More than how she felt, much more, she poured who Noelle was into the painting. Her sensitive love for her trees, the way she cared for Hannah and the Matthewses, how she always showed up without having to be asked. She painted Noelle’s confidence and swagger, her ownership of her own body, her smolder and her comfort in who she was and wanted to be. She painted Noelle’s sly humor, her raw surprised laugh when something tickled her. Noelle’s commitment to Cass and her grief, still so big and unwieldy, at losing her.

Miriam painted her own regret that they’d never met before, before Noelle was mad at her for abandoning Carrigan’s—and, underneath her fear and her rage at Richard, she painted her anger and disappointment that Noelle couldn’t see that her knee-jerk trauma response wasn’t who she was as a human being. It wasn’t a set of character flaws she could overcome by sheer determination.

She painted what Noelle deserved and what Miriam wanted to give her, which was the world and everything in it, someone to stay and choose her every time. She also painted what she deserved and wanted Noelle to give her, which was the space and grace to become herself without always being afraid that she was doing it wrong.

At four o’clock the next morning, covered head to toe in paint and with every part of her insides now on the canvas, she lay down in the path of the moonlight coming through the carriage house windows and stared at the stars. She didn’t know if she and Noelle would make it. She didn’t even know if they’d get a chance to start again. She didn’t know if they could save Carrigan’s, if they could make a success of the business, or how they would hold her dad at arm’s length forever.

What Miriam did know was she’d done something she thought she’d never be able to do again. She’d painted.

The morning of New Year’s Eve, Miriam dragged Hannah into Advent, back to Marisol’s boutique. Nothing she had with her was suitable for the party, and she didn’t have time for Tara to send her something (nor did she think that phone call would go well). Now that Miriam had painted her entire soul for Noelle, she was moving on to phase two of her plan to fight for her girl: buy a slinky dress and make Noelle swallow her tongue with lust.

Marisol took one look at her and ushered her toward the vintage section at the back of the store. “I have something for you. It’s real short and real shiny.” She pressed a dress into Miriam’s hands. It was liquid silver, original 1970s, and composed of very little fabric.