My heart beats faster, then even faster. A cold sweat dampens my skin.

“Bea?” Jamie asks. “Are you all right?”

I nod, staring at the canvas. “I’m . . . envisioning my . . . approach.”

Lie. Such a lie. I’m being petrified, is what I’m doing.

I sit there for long minutes, fiddling with paint colors, mixing countless shades of amber and peach and green. Anything but putting paint to canvas. I try a few times, swirling my brush, wetting it with paint, and lifting it in the air. But then my arm freezes, and my heart starts pounding again. So back to color mixing I go, until I have more colors than room on my palette.

By this point, I’m holding my breath, waiting for Jamie to ask what’s going on, to take offense that I’m not participating or prod me for an explanation. But he only glances my way a few times before his eyes swiftly return to his canvas.

“And how are we doing?” Grace asks. “How is our heart’s expression on canvas progressing?”

This woman. She is something.

Jamie’s right. I am a little bit of an art snob, but I’m not cruel. Grace clearly loves her business and its heartbeat for bringing people together through painting. I don’t fault her for that. Hell, I admire it. I’ve just turned into a cynic who hasn’t touched a paintbrush in almost two years and is now really scared to do that, because then what?

What if painting makes me feel the way it used to? Like my heart’s in my hands, pouring itself out with each stroke of my brush. Like life’s deepest meanings and truest truths can be captured in light and shadow and the daunting work of good perspective. What if that feeling turns my heart as soft and tender as it once was? And what if someone once again crushes it in their grip?

“Going fine, thank you,” Jamie tells her after my awkward silence, because the guy is constitutionally incapable of being rude.

“Your efforts are . . .” Grace clears her throat and tips her head, staring at Jamie’s canvas, which is hidden from me. “Very commendable.”

Jamie adjusts his glasses and frowns at his painting. “You can say it. Visual art is not my gift.”

“No,” Grace agrees. “But your heart is there, in every stroke. That’s the real gift. And you?” she says to me, stepping up behind my canvas.

My blank canvas.

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. She peers at me over her red-framed cat-eye glasses, tiny bubblegum-pink hearts at the hinges winking in the overhead lights. “What is this, my dear?”

“It’s . . .” A knot forms in my throat. “It’s been a while since I did this,” I whisper.