at Merri’s naughty smile.
‘Were you always arty?’
Ellie shrugged. ‘I think I started when I was about six. I remember the first time I fell into a drawing.’
‘Tell me.’
Ellie felt her voice catch. ‘Mitchell was home. He’d just come back from somewhere in Africa. He was working in his study—nothing strange there—and the door was open. He was reading aloud an article he’d written...he did that. He read all his articles aloud.’
‘He still does.’
‘It was a report on the genocide happening in Rwanda—Burundi—somewhere like that. The report was graphic, horrific...’ Ellie shuddered and felt Jack’s strong arm around her waist, his hand on her hip. This time there was nothing sexual about his touch. It was pure comfort. ‘Mitchell called it like he saw it: women, old people, children. Severed heads, limbs...’
‘I know, sweetheart. Skip that part. Tell me about the art.’ Jack rested his chin on her hair, shaken by the idea of a little girl hearing that. Damn Mitch and his stupidity. The man was a talented journalist, but as a father...useless.
‘I couldn’t get the pictures his words conjured out of my brain and the only thing I could think of to do was draw. Happy things—butterflies, princesses. I had nightmares for a while, and I’d wake up and hit my desk to paint or colour.’ Ellie sighed. ‘Mitchell could never censor himself. He had no conception of sensibility—that young kids didn’t need to know that sixteen Afghan rebels had been executed and their decapitated heads paraded through the streets as a warning and that he’d witnessed it. It drove my mother mad that he couldn’t keep his mouth shut in front of me.’
‘But you had your art?’
‘I did. He reported on brutality and war, violence, and I tried—still try—to counter that by producing beauty. It used to be through oils. Now it’s through cake and icing.’ Ellie shrugged and managed a smile.
Jack saw her staring at Merri’s portrait and caught the pain and sadness in her eyes. There was more to
Similar Books
