Her mock seriousness drew a smile from Leo.
“So, yes, I would like to get through a few more chapters of that book. With you.”
“Can I tell you what I would like?” he asked.
“Please, do.”
Leo sat up, cross-legged. Anna followed his lead, clutching the quilt to her chest and turning so she could lean against the wall.
He stroked her leg while he took his time responding. “I would like to set a day and a time to get together again, to go over something specific from the book, without any pressure to get as sexual as we did today.” He raised his gaze. “If I… If my body feels pressured to perform, my fear is the pressure is what’ll continue to stop me from recovering. And I’m not saying that to put distance between us.”
“This is uncharted territory for me too.”
“How does this sound?” He gathered her hands with his. “Saffron, would you like to get together for another session of intimate breathing with me?”
“Leo, I would be delighted. Would Friday work for you? Perhaps late afternoon, followed by dinner?”
His eyes lit up. “Do you like homemade pasta?”
“Love it.”
“Then I would be delighted to accept your invitation. And I’ll teach you how to make fettuccine.”
Anna fell over, flinging her arms wide. “Oh, my God, he cooks too.”
Chapter Seven
No more surprises flaunted themselves for the rest of Anna’s day. Daniel was at a European trade show in Berlin, and between his obligations and the time difference, they wouldn’t be able to talk until he returned to New York.
She wandered unfocused through the rooms of her house and chalked up her spaciness to sexy times with Leo.
At the workshop, she’d discovered how out of touch she was with different parts of her body, like they’d checked out, gone on vacation, and forgotten to return home. A couple hours with a fellow explorer had her wondering if study sessions with Leo might be the best preparation she could have hoped for before the upcoming reunion with Daniel.
She brought her attention to what needed doing for her business. A quieter voice tried to draw her attention to what she wanted to do for herself.
There were sewing projects she should cut. Some of her clients’ boats would be in the harbor for the winter, but others would be heading for warmer waters by mid-October. Her business had thus far been solely based on custom orders. Maybe she should consider a line of ready-made items, like decorative throw pillows or boat bags made from upcycled sails.
The quieter voice, the one that had been trying to reach the surface from a sleepier section of her awareness, coughed. It was a quiet cough, but it got her attention.
What if she went into her studio and just…played? What if she went to the art supply store and got a chunk of modelling clay and wire for making armatures or a few pieces of soapstone and whatever tools she would need and tried her hand again at sculpting?
In that earlier moment with Leo, when the sun carved the waves of his hair and faceted the colors in his eyes, she’d been completely arrested by his beauty. Recording those moments was what drew her to sculpting and drawing in the first place. Then, as now, it was less about copying reality and more about taking the feeling invoked in the moment and working in an artistic medium to create something that detailed those feelings and impressions.
God, making art was complicated. First, she had to make money.
Instead of walking out the door near the kitchen and heading for her studio, she walked into her bedroom and opened the closet.
The narrow, oblong space was crammed with clothes on hangers and in protective plastic bags. Cardboard shoeboxes and random containers were stuffed with who knew what. Anna tightened the corners of her bedspread, pulled clothes out of her closet, and piled them on top.
New rules.
If she hadn’t worn something in a year, it needed a powerful reason to go back in the closet. If it was a vintage piece, it could go in the box she kept in her studio for Gigi. Some of those clothes and accessories had been labeled for future projects a decade ago.
Future projects. She surveyed her small bedroom. There was no way she could make it into an art studio. Working with stone and clay was a messy process. She left the messy pile of clothes, walked across the living room to the other bedroom, and opened the door to the larger room, with its bunkbeds and memories—and two windows instead of her one.
This room could become her room. Not a place that stayed empty, waiting to be filled by others, not a place where she had to wear her business cap. Stepping closer to the exterior wall, she spread her arms, taking a rough measurement. There was enough space underneath the windows to fit a long table for her sculpting materials, and she could even tuck a comfortable chair in the corner for reading, journaling, sketching, or simply musing. The boxes in her sewing studio that had been taped shut when she turned from art to more commercial pursuits could be stored in the closet.
Better yet, she could go through those boxes and put her old sketchbooks on the shelves, and even though everything was probably faded and cracked with age, all those things were still parts of herself.
Parts of me.
Anna’s chest shuddered at those words. She lifted watering eyes to the ceiling and looked around her kids’ old room. So many memories that needed the reassurance of a comforting hand. Making space for her to move in was not about erasing those memories. Not at all. Decision made, she took a deep breath and returned to her clothes closet.
One hanging bag, its plastic cracking with age, held a few of Gary’s jackets, along with ties and
