Free What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One by Mara Purl Page A

folks would just hate this place. At the very least, Mother would have “suggestions” about how to “improve” it
.
    She pushed the thought away, eager to stay in the embrace of the new life she was creating for herself. People here knew her only from what they saw of her and her canvases. With nocumbersome history to get in the way, friendships could be formed purely on their own merit. The smallness of the town was a constant delight to her, as was the fact that the citizens seemed to have at least some sense of the preciousness of the pristine coastal environment.
One of my passions
.
    She watched as a jay swept gracefully down from a high branch to land on the deck railing outside her window.
Nature in its glory… our precious planet… the only one we have
. She’d had the argument with her parents time and again, and never once won it. They had their points down pat: recycling was for
other
people; emissions regulations would ruin the economy; new technologies would succeed when could they prove themselves financially; reports of global warming were exaggerated.
Why do they believe these lies? Why can’t they see what I see?
    Again she shoved aside the argument, reaching inside for the sense of purpose that’d brought her here.
I have something to give
. And what she couldn’t bestow in daughterly affection to her parents, she could freely and joyfully give to strangers through her paintings.
    She went to any and every length to imbue her work with accuracy. If it meant traveling through treacherous country or venturing on the high seas, she did it without so much as a heartbeat of hesitation.
    That’s another thing that drove her parents crazy, always forcing her sister to play the diplomat.
I hate having to explain myself. Meredith does it so much better
. Authentic detail in her work was critical. What was so hard to understand about that?
    Yet the research was just part of the process. The source of it—the center, as she liked to call it—that was the mystery, andthe joy.
In that quiet place there’s a power. That’s what my home really provides
. And after her sometimes-dangerous travels, she’d wanted a centered place to call home, where she could always return, to let that truth flow through the end of her paintbrush.
    She’d chosen to rent this house—actually the left side of a duplex—because of the large upstairs room. The moment she’d seen it, she’d known this would be her studio. The light was perfect—pristine northern exposure all morning, warm northwestern hues in the afternoon. The wall of picture windows offered a panorama of the coastline winking through a protected band of mature pines. And she’d have ample room for her supplies.
It’s the most perfect workspace I’ve ever had
.
    Not only had she fallen in love with the studio, she loved the whole place. She’d spent several weeks in an exuberant, newfound domesticity, surprising herself by drawing floor plans for furniture, playing with color samples, and designing shelf units, which Kevin had later built for her. Rather than settling for temporary furnishings, she’d held out until things came into focus, sleeping with only her mattress on the floor till she’d found the right bed, painting each room a different shade—sometimes more than once—and playing with fabric swatches for sofa and chairs, comforter and pillows.
    The special quilt from her sister had been one perfect addition to her new home, a moving-away gift she now thought of as her one house-warming present. Miranda would never have ordered it for herself—a quilt featuring cotton squares printed with images of her own landscapes. But now, cleverly stitched into a puffy comforter, with colors that perfectly complemented her decor, she treasured it not only for itsconnection to Mer, but as an element of self-expression.
    Over these past nine months, it’s like my whole life became an art project
, she mused.
One I haven’t finished
. In fact, there