Surrender by Metsy Hingle Page B

told him, frustrated that her fingers failed to create the image in her mind’s eye.
    “What is it I am supposed to see? They are the same eyes that are in the photograph.”
    “I know. But they’re wrong—even in the picture,” Aimee said, dismissing the framed photograph with the wave of her hand. She hadn’t needed the photo of Peter to paint him. She knew his face. She knew each and every line etching the corners of his eyes from those rare moments when he laughed. She knew the slash of dark brows that made him look so fierce when he scowled. She knew the curve of his mouth that could move over her so hungrily and bring her indescribable pleasures when they made love. She knew his face, and while she might have captured the image, she had failed to capture the man.
    It was the eyes. They were wrong. They held none of the compassion that was so much a part of Peter and that he tried so hard to conceal. The eyes that she had painted held none of the caring that made a man like him spend hundredsof dollars to frame a child’s painting and then hang it next to a priceless work of art.
    “What is wrong with the eyes? Even I, master that I am, could not have done a better job of matching the color and the shape.”
    “But they’re not Peter’s eyes. They look too…too cold. Too distant. Peter’s eyes are warmer, more gentle.”
    Jacques chuckled. “Ah, mon amie, I do not think most people would describe Peter Gallagher as a warm, gentle man.”
    “But he is.”
    Jacques shrugged. “Perhaps. But I am afraid you see him in a way others do not. Of course, it is because you are in love with the man. And that is the problem.”
    “Why is it a problem?”
    “Because it is never easy for an artist to capture the object of their passion on canvas.”
    “That’s ridiculous. If anything, I should be inspired.” And she had been. That was the reason she had decided to paint him in the first place.
    “Inspired, yes. And often the results are magnificent. But the process itself can be quite frustrating.” Jacques laughed again, and the sound was hearty, rich. “Just look at the portrait yourself, if you do not believe me. You see your Peter as a warm, gentle man, and you feel you have failed to capture that onto the canvas. No?”
    Aimee looked at the painting. While she conceded that it was technically correct, it failed to satisfy her. “Yes.”
    “And while I, your teacher, tell you the work is excellent, you do not believe me. You feel you have failed.”
    “Yes,” Aimee admitted.
    “It is because you feel you cannot do justice to the original. You feel you cannot capture with the paint this wonderful person that you love.”
    It was exactly how she felt. “So, you’re saying I should just forget about doing a portrait of Peter?”
    “No. I am saying you must not paint him as you see him with your eyes, but paint him as you see him here.” He brought his hand to his chest, patting the area over his heart.
    Aimee looked from Jacques to the portrait. The color she had used to achieve the blue of his eyes, while correct, was too cool. She needed a touch of yellow to give the color more warmth. She turned back to Jacques. “Thank you,” she whispered. Already her fingers were itching to pick up her brush, anxious to return to work.
    Jacques smiled at her then. The gesture was filled with warmth, with friendship, with understanding. As though sensing her eagerness, he picked up her brush and handed it to her. “I see the muse has struck once again. Paint your Peter, Aimee. Not the one in the photograph, but the one you see in your heart.”
    Aimee took the brush from him. After mixing the colors, she dipped the tip of her brush into the oil and began to paint again. But this time, when she moved her brush along the canvas, she didn’t hold back. Each stroke was a caress, guided by the image of the man that she saw with her heart. She painted the Peter she saw, the man with so much love locked inside him,