“Well, as Ralph Waldo Emerson said, ‘Every artist was first an amateur.’ I didn’t start out as a professional either. That happens over time. Steve tells me you’re very talented.”

Noah’s pink hue deepened. “I try hard, and I draw whenever I can, but I don’t know if I’m very good. I’ve never had lessons.”

“Why don’t you let me take a look at what you have and I’ll give you my honest opinion?”

Noah caught his lower lip between his teeth and slowly pulled his drawing pad from the plastic bag. “This is my newest stuff.”

“Perfect. Let’s go over to that table and you can tell me about the sketches while I page through the book.” Charley motioned toward the corner of the room. “Would you like a soda?”

“No thank you. I already had ice cream.”

“A much better treat than soda. Steve, there’s java in the pot if you’d like a cup.” He indicated a coffeemaker on one of the shelves. “Not as tasty as the brew at The Perfect Blend but a decent follow-up to ice cream.”

“Thanks. That would hit the spot.” And provide an excellent chaser to the cloying sweetness clinging to his tongue.

He helped himself, perusing the art and philosophy books on the shelves—and eavesdropping on the conversation as Charley and Noah put their heads together.

The Hope Harbor artist was as gracious as he’d expected. He asked questions, praised certain details of the different drawings, offered a few subtle suggestions, and gave the boy his full attention, treating him like an artistic peer rather than a kid.

And Noah ate it up. He grew more and more animated as the discussion continued, his eyes bright as he hung on Charley’s every word, clearly in his element in this studio and with a man who understood his compulsion to create.

A compulsion Jonathan had shared.

All at once the sip of coffee he’d taken turned bitter. Grimacing, Steve swallowed it, the acidic liquid burning a trail down his throat.

Why couldn’t he have done for his son what he was doing for this boy he barely knew? Why hadn’t he recognized sooner what Beth had told him all along—that he should appreciate and encourage Jonathan’s unique talents instead of holding out hope that one day he’d outgrow his fascination with art and become the athletic son Steve had always hoped to have? How would he ever fill the void Jonathan’s death had left in his heart? Vanquish the grief and guilt that darkened his empty days and—

“—in a hurry? Steve?”

At a touch on his arm, he recalibrated and pivoted toward Charley. “I’m sorry. I was lost in thought. What did you ask?”

“I wondered if you were in a hurry. I was going to let Noah experiment with a brush and paint.”