“Here,” she says, sweeping her hand. “This is your station. We’ll wait a few more minutes for the rest of our guests. I hope you don’t mind?”

Bea blinks around the paint shop and former bakery, judging by the lingering scent of bread yeast and sugar-rich frosting that outstrips the faint odor of acrylic paint. Taking in the abundant art covering the walls, the empty easels, and the odd sounds echoing around us, Bea seems at a loss for words.

So I take over. “Thank you,” I tell Grace. “And no, not at all.”

“Aren’t you sweet?” she says, blinking up at me and fluttering her lashes. “And so tall. My oh my.” Sighing, Grace takes a step back. “Well, excuse me. I’ll be back in just a moment to take your wine order. For now, please get comfortable.”

Once Grace is gone, I pat Bea’s stool. “Sit. You look stunned.”

She lowers onto her seat. “Jamie, what is that noise?”

I peer up at a speaker right above us. “Whatever it is, it’s pretty terrible.”

“I can’t take it.” Bea’s hands creep up over her ears. She shuts her eyes and rocks forward.

“Hang tight. I’ll be right back.”

Weaving through the empty paint stations, I find Grace in front, setting up an easel that looks like it will be hers for demonstration. “Grace.”

She glances up and drops her paintbrush. “Oh! Goodness. Yes.”

“I was wondering. The . . . music.”

“The whale-mating sounds?” she says.

“Ah. So that’s what it is.”

“Yes,” she says, sighing deeply. “Aren’t they majestic?”

“Majestic. Yes. Most certainly. However, they are a bit . . . How should I say it? Hard on the ears after a while?”

She frowns. “You’ve been here for three minutes.”

“Very true. The thing is, my . . . girlfriend.” I try, and fail, to ignore the rush of pleasure that floods my chest when I say that.

Pretend, the voice of reason says. It’s all pretend.

“The music,” I continue, “is hard on her ears. It’s nothing personal to the whales or you, but very high- and very low-pitched sounds are painful for her, so unless you can change it, we’ll have to leave.”

Grace blinks at me. Her eyes fill with tears. “She doesn’t like my music?”

“It’s not a matter of liking,” I explain gently. “It’s just that certain sounds hurt, physically. And the sounds of—”

“The Northern Pacific humpback calling to his mate? Filling the sea with the echoes of his passion?” Grace offers. “It’s painful to her?”