six

I walked among the finished speed paintings. The students had gone on their
break before their next class, and Giselle had returned to the office. As I perused
the result of their first master class, I was aware of Winter as she stood cleaning
her brushes under the faucet in the corner.

"Tell me," I said, stopping at Mio's canvas, "what's your first impression?"

Winter didn't answer right away but finished with the brushes before turning her
attention to me. "You have to be more specific. First impression about what?"

Realizing my question lacked precision, I waved Winter over. "Sorry. Let's start
with Mio, here. What do you think about her painting?"

Winter pulled her upper lip in between her teeth and gripped her brushes
tightly. "I see a lot of pain."

I blinked and returned my gaze to Mio's piece. The background, an urban setting
washed with stark moonlight, set a stark background for the main motif—an
ethereal elfin or fairy that clung to a wilted bouquet of flowers. Yes, Winter was
correct. A definite pain was present.

"And loneliness," I said. "That little creature is all alone in the dark alley."

"Yes. Impending danger." Winter nodded.

"I'd say Mio managed to grab our attention and fulfilled her assignment well." I
made a note on my tablet and moved to Ulli's canvas. "Ah, our lace-covered
dancer. She did do a pretty good job of implementing your technique."

"She did." Winter frowned and leaned closer to the painting. "She's careless in
how she lays down the background. Perhaps she's in a hurry to start painting
the main motif."
I had to agree. While the figure with the tattered lace drew my attention, the rest
appeared sloppy and a missed opportunity to entice the viewer. I made yet
another set of notes.

Luke had painted with bold, vivacious strokes. Unlike most of the others, he'd
used oils and also added shredded paper for more texture. This practice gave
life to his landscape and beautiful insects.

"And this?" I pointed at Luke's work.

"He shows impeccable technique, but..." Winter stepped closer and then backed
up several steps. "Ah. I was mistaken. You need to view it from here."

I walked over to her and regarded Luke's canvas. At first I didn't realize what she
referred to, but after a few moments, I noticed the astute way Luke had
constructed his speed painting. The insects were there and could be seen as
part of the scenery, but they also described the outline of a beautiful man's face.
"Very clever."

Winter nodded. "So much hidden, yet available under the surface." She spoke
thoughtfully and tapped her lower lip with the back end of a brush.

I used her exact words as I wrote down my notes regarding Luke's work. We
walked among all the paintings, some quite good, some rather bad, and a few
hinting at the promise of future brilliance. When we reached Winter's painting,
she remained quiet.

"I'm not going to critique you like you're one of the students. Your work inspires
them and shows them what to strive for." I smiled in encouragement as I sensed
tension growing within her.

"Would you share your thoughts anyway?" Winter asked in a low voice. She
shifted her brushes back and forth, sorting them from largest to smallest
without looking at them.
"Sure." Her painting drew me in, making me want to revive the poor little birds
on the ground. The shadowy figures in the background instilled worry and fear.
What inside Winter had she transferred into the painting? Residual anxiety from
being locked up? Resentment toward her mother?

I realized Winter was waiting for my response and that perhaps my delay made
her nervous, judging from the way she traced the wood pattern in the handle of
her brushes. Clearing my throat twice, I relayed my gut reaction to her work but
withheld my speculations about her potential motives. "You have a true gift of
expressing yourself like this, Winter," I said as a finish.

Winter's shoulders lowered as she exhaled. Had she been that anxious?

Now she looked relaxed, and the brushes stilled between her fingers.

"I'm going to lunch." I seized the moment. "Would you like to join me?"

At first, I thought she'd readily accept, but Winter grew tense again and frowned.
"Where are you having your lunch?"

"I figured that little Italian restaurant down the street from here. I've been there
before and the food is amaz—"

"No." Winter turned her back and tucked her brushes into their casing. "Should I
leave the canvas here or take it with me?"

"Leave it for now, please. Hey, if you don't like Italian food—"

"I do."

"Why don't you want—oh, you have other plans?"

"No."

"Then why?" I kept my tone nonjudgmental as I carefully stepped closer to

Winter.
"I—I don't handle crowds well. It is lunch hour. Lots of people." She'd saved one
brush to hold on to, and her coping technique made tenderness erupt in my
chest.

"What if I call ahead and ask the maître d' to arrange for a booth away from the
main area?" I observed her features for signs of stress. I knew that some cases of
autism if she indeed had this condition, made it hard to process increased levels
of sound and other impressions. Too much stimulation for the senses could
overwhelm the individual because their brain has difficulty processing it all at
once.

"You've been there before?" Winter looked hesitant, stippling the inside of her
left palm with the strands of her brush.

"Yes. It's a popular restaurant, but it's also well managed and it's not a buffet, so
you don't have to fear wrestling someone over the different dishes."

"I would never wrestle with anyone for food. I'd let them have it if they were that
hungry." Winter obviously found such behavior appalling.

"I was exaggerating," I said, berating myself for confusing her when I knew
better. "So, would you trust me to take you out to lunch?"

Winter tilted her head, her soft brown hair flowing in rich waves. "All right. Yes.
All right." She held on so hard to her brush that I feared she might break it.

"Good." I dialed the restaurant, having found it in my list of favorite places to

dine. The maître d' was more than accommodating, and I reached for my coat as
I disconnected the call. "They have a booth for us."

Winter regarded me with something that looked like terror-filled delight. She
grabbed a jacket from a hook by the door and pulled it on. Then she pushed her
hands into the pockets, paintbrush and all. As I passed her to leave the room,
she turned back, and for a moment I thought she'd changed her mind. Instead,
she took a few more brushes and tucked them in her right pocket. She shoved
the brush casings into her box of art supplies. Crossing the floor, she walked
with long strides toward me.

"All set?" I almost guided her by touching her back but stopped myself, as I
knew how she would receive such a touch.

Outside, the weather was nice and quite warm in the sun. Spring was on its way.
Tiny mouse-ear leaves had sprung from the branches of the maples. People had
started to fill planters with pansies and other flowers, which presented a
colorful backdrop to the old brick buildings.

The sidewalk wasn't entirely congested with pedestrians, which made me sigh
in relief. Not sure how Winter handled being jostled by stressed- out business
people, I suspected she found it nerve-racking. Even I wasn't feeling the love
whenever I tried to navigate among a bunch of rude and careless people. No
doubt I'd been guilty of hurrying along sidewalks a few times in my life, but I
never shoved people aside to get ahead.

The crowd became denser when we neared the block hosting several
restaurants. Winter walked closer to me, her eyes darting back and forth
between the faces of the oncoming people.

"It's all right. We're almost there."

"Good."

Glancing down, I saw her right hand working around her brushes, a now-familiar
sign of increasing tension. "Listen, why don't you walk on the other side of me?"

"Yes." Winter rushed to my right. "Better?"

"Yes." Winter's breathing slowed.

I tried to imagine being this sensitive, to feel so exposed and vulnerable. No

matter what, she was damn courageous to brave the surroundings like this.
The Grande Gusto sat tucked in between a bookstore and a boutique. From my
many previous visits, I knew the restaurant combined a rustic ambiance with a
contemporary Tuscan elegance. Avoiding red-and-white- checkered tablecloths
and runny candles in old wine bottles, they'd opted for cream-colored linen,
dark wood, and brass light fixtures. I love the versatility of Italian cuisine and
knew this place wasn't all pizza or pasta.

As we approached the entrance, much to my dismay, a line of people waiting to

get a seat had formed along the wall. I'd lined up here before, but today that
wasn't an option. Glad I'd called ahead, I squared my shoulders and had to
remind myself not to put a protective arm around Winter's shoulders. I
remembered her reaction to Ulli's friendly touch.

"Hey, ladies, there's a line here." A man dressed in a three-piece suit raised his
voice and waved from the back of the queue as I motioned for Winter to enter.

"We have reservations." I bared my teeth at the guy, daring him to object. He
didn't, but a woman in front of him put her hands on her hips.

"They don't take reservations. Not during lunch time." She frowned. "We've
waited twenty minutes already."

"We—we should go. I should go." Winter was pale now and kept her hands
pressed into her pockets. "This was a bad idea." Her eyes, huge and dark,
showed she was about to turn and run. Breathing in staccato bursts, she started
to take a step back.

"Cut it out, lady. Can't you see that girl needs to get inside?" A middle- aged
African-American man shook his head. "Just go. You'll be fine."

Got to love Boston, I thought as I ushered the now-trembling Winter through the
door. She didn't even notice my hand against the small of her back.
The maître d' guided us to a horseshoe-shaped booth in the inner corner, away
from windows and prying eyes. Winter more or less threw herself in as far as she
could get and sat there, panting and clutching her brushes in her pocket.

"Hey, we made it. Take your time to find your bearings."

Winter blinked rapidly. "I already have my bearings. I know exactly where I am."

"Of course. I meant, regain your calm so you can enjoy the food." I worried I
sounded too condescending, but Winter seemed to take my words at face value
and nodded.

A waiter showed up with our menus and poured some ice water.

I studied Winter furtively when she opened the leather-bound menu and started
looking at it. I soon realized she was reading through the entire thing, and when
the waiter appeared to take our orders and began to list the daily specials, I
interrupted and told him we needed more time.

Closing the menu several minutes later, Winter looked calm again. She wiggled
out of her coat and didn't look like she needed to clutch her brushes anymore.

"So, what are you having?" I motioned at the menu.

"Minestrone soup. Carpaccio. Stuffed portobello mushrooms." She nodded with

emphasis. "I like starters. Small dishes."

I smiled in a way that felt soft and brilliant and completely different from that
teeth-baring growl I'd offered the pesky woman outside for scaring Winter.
"Wonderful. I'll have some soup as well and their famous antipasti platter."

Winter nodded again. "That sounds good also."

I got the waiter's attention and placed both our orders after seeing Winter go
rigid at his presence. Was it because he was a stranger? Or was it the setting?
Winter had never seemed shy or apprehensive with me so that suggested it was
more the situation. Or perhaps the chemistry between us benefitted Winter's
equilibrium? I sipped my water. "I'm so glad the first master class started out
well."

"It was rewarding. I found it interesting to watch the students work without
Maestro Gatti. He's not a good teacher. He..." She looked up against the ceiling
as if searching for words. "He did not allow them their own thoughts or ideas. He
didn't want them to be themselves but to mold them." She regarded me
cautiously.

"You're correct. I know Gatti from before, as you might have understood. He
tried to pass himself off as an Italian maestro and fancied himself as the new
Leonardo da Vinci. I wasn't alone in bursting his bubble, but I helped." I
shrugged. "I guess I can be pretty scathing when I'm angry."

"I never showed him my work. My grandmother always tells me to be careful

who I show my paintings to. She says my heart is in them and I should be
cautious. I don't always understand what she means, but she is right about
Maestro Gatti. He's not trustworthy."

Certainly not with anything containing Winter's heart, I thought grimly as I

envisioned Gatti slashing at the beautiful paintings with his contempt— mainly
because he had enough expertise to see they were amazing and to hate
Winter...My mind slowed to a halt. Could that be one of the reasons he'd been so
horribly venomous toward her? Had he in fact seen some of her pieces and
recognized her talent? Thinking about it, I found it logical but decided not to
share this idea with Winter. It would distress her, I just knew it, and I wanted her
to relax and enjoy the food.

After eating our soup in silence, Winter dug into her carpaccio with enthusiasm.
She might not be so capable of expressing her emotions verbally, but I found
nothing obscure about the way she enjoyed her food. She hummed around the
first bite, looking so beautiful when she did, I lost my breath. I guessed her
beauty wasn't of the type that turned heads for being overtly sexy or sensuous.
Instead, she possessed a quiet loveliness that grew with each moment, and it
certainly pulled me in.

The expression 'moth to a flame' came to mind, and I tried to backpedal. My

presence in Winter's life was that of a mentor, perhaps a future business
associate. No matter how the muted light in the remote booth ignited hidden
highlights in her hair or her full lips closed around her fork in such a way it made
me think of kisses, I had to focus on what was best for Winter. I was great at
business and sucked at relationships. That was the bottom line. I could not
regard this woman in a romantic or, God forbid, sexual context. Her life was
challenging as it was.

Winter picked this moment to look up at me quizzically. "Is something wrong

with your antipasti?" She pointed at it with her fork.

"Oh. Oh! I'm sure it's fine. I got lost there for a bit."

"But you're here. You've been here the whole time." Winter frowned. "Yes.
You're right." I speared a piece of salami and added a large green olive to my
fork. Chewing on them, I could tell they were delicious, but I really didn't care. I
couldn't look away from Winter, and I understood I was in trouble. I needed to
snap out of this unwelcome bout of attraction and enter damage-control mode.