He gave it a cursory scan, still fixated on Charley’s previous remark. “I’m not an artist. What did you mean about Beth not being in a position to do any kicking?”

“You don’t have to be an artist to give me a reaction.”

It appeared Charley wasn’t going to answer his question until he offered feedback on the painting.

Fine.

Steve examined the roughed-in beach scene, storm clouds gathering on the distant horizon, whitecaps hinting at the turmoil in the restless sea. Even in this early stage, Charley had masterfully captured a relentless sense of urgency. A hint of power and danger. As for what was missing . . .

“You could put a guy in a boat out on the water. Like he’s struggling to reach shore before the storm hits.”

“Ah.” Charley’s countenance brightened. “You think I should add a human touch. Give the viewer someone to care about. To root for.”

“Yeah.” Not that he’d have thought to express it in those terms.

“That could do the trick. It’s always more effective to convey emotions up close and personal rather than in the abstract.” Charley set the painting back down. “I was referencing Beth’s knee replacement.”

It took Steve a moment to switch gears after the abrupt change of topic—and to process Charley’s comment. The claim his insurance company had sent from the orthopedic specialist Beth saw on occasion hadn’t raised any red flags. She’d been talking about having knee surgery for several years. Had she finally followed through—without telling him?

“Are you saying she had her knee replaced?”

Charley hiked up an eyebrow. “You didn’t know?”

“No. She didn’t tell me.”

“Charley?”

At the summons from Noah, the artist rejoined the boy at the easel.

As the two conferred, questions tumbled through Steve’s mind.

Why would Beth keep a major operation like that a secret?

How was she coping on her own?

Who was running her shop, supplying her with food, taking her to doctor’s appointments and physical therapy?

Steve had no answers—and there was only one way to get them.

Call Beth, or visit her.

He glanced down at the painting Charley had set back against the wall, the man’s comment echoing in his mind.

“It’s always more effective to convey emotions up close and personal rather than in the abstract.”

Maybe he should replace the cards and notes with an in-person visit—and an offer of help.

Worst case, she’d refuse to talk to him. But what did he have to lose? He couldn’t get any lonelier than he already was.

Best case, she’d realize he’d seen the light and learned the hard lesson Charley had mentioned—and give him a chance to prove he was a different, better man.

An outcome he’d continue to pray for, as he had from the day she’d walked out.