‘Oh, joy,’ Luke muttered sarcastically.
Jess sent him a sympathetic look over her shoulder. His eyes held a mixture of impatience and frustration and, more than either of those, a degree of insecurity that she hadn’t suspected he felt. He was stepping out of his comfort zone and handing over control and he didn’t like it. Jess empathised. If they’d asked her to prance around her business and smile for the camera she wouldn’t be Miss Suzy Sunshine either.
She hated not being in control.
Jess stopped, put her hand on the railing and turned to look at him. For the first time since she’d met him she didn’t have to tip her head to meet his eyes as she was two steps higher than him. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘if you’re uncomfortable with anything we do, just shout. Sbu and I need you to be as natural and relaxed as possible. If you’re not then the camera will pick it up. So talk to me. I’ll do anything I can to make this process as easy as possible for you.’
They reached the top of the stairs and Luke guided her into his bedroom. It was a good-sized room, Jess noted, with a king-sized bed. It desperately needed colour, Jess thought, being a study in neutrals. Beige curtains, cream linen on the hastily made bed... And then the painting on the wall caught her eye. It was of the vineyards of St Sylve in a swirling mist, with just the impression of buildings in the background. Jess just stared at the painting for a long time, caught up in the mystery, movement and the sheer magic of the art.
And she fell in love...with the painting and with St Sylve. It was inexplicable, but the painting smacked her in the emotional gut. She was an artist’s daughter, but she’d never reacted to a piece of art as she had to this one. It was a massive canvas, nearly two metres square, but the scene was intimate and she felt as if she wanted to step into the frame.
‘Jess?’
‘Oh, I love that.’ She eventually spoke, stepping forward to kneel on the bed and make out the signature in the bottom left corner. ‘Who painted this? It’s fantastic.’
‘My mother.’
‘You mother was an artist? My dad is an artist!’ Jess told him. ‘I wonder if they ever met.’
‘Not likely.’
‘You’d be surprised. I must ask him if he knew her.’ Jess looked over her shoulder at him. He stood at the edge of his bed, his hands shoved in the pockets of his cargo pants, his eyes on the painting. ‘She died when you were very young, right?’
‘I was three,’ Luke said in a flat voice.
Jess sat down on the edge of his big bed. ‘Do you remember her at all?’
Luke took so long to answer that she thought he was ignoring her question. ‘I have a vague impression of long dark hair.’
‘Did you inherit any of her talent?’
‘No. Did you?’
‘My dad’s love and appreciation for art, but not his skill.’ Jess looked at the painting again. ‘Do you have any more of her art? If you do, I’ll buy one right now.’
‘I only have this one and the one in the lounge downstairs.’ Luke gestured to two closed doors on the opposite side of the room. ‘My closet.’
Conversation over. Jess sighed. Damn it. He was as mysterious as his mother’s painting, she thought as she crossed the room to his closet. Inscrutable and elusive and very, very compelling. Jess pulled open the doors and raised her eyebrows at the jumble.
And very messy.
There were shelves on both sides of the narrow passage that led to the en-suite bathroom, and the right side held a rail that was bulging with jackets and shirts. Jess itched to reorganise the jumble: there was a pile of T-shirts jammed into a space next to some files, jerseys on top of piles of paper, shoes and sports equipment in a heap on the floor.
Jess found some jeans and picked them up to find the pair he’d worn the other day—with the handprint on the seat. She turned her attention to his shirts. Flipping through them, she muttered as she pushed hangers to find what she was looking for...if he had it. His shirts were either too businesslike or too smart-casual. She wanted something worn, but button-down—long-sleeved, but... And there it was, right at the back and half hanging off its hanger. A long-sleeved collared flannel shirt, missing a button and with its pocket half falling off, in a green-and-black check. Jess pulled it out and nodded. Perfect.
‘Jess, that shirt is about twelve years old. I wore it when I spent a summer travelling Alaska. It’s falling apart,’ Luke complained when she waved it at him.
‘It’s exactly what I want,’ Jess replied. ‘Where’s that hunter-green long-sleeved T-shirt and your leather belt?’