Chapter-2 The Muse

The drive to St. Jude’s is a chorus of Mairi’s indignation over the weather and the rattling of Jamie’s rusted-out hatchback. As I stare out the window at the blurred grey-green of the Meadows, I realize how much my life has become a collection of these small noisy, imperfect moments.

I met Jamie three years ago in a draughty community center basement. I was taking an art therapy certification course, trying to find a way to turn my fractured pieces into something useful for others. He was the instructor, his apron smeared with charcoal, looking like he’d just stepped out of a Renaissance sketch. I remember dropping my palette and while others stared, Jamie had simply knelt and wiped the paint from my shoe with a rag, and whispered.

“It’s just color. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.”

He’d introduced me to Mairi, and then to the rest of the misfit brigade as he called them. Callum, a soft spoken giant who ran a local woodshop, and Sarah, a nurse who had more tattoos than skin. They didn’t ask about the Italian accent I tried so hard to soften, or why my hands shook when I signed my lease. They just gave me a seat at their table. And I couldn’t be any more grateful. I truly understand what friends meant.

When we reach the orphanage, it is a hive of activity. Bunting is strung between the ancient oaks in the garden. The event is our annual ‘Founder’s Fair’, a fundraiser meant to keep the music and art programs alive. For these children, these programs aren’t just fun but they are the only places where they are allowed to be loud, messy and seen.

“Elena! You’re late! I was about to start the face-painting without the professional,” Sarah yells from across the lawn. She’s wearing a pair of dungarees and a bright yellow headband, looking every bit the weary but cheerful nurse she is.

“I have the sunflowers!” I shout back, lifting the bouquet.

I weave through the crowd, feeling that familiar prickle of nerves. Large groups still make me wary. But then, a small hand tugs on my denim skirt.

“Miss Elena, will you paint a dragon on my arm? A blue one?”

It’s Leo, a quiet boy who rarely speaks. I crouch down, the grass cool against my knees, and the world narrows until it’s just him and me. “A blue dragon? With silver wings?”

He nods solemnly. I grab the paint and the brush form the table. For years, I was told my only value was in being a Romanovski daughter. I was a vessel for a legacy. But as the blue paint swirls on Leo’s skin, I know I am a teacher. I am a friend. I am a woman who helps a little boy find his fire.

“There,” I whisper. “Now you can fly whenever you want.”

Leo giggles and kisses my cheek before running. I smile at his retreating frame and realize this happiness is worth every pain.

By mid-afternoon, the sun has actually dared to stay out, turning the garden into a golden haze. I’m leaning against the trunk of a massive oak, finally taking a breath, when Jamie approaches. He’s carrying two paper cups of lukewarm tea.

“You look like you’ve through a war,” he says, handing me the cup.

“The dragon painting business is high stakes, Jamie. When every child wants a dragon of different color.”

I take a moment to look at him as he chuckles. He isn’t the Italian man I used to love. There is no sharpness to him, instead, he wears a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that are lean and corded with muscle from years of lifting canvases. His jawline is strong though, but it isn’t in a permanent sneer of superiority. It’s softened by the faint stubble he always forgets to shave and the way his eyes, those deep mossy green, crinkle at the corners when he looks at me.

He leans back against the tree, his shoulder brushing mine. I don’t pull away this time. The wamr of him is like a hearth in a cold room.

“You’re doing it again,” he says softly.

Doing what?”

“Counting the seconds until you have to run.” He turns his head to look at me, and the distance between us feels suddenly, dangerously short. “Elena, you’ve been living this life for some years now. Why do you think someone is coming to take this away from you?”

My heart hammers against my ribs. He’s right.

He reaches out, his thumb grazing a smudge of paint on my cheekbone.

“Jamie…” I breathe.

“I’m not asking for your secrets,” he whispers, his thumb lingering near the corner of my mouth. “We all have demons, El. I’m just… asking you to stay.”

For a split second, the image of steel-grey possessive eyes flashes in my mind, the way he used to grip my chin to force me to look at him. I shudder, but the sensation of Jamie’s thumb is different.

“I am staying,” I say, and for the first time, I think I actually mean it.

He smiles, and for a heartbeat, he smiles.

“Good,” he says, pulling back just enough to let me breathe, though his hands stays on the bark of the tree, framing me. “Because Mairi would kill me if I let our bets sunflower-buyer disappear.”

I laugh and look at side to find Mairi arguing with Callum over the grill, Sarah chasing a toddler and I feel a fierce, protective ache. This is my home. Not the marble, not the blood. This beautiful, messy, loud life is mine.

I have died my hair, I have changed my name, and I have buried the girl who was afraid.