Ten minutes later, they juggled plates of cold fried chicken, raw veggies and hummus and made themselves comfortable on her love seat. Hardly an exotic feast, but it all tasted good after the hospital cafeteria food she’d eaten on the run today while working. Or at least, she thought it tasted good. Perhaps he was used to richer fare.
“This is the best fried chicken I’ve ever eaten.” Vaughn dug into a second piece. He’d dressed again, minus his shirt, since she was wearing it.
It was a good trade in her eyes, since now she had the added benefit of sitting across from a shirtless, sexy doc.
He seemed more relaxed now. His emotions more under control. For that, she was grateful. She hoped it meant he would be able to sleep soundly tonight.
“Thank you. I avoid fried foods for the most part.” She swirled a carrot through hummus. “But I draw the line at chicken. This is my grandmother’s recipe and my ultimate comfort food.”
“This is open-a-restaurant good.” He set down a bone and wiped his fingers on the napkins she’d brought out.
His obvious enjoyment pleased her, making her think of happier times with her family. “My grandmother was born and bred in southern Louisiana, but she moved to Texas when my granddaddy swept her off her feet. She taught Alannah and me all her Cajun recipes. But the chicken was always my favorite.”
“Cajun?” He sipped the sweet tea she’d poured for them.
“I dial back the pepper in my version,” she admitted. “But my grandmother’s original recipe was definitely more Cajun than Southern.”
“So with all those culinary skills at your fingertips, what made you decide to be an artist?”
“It wasn’t a decision, per se.” She’d always found it difficult to explain her path in a way that made sense to people. “I feel like I was born an artist. Making things has always been natural to me. When I would go out into the world—on a hike with my sister and to the grocery store with my mother—I would draw a picture of it when I got home.”
Vaughn grinned as he reached for another serving. “I guess I did that, too, when I was a kid.”
“The difference is, I never stopped. I never got tired of sharing what I saw and how I felt about it.” Standing, she picked up one of her sketchbooks from the closest table in her studio and brought it back to the coffee table in front of the love seat. “Even now, if you look through my drawings, they’re mostly everyday things. I express myself through my pictures. They’re like a journal of what I experience.”
Flipping through the pages, she saw the past months flash before her. Images of Royal. Of nature out her window. Of the tiny human being growing inside her.
“Wow.” Vaughn set aside his plate and wiped his fingers on a napkin to study the images with her. He pointed to the ultrasound picture, a rough interpretation of her last time there. “That’s amazing.”
The awe in his voice reminded her how monumentally her life was about to change.
“Isn’t it? I’m going back next week for another ultrasound since the baby didn’t cooperate for a gender reveal at the twenty-week appointment.” She couldn’t wait.
But at the same time, it was one of those big moments in the pregnancy that she wished she could have shared with a supportive, excited partner.
Instead, she would be there alone.
“When did you realize you could take the art you make every day and turn it into a career?” He set aside her sketches to finish his meal.
“In college. I pursued art because that’s what made me happy. My teachers were supportive and helped me to find outlets at local galleries. I was selling small works even then.”
“Because you’re incredibly talented,” he said without hesitation.
She knew the value of her work, yet still, his compliment made her cheeks heat. “I’m not sure if it’s talent so much as my perspective.” She’d thought long and hard about that. “I think people like seeing the world through my eyes.”
She’d wondered if she would lose that connection when her sister died. If her perspective would become too dark. Too depressing. But she didn’t worry about that now. Her art was a reflection of her, no matter what she experienced. She couldn’t change that or she would risk alienating her muse.
Vaughn studied her thoughtfully.
“What made you move from drawing to sculpture?”
“A visit to Galveston with my sister. We went exploring on the beach and found some driftwood.” That vacation had been so happy. Alannah had been seventeen and Abigail had just turned twenty-two. She’d felt so grown-up taking her sister on a weekend trip to the beach. “I wanted to make something with it when I got home. I discovered I loved working with wood.”
She set aside her plate, trying not to get lost in the past as the happy part of the memory faded, bringing with it the darker side. Clearing her throat of the swell of sudden emotions, she continued.
“We used to say that trip was a turning point for both of us. I found the joy of sculpture and she realized a new passion for kayaking.” The words hurt her throat as the memory weighted down her heart. “We went together, that first time. She thought it was the best thing, being out on the water with no motor. Just the quiet splash of water off the paddle.”
Vaughn set aside his dishes to move closer. Sliding an arm around her shoulders, he pulled her near.
“I’m sorry.” He kissed the top of her head. Squeezed her upper arm lightly. “It wasn’t fair to lose her so young.”
“She was training to work as a firefighter.” Her sister had been fearless. “I was so worried about her being the one to run into burning buildings, never thinking
