Just as I had promised Olivia, I started painting her, but only if she agreed to sit for me. I didn't want to refer to photographs simply because she didn't mind sitting for me anyway. Sitting for me also gave me the opportunity to catch the many ways the light from the beach played upon her face and her hair, something that a camera would never have captured.

The first few days were a bit awkward, with Olivia not knowing how to sit and relax and with me not exactly knowing what I really wanted to capture until I saw it. She had such an expressive face, but I didn't want to paint an animated, bright-eyed Olivia Firelli, once the wife of an up-and-coming race car driver, always entertaining guests. I wanted to paint the real Olivia, the one who would look at her daughter the way only a mother could and in that look, convey the courage she had to muster to wake up each morning knowing the man she loved, the father of her child, was gone.

By the second week, I found the Olivia I wanted to paint, between the frequent breaks she had to take to nurse Bella as she remained seated on the giant armchair I had positioned by the window. And in the end, that was the Olivia I painted - the widowed mother and the child in her arms, the wistfulness in her eyes masking the courage to keep on living.

Bella would never know her father, I thought, though she inherited his dark hair and green eyes. And each time Olivia looked at her, I could see the man she saw, the man who had left her too soon. It made me cry just watching them both, mother and daughter, sitting on the massive chair that I had positioned by the glass sliding doors, the only spot to catch the light that I wanted.

I was grateful for the easel and canvas that stood between us, hiding my tears. They were not tears of pity, shed for the ones left behind, the ones who had to keep on living, but for the courage that they both exuded, especially Olivia. Maybe they were really tears for myself, I thought, at my own weakness for folding so easily, while others like Olivia, couldn't really afford to.

They sat for three hours that morning, and another two hours the following weekend. If Erik was home, he made sure not to disturb me though the signs that he'd been in the studio became more evident since I started painting Olivia.

It began with three brand new canvasses waiting for me the following Friday, accompanied by an almost undecipherable note. Erik wrote that one of his patients owned an art supply store, and that the canvasses were payment for a consultation over an eczema breakout. Or at least that's what the scribbles seemed to say.

The note was charming, his inscrutable handwriting making me think I was deciphering some ancient scroll of unknown origin. So this was probably the reason why patients ended up with the wrong prescriptions, I thought wryly. Erik needed to take a class in handwriting. Still, it was a cute gesture, and I thanked him for his trouble, leaving him a note saying so. I also told him that I was going to keep an accounting of such 'gifts' so I would not owe him more than I already did.

The following morning, a note was waiting for me along with two more canvasses and a set of camel-hair brushes.

The patient gave me a choice of tamales or canvasses this time. I've been eating tamales for the past four weeks as word has gone out that I enjoy them. So I am getting more tamales than my figure can handle. Enjoy your canvasses, and please do not worry about the cost. I'd no sooner eat a canvas than another tamale, although they are really very good. - Erik

It was cute but I still wasn't going to accept them for free, tallying the number of canvasses and other gifts in my leather journal. I slipped his latest note between the pages, grinning at his attempt to draw a tamale.

Thank you for your gifts. I am going to enjoy the FIVE (5) canvasses and the TWO (2) brushes very much. But that doesn't mean I won't be keeping a record of them, however, did you know that you can freeze tamales for future eating? Just letting you know as I notice that you have a freezer in the garage. - Sam

If Erik had some strategy aimed at getting me to like him more than I already did, it was working. Though I enjoyed the quiet hours painting by myself after Olivia finished each sitting, Erik's notes left me giddy with anticipation. I could not wait for Friday to come, eager to see what note was waiting for me. Sometimes it was another canvas, or a brush set, even acrylic paints. Sometimes, it was just a note to say he hoped I was enjoying my day.

I hadn't seen or heard him since that night Serena came to the house. I had often wondered what happened after I left. How did he get her out of the house? Or, how did her get her to calm down? Did she end up staying the night? Did he back down and take pity on her tears, an embrace that would end up as more than just an embrace? Did they end up in bed? There were so many questions inside my head that I knew I'd never get answers for simply because it was none of my business.

But then I also found myself wondering where he went during those weekends when I was at his house. I hoped he wasn't staying away just to give me the privacy to paint. It was the last thing he needed to do, I thought, for I was the guest in his house, not him. But then, I reminded myself that Erik did whatever he wanted to do.

Besides, his absence did not affect me for I had nothing to compare it with. Had I had a history with Erik before getting the studio, I might have felt a difference. But even if there was a difference, it didn't matter. His notes made up for his absences, and I realized that it almost felt like a flirtation between us. But whatever it was, it gave my old cynical heart a boost that I knew even Rosie would have been proud of me, wherever she was.

I hear you've been hiding inside the studio all weekend. But just so you know, you are welcome to the rest of the house. You don't have to limit yourself to your little cavern. - Erik

My little cavern is perfect. Thank you for your concern. I do have a fear of ogres with red hair. - Sam

For your information, I am not an ogre, though I have red hair. It's not THAT red though. Maybe I should dye it blonde. Are you into blondes? - Erik.

P.S. There are a dozen tamales in the freezer

Even David became suspicious. And as he came by that Friday afternoon to pick up Michael, he had the nerve to ask me if I'd started drinking again.

"You do know you can't touch that stuff anymore, Sam," he said.

"And you do know that I'm not as stupid as I look," I retorted, earning a hard look from him in return.

"Are you seeing anyone?" He asked.

Even if I were, I wouldn't be telling you, I almost said. I shook my head, forcing myself to smile. "No, I'm just running and working out more, that's all."

David tightened the buckles of Michael's car seat and looked at me, his eyes moving down to my bare legs. I was getting ready to jog along the Strand, the weather having turned cool enough for a run. It was also the first time I was running in shorts, finally feeling brave enough to do so.

"I was just going to say that you've lost some weight, Sam," he said, taking a step forward towards me as I took a step back. It was the same old dance between us, and it was getting old. "You're looking good. Maybe we could jog together one of these days."

I pretended not to hear him, choosing instead to kiss Michael good-bye even as he reached for my hair and stroked it, his finger landing on the nape of my neck. "Be good, Michael, okay? I'll see you on Sunday afternoon."

"Oh yeah, that," David said, as if he just remembered something, taking a step back to give me room to move out of the way of the door. "I need to drop Mikey off on Sunday morning. I've got to fly out to Las Vegas for a conference."

I frowned. I'd been looking forward to finishing Olivia's painting by Sunday, each day's delay making me more anxious. I was never one to have many pieces going at the same time like other painters were able to do. I loved capturing a mood, an impression, then maintaining it for weeks and months if I had to. Strands had taken me eight months to complete, not just because of the various details of each subject I painted, but because of its size. I still remembered how it filled up the whole wall of the garage as I worked on it.

"What time are you flying out?" I asked.

"My flight leaves at ten, so I need to drop him off by eight at the latest," he said. "I could even drop him off tomorrow evening, if that works out for you."

"Sunday is fine," I said quickly, shutting the passenger door and turning to face David. "I thought we talked about this, David, that if you had plans, I need to know weeks ahead so I can plan ahead as well. And even if you told me ahead of time, it wouldn't mean that it's okay."

"I only learned about the conference the other day, Sam. Jeez, lighten up, will you?"

I sighed, shaking my head. "That's alright, David. Eight o'clock on Sunday will be fine."

"You'll be home, right?" He asked as he walked around the car and opened the driver side door.

"Of course, I'll be home," I said, stepping away from the curb. "Where else would I be?"

He shrugged. "I don't know. Your boyfriend's house maybe?"

I watched him drive away, frowning. If there were two words to describe David, it was "passive aggressive", which often left me constantly on guard. I pulled out my phone and typed in a note to remind me about Sunday, and quickly made preparations for my run before it got too late.

But even my late afternoon run couldn't stop the anxiety from building. David's last words bothered me. Was he following me? Had he seen me through the glass windows of Erik's house?

If he knew I was spending my weekends there, then it would make sense that he'd assume I was seeing somebody. Still, it was none of his business what I did with my time since we were no longer married.

It didn't matter how he was going to do it, but David had always threatened to have my juvenile record reopened. My juvenile antics had happened so long ago, I barely even remembered what I'd done then. But his threats were enough to make me feel paranoid, and with everything he'd done to me in the past, his threats were far from empty.

And one thing that living with David had taught me - it also didn't take much to get David angry. Not much at all.

That evening, though I had planned on working on Olivia's painting overnight, I stayed home. I planned on jogging to Erik's house instead, in case he was following me. I only had a few more hours' worth of painting to do on Olivia's painting anyway, and then I'd be ready to move to on to other projects. Already I had sketched a few things while on the beach. The lifeguard tower, the pier and the gorgeous houses along the Strand. Limited-run prints of such subjects were always bestsellers among the locals.

As I looked through my art journal as I lay in bed, Erik's notes tumbled down. I smiled as I rolled onto my belly to decipher each note, each one still looking like some ancient script.

You said my handwriting sucks. I'm a doctor. What did you expect? - Erik

Today I picked up a kindergarten notepad from the store. What on earth is cursive? Just kidding. But I've taken your advice to heart. I will try to be more legible next time. Either that, or maybe you could come out of your cavern for once and we could talk instead of forcing me to write legibly. My hand cramped yesterday, by the way. - Erik

There was something about the growing familiarity of Erik's notes that made me wonder what he was really thinking. The notes seemed to make up for the lack of physical interaction between us, and it seemed that he knew more about me than he let on. Maybe Rosie had told him things about me that went beyond my painting, I thought. For why else would he have offered me the studio to begin with?

Still, maybe it was for the best that we stayed with playful notes and nothing else. Let him be busy with his work, while I focused on painting again. Wasn't that why I took the studio? So I could start painting again in a safe environment? Who knows? Maybe I'd be able to regain more than just that light I once had in my paintings?

Who knows? Maybe I'd even find the courage to move on from David, and stop being afraid of my past all the time. And of that, I was hopeful. I had no other choice.