I blink. “What?”
“Don’t idolize another artist,” he scolds. “Appreciate their skills. Study their technique, but when you idolize them, you can’t see your own work clearly. Focus on your own work and based on what you’re doing thus far, I can promise you, success will follow.”
“In fact,” Sara says. “Why don’t you come to work here full time? Chris can mentor you and I get two gifted artists helping me make this place a success.”
I blanch. “I…I wish that I could, but I can’t. I have the winery to think about.”
“Don’t you have a management team to run it?” Sara asks.
“Yes, but it’s complicated. And I can’t afford a misstep. I’m alone—”
“What about Nick?” she asks.
“Nick and I are new and I don’t expect him, or want him, to take care of me.”
“That’s a conversation for you and Sara,” Chris says, “But all I can say is that painters paint.”
“I know,” I say, “but my family has owned this winery for generations. It was everything to my father. He expected me to run it.”
“Your father,” Chris says flatly. “That’s another topic for Sara. And on that note, I’m leaving.” He stands up and turns to Sara, and I swear he doesn’t even touch her, and they sizzle.
“I’ll meet you at home.”
“I’ll be there soon.”
“Your phone,” he says.
“I know,” she says.
They stare at each other for another few sizzling moments and then he’s gone. To my surprise, Sara then sits down on the floor next to me, cups in hand, and hands me my coffee. “Sorry about that.”
“I’m sorry. I feel like I eavesdropped.”
“You didn’t. And Chris is protective, but he’s not that over the top. There was…an incident in Paris.” She cuts her gaze and visibly shakes herself and then rotates to lean on one shoulder and face me. “I can’t talk about it. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you. Not now. Even if we knew each other that well, I’m just not ready, but let me say this, Faith. The past year has reminded me that life is short. We only get one chance to live it. Painters paint.”
“I know, but it’s complicated.”
“My father is very rich.”
“Like Chris.”
“My father is nothing like Chris,” she says. “Chris is strong, tough, dark in ways I understand, but he is kind, generous, gifted, generous. Did I say generous?”
“And your father?”
“Brutal. Self-centered. He treated me and my mother horribly. And he wanted me to live the life he designed and when I refused, he disinherited me. But even then, when I had the courage to walk away from him, I took a teaching job, when art was what I’d studied and loved.”
“Why?”
“Fear. Money. Stability. You know galleries don’t pay much.”
“What changed?”
“I found a journal. Rebecca’s journal. Inside it was all her deepest thoughts, fears, and confessions. Impossibly, it seemed, she wanted to be in this world, too, but resisted for the same reasons I did. But then one day she walked into a gallery, this gallery, and her life changed. She dared to chase her dream. And she was younger than me. Braver. She inspired me. I came to look for her, and she was gone. I never met her. I took her job. She led me to my dreams. To Chris. And now…”
“I’m here,” I say, rotating to lean against the desk. “And with Nick.”
“Yes,” she says.