long-awaited, and much desired, love - Senses of Love Series by Kyle Shoop

"Easy five stars! I'm a big reader (both romance and other fiction) and absolutely loved his new book! [...] An addictive, timeless new series rivaling the storytelling of the great Nicholas Sparks." Rachel, Goodreads

Description:

The Sound of Love (#1) 

Words than can't be spoken can still be sung.

Sometimes the most beautiful relationships between two individuals blossom from moments of tragedy. 

Charlotte and John grew up as young orphans in the secluded outskirts of a rural town. Each day, they’d sneak out to the nearby forest to escape the cold grasp of the orphanage’s tyrant-ruler, by creating an imaginary kingdom together. However, their worlds, and the safety that came from their friendship, were suddenly ripped apart when they got caught. 

Years later, Charlotte conquered the marketing world in downtown Portland. Having gained normalcy in her life since her days in the orphanage, Charlotte never expected her world to be turned upside down by John abruptly being thrust back into her life. 

However, the years since the orphanage had not at all been kind to John, leaving him unable to open up to Charlotte about the details. So, she reignites John’s love for playing music, finding that his songwriting is the only way to help him express what he otherwise has difficulty saying. But in doing so, the reunited couple discovers that John’s love for music may not have been the only fire waiting to be rekindled. 

Would what began as two children playing in the woods in the heart of tragedy blossom into long-awaited, and much desired, love? 

EXCERPT

TOUR SCHEDULE

Chapter 1

One of the common tragedies in life is seeing the world

around you degrade as time forges on. Eventually age may not

be seen as an accomplishment, but instead an unyielding

reminder that life will never again be as you once knew it. The

places that used to remind you of home subtly change with time

into a rustic ruin of familiarity. Those scenic images enshrined

as memories of significant moments in your life fade along with

your recollection of those memories. In time, the past that you

may have once cherished as treasured or ideal eventually

becomes an unrelenting reminder that the future will be a lot

less memorable.

But not for Charlotte – not at all. For her, the past was

not cherished, nor was it memorable. Rather, she had often

gone to excruciating lengths to forget her past. Once, she

stumbled upon a photograph in the newspaper of where she’d

grown up. Whether out of retaliation or an instinct for survival,

she set it afire, hoping that any memories she still had of the

place would also dissipate into the air along with the ashes of

the photograph. She then cancelled her newspaper subscription.

Charlotte’s life was the antithesis of human nature.

Indeed, it was the antithesis of nature itself. In college, she’d

learned about a law of nature called entropy. Under this law,

everything loses energy and degrades over time. Matter falls

away from each other into a lesser, more-chaotic state of

existence. Charlotte instantly rejected this idea and consciously

determined at that moment to do everything within her power

to avoid this from occurring in her life. She had to. If she was

to allow entropy to occur at all for her, then she might as well

be homeless. This is because homelessness was the natural step

from where she’d grown up.

So, rather than embracing the hopelessness of the natural

trajectory of her life, Charlotte instead did everything she could

to succeed. She declared a major at that same college, naturally

science. She then spent all of her time holed up in the campus

library focusing on educational success instead of allowing

herself to succumb to the temporary happiness that the other

girls sought in relationships or friendships. At nineteen years

old, she was the youngest person in her college’s graduating

undergraduate class. But nineteen was much too young to be

able to seriously jump into the workforce with any ability to

earn the salary that she knew she deserved, and which would be

necessary to pursue the financial successes that she thought

she’d earned. With her hard work, Charlotte became married to

the fact that she was deserving of a successful life. Not because

she was entitled to it or even belonged in that social arena, but

because she knew that she could attain it. She knew that she

was worth it, even if the laws of nature disagreed. And she was

willing to sacrifice all other aspects of her life to obtain what

she knew nature did not want her to achieve.

For this reason, Charlotte declared her graduate degree in

marketing rather than science. She was not naive; she knew she

somehow lucked out in being attractive. If there was one thing

gifted to her from birth, she recognized that was it. With her

tall, gracefully slender appearance, Charlotte also knew she’d

easily get an entry-level position in almost any marketing firm in

any large city. And once she got it with her looks, she was

confident that she’d then be able to impress the decisionmakers

with her wit and hard work to quickly reach maximum

earning potential. This is what she desired, but also what she’d

strived so hard to achieve to avoid entropy. Always, in the back

of her consciousness, was the self-doubt that she actually

belonged in the company of those decision-makers. She truly

believed that nature had selected her trajectory as eventually

being homeless, and she had cheated it.

Perhaps that was why she despised her short, daily

commute to her downtown office at the marketing firm which

she’d chosen to conquer. She wasn’t sure why she’d chosen

Portland for where she’d begin her career. Perhaps it was

because the city was up-and-coming and becoming modern.

Perhaps it was because the idea of conquering a larger city like

Chicago or Los Angeles was too daunting. Or perhaps it was

because of its close proximity to where she was originally from

in Battle Ground, Washington. That’s right – she grew up in a

battle ground, in all senses of the word.

But location had nothing to do with why she loathed her

drive to and from her office each day. Rather, that had

everything to do with Pioneer Square.

It was necessary to drive by some corner of Pioneer

Square to reach her building located just across the street from

the corner of that depressing city center. So, it was inevitable

that her morning each day would begin with seeing the

multitude of homeless men and women that congregated at

Pioneer Square. And at the end of a long work day, her evening

every night would conclude the same way as her day had begun

– by driving by that same dreadful square.

If Portland and its suburbs were becoming the modern,

happening location for young adults, then that modernization

was forcing the area’s homeless into the middle of the city. And

that middle was Pioneer Square. It didn’t matter if it was the

heat of summer or the dead-cold of winter, there were always

homeless people using Pioneer Square as their temporary home.

But it wasn’t actually the homeless individuals themselves

that Charlotte despised. Indeed, over the past year, she had

become visually familiar with the regulars. She began to

recognize many of their faces, and even looked forward to

seeing them throughout the week – so as to provide her with

the assurance that they were surviving despite the difficult

circumstances that they’d been given in life.

Over time, she’d recognize faces disappear from the

corner. It was sporadic and random with who would disappear,

and Charlotte never knew why. She began making stories up

about what the disappearing faces’ fates were, even though it

was just a ruse to shield her from reality. She’d imagine that

some of them decided to travel to other, larger cities – hoping

to start over anew there. Others were found by distant relatives

and provided an opportunity to improve their situation. And a

lucky few were fortunate to have found a selfless stranger who

would gift them with a new life – as if they had won the lottery.

Maybe one or two of them even struck it luckier and found

someone from a wealthier class to start their life with anew,

who saw them for who they really were on the inside despite

their unfortunate life circumstances.

Though these were all fantastical stories Charlotte would

imagine about complete strangers, they were all made up

dreams to avoid what she knew was the likely outcome of

several of the unfortunate individuals who had stopped

congregating at Pioneer Square. It would seem to many that

being homeless is the low point in life, but Charlotte knew that

the majority of people would stop being at Pioneer Square for

just that reason – because the loss of life was the natural next

step from homelessness under the law of entropy. And if

Charlotte knew that she really belonged on that street corner

among her true peers, then she knew what the forces of nature

really wanted her ultimate fate to be. She was determined, at all

costs, to avoid this.

But on this cold, late January evening, Charlotte sat in her

warm, luxurious car on her way home. The stop light seemed to

linger on red longer than normal. The hue of the red light

pulsed behind the backdrop of snow being wiped off of her

windshield repeatedly from the cascading rate at which it fell.

The rhythm of the windshield wiper seemed as if it would never

end, and Charlotte’s internal pull toward Pioneer Square

intensified. As if drawn by natural instinct, she peered at the

square just to the right of her stopped car, wondering which of

the familiar homeless she would see battling to brave the bitter

cold that night.

Then she saw him. A new face. Actually, two new faces.

But it wasn’t the fact that there were two new faces which

ignited her impulse to immediately get out of her car. One of

those faces was a first for her. One of those faces was a

homeless child.

Chapter 2

The image was seared into her mind, and the internal pull

toward the square’s corner intensified. She had never before

seen a homeless child – on any street, let alone at Pioneer

Square.

It wasn’t the shock of seeing the child that struck a chord

most with Charlotte. Rather, it was an image in her mind that

she couldn’t escape. Flooding into her mind was the

unwelcome memory of herself being homeless on a corner at

the same young age. Nothing could ever block the memory of

sitting shivering in the snow with no hope for the future – let

alone each passing minute that made her more terrified of what

the deathly cold evening on the street corner would bring. Five

years old was too young for a girl to be put in that situation –

unless it was what the scoffing desires of fate craved. But then

it happened. A simple act by a stranger. The act was so simple

that even the stranger probably wouldn’t remember it all these

years later. But it meant the world to her. Indeed, it gave

Charlotte the world, as without the grace of that stranger while

she was so young, Charlotte knew that she would have been left

braving the night on a cold, snowy street corner just like the

child before her eyes now. Without the act of that stranger, the

cold grip of entropy would have surely sealed her fate so long

ago.

The image looming large in Charlotte’s mind suddenly

became reality when it was interrupted by a car horn behind

her. Charlotte looked up to see that the light had now turned

green. Panic unexpectedly set in. She didn’t want to leave this

situation, but also didn’t want to make a decision that could

somehow be contrary to the trajectory she had chosen, and

worked so hard for in life. In an instant, she was conflicted. She

didn’t want to do something to allow fate to know that she

recognized she was cheating it. But at the same time, she did

not want the young child to never receive that same simple act

from a stranger.

With the blare of another horn from behind her, the

whim of Charlotte’s stronger instinct won. She owed that

stranger from long ago her life, and tonight she was going to

repay that debt. She quickly pulled to the shoulder of the road

right next to the cold street corner on which the child lay.

She decided to give the child her warm coat. That was it.

Charlotte felt guilty for it not being an act of the same

magnitude which the stranger did for her so long ago, but she

justified her decision of giving the coat as being all that would

be needed for tonight. Then, if she still saw the child on the

street the next night, she might decide to do what the stranger

had done for her. Besides, this child wasn’t alone out there like

she was all those years ago. An adult was with this child. Her

situation was different than this child’s.

“It’s just a coat. That’s all.” Charlotte actually said out

loud to herself as she got out of her car and into the frigid night

air. At the moment she realized she said the words aloud,

Charlotte was instantly angry at herself. Not for the decision

she was making to give the child the adult-sized warm winter

coat she was wearing. Instead, she was mad that, for the first

time in a long time, she had actually verbalized the internal

struggle she had with fate. And now fate could hear that she

knew it existed.

But she had made the decision. Charlotte was going to do

something to help the child. If she changed her mind now, then

fate would know it had leverage over her. Charlotte was not

about to let that happen.

She approached the street corner, with the intent to make

this a quick transaction. But as she approached the child and

the adult, Charlotte instantly knew her plan wasn’t going to

work out. The scene was not at all as she imagined. Quicker and

quicker her mind raced in a panic as she tried to figure out what

to do on this deathly-cold night.

The child was on the corner, shivering and huddling into

the adult as much as he could to find warmth. But the adult was

not moving. And as she got closer, Charlotte noticed that it was

a man – also not wearing a warm coat and obviously

unprepared for the freezing night. As she drew even closer, she

noticed the man was not moving. The shock of seeing the man

as still and pale as ice made her run up to him.

“Hello?” Charlotte said, as she shook his shoulder. “Wake

up!” At the sound of Charlotte’s yell, the child barely moved

due to how cold he was. Instead, his young eyes just opened

and moved in Charlotte’s direction, silently pleading for help. A

coat was not going to help this situation. But Charlotte still

didn’t hesitate to start with that – to protect the young boy

from even a second more of the freezing.

As she laid the coat over the boy’s icicle arms, she heard

the adult man moan from underneath the veil of his cheek-long

hair covering his face. The moan was weak, but it was still

something nonetheless. The frail and fragile sound was enough

to give Charlotte a glimmer of hope that the man could still

make it out of this situation alive.

She looked around, hoping someone else would come up

and help. Nothing. No one was passing by on the sidewalk at

this late hour. She ran over to the corner, trying to hail a car to

stop with her arms outstretched. Car after car slowed or

stopped at the streetlight, and she tried desperately to get

someone to help her with this dire situation. But car after car

pretended to be too busy to even notice her. Even the

passengers avoided eye contact, not realizing that she wasn’t

actually among the homeless who routinely dwelled on the

street corner. Undoubtedly, they were unable to distinguish her

from the usual occupants of Pioneer Square, so many of them

passed by without even really noticing that she was there.

Charlotte felt it. She felt the cold grasp of fate trying to

wrangle her back to where she belonged. The memory of

herself on a street corner on such a similar night stung like an

icicle shard piercing into her veins. The same thing wasn’t going

to happen to the two frozen people by her. Not tonight. She

knew that she must do the same thing that the stranger did for

her so many years ago – take a chance and bring them home for

the evening. Home to a warm apartment, a full meal, and good

night sleep. Then, in the morning they would pursue options at

a better opportunity for the boy and the man – whatever their

relationship was.

This is what that stranger did for Charlotte. Instead of just

giving her a coat, that old man realized that Charlotte needed

something more. She needed a home, even if just for one night.

And she still remembered that night. She remembered being

laid down on a comforter so soft that as she closed her eyes,

she imagined being in a bed of clouds. And the feeling of just

laying on a mattress was so foreign that she felt like a princess

as she drifted off to sleep. The warmth of the blankets wrapped

around and welcomed her to the promise that life maybe wasn’t

as bad as she thought it was. She had asked for a small lamp to

be left on while she fell asleep because she didn’t yet trust the

dark – let alone any person. But she trusted the stranger

because he gave her what she needed most that evening – a

home. All of these memories were much more than the distant

past to Charlotte – they were reality, and she used them for

motivation to avoid entropy.

She remembered that, in the morning, she woke up

without the aches and knots that she always felt from sleeping

on a concrete sidewalk or the compacted ground in a park. She

remembered being more thankful to the old stranger than he

even seemed to understand. And when he turned her over to

child services the next day, she understood and was beyond

grateful. At five years old herself, she didn’t even have a clue

that such a thing existed, and just initially felt fortunate to have

some kind of a bed every night. Even though that feeling would

dissipate the longer that she lived in the orphanage, she always

remained grateful to the stranger. She owed that stranger

everything. And though these memories all flashed before

Charlotte’s eyes in an instant, she knew that these two people

now in front of her needed that same opportunity. It would

take more than a coat.

She wasn’t going to get any help from the many people

who drove by. She considered calling for an ambulance, but this

man needed help now and not in thirty minutes. Because every

minute that passed could be the man’s last breath, Charlotte

made the decision in an instant to do it alone. She ran back to

the man lying frozen on the ground. He was obviously on the

brink of succumbing to hypothermia, so Charlotte placed her

hand on his chest to feel for any movement at all. It was barely

there, but there was still enough to indicate that he was alive.

She moved her large coat so that it better covered both

the boy and the man, trying to give him some protection from

the cold as well. In doing so, she rolled the man from being

curled up on his side, to lying flat on his back. She moved a box

that was next to the man on the sidewalk out of the way, so as

to give him more space.

As she moved him, the man’s cheek-length, curly hair still

lay draped over his face. But it was the lack of any reaction by

the man to being moved that made Charlotte even more

disheartened. More of the man was now on the sidewalk and he

didn’t even seem to notice or have any reaction to this new

position. His situation was more dire than she expected. But

with the man now lying on his back, she was able to try to give

him mouth-to-mouth, hoping that her warm air would

somehow help reignite him. She moved up and leaned over his

head. As she bent over to blow into the man, she glanced at the

young boy right beside them, to check his condition. The coat

seemed to be helping, as the boy now was moving more than

before. This was the hope that Charlotte needed. She moved

some of the man’s long hair from over his mouth and began to

blow into the stranger.

Charlotte was cold, and nothing about her breathes were

abnormally warm. But she knew that her temperature was still

much warmer than the frigid condition of the man underneath

her. She blew and she blew, over and over, watching the man’s

chest rise and fall each time. What felt like several minutes

passed and the man still had no reaction. Charlotte continued

on, despite the frozen temperature and her physical fatigue

starting to set in. With each blow, she imagined what the boy

needed. The boy needed this man, whoever he was. This gave

her purpose and strength with each passing moment. She

wasn’t just doing this to somehow pay forward what had been

done to her when she was a child – she was now doing this

because another child depended on this man.

Several more moments passed, and still there was no

reaction from the man. Charlotte needed a break – she

physically could not continue on any longer without one. She

stopped, and folded her arms to cover them from the cold. She

couldn’t help but wonder what she should do, if she should

continue on. The guilt of not having previously called for an

ambulance came to mind, and she decided she had no other

option but to continue on.

She kneeled again to blow into the man’s mouth, but

stopped short when a piece of his hair returned over his mouth.

This time, when she moved his hair, it revealed his eyes.

Instantly, Charlotte lost her breath. The sight of the stranger’s

eyes was as stinging to her as the cold was outside. She knew

the man.

With even more motivation than before, Charlotte’s

strength returned. She leaned over again and blew into his

mouth. But just once was all it took this time. He gasped for air

and slowly opened his eyes, staring straight up.

“Hey, John.” Charlotte said with a smile, while brushing

the rest of his hair aside. “I need you to wake up for me, John.”

Charlotte commanded, seeking to give him strength.

John made a faint sound, as if he was still figuring out

what was happening.

“John, listen to me. This is Charlotte. Charlotte from

Cross Roads orphanage.”

John made another sound. Though it wasn’t decipherable,

Charlotte was just thrilled that he was responding to her.

“John, I need you to walk now. I’m going to take you to a

safe place, ok? Some place warm. But I need you to walk – I

can’t carry you on my own.”

“…. Jack …” John feebly said, the word being exhaled

with his short breath so soft that it took a moment for

Charlotte to understand what must have been said.

Figuring that he was talking about the young boy huddled

under her coat, Charlotte replied, “Yes, Jack’s here too. I’m

going to carry him to my car and come back for you. When I

return, I need you to walk. I’ll be right back.”

Carrying the boy was not the difficulty. Rather, choosing

whether to take the coat to the car with Jack or leave it for John

was much more difficult. But she left it over John, figuring that

the warmth of the running car would have to do for the young

boy. When she placed Jack in the rear of her car, he cracked a

smile before closing his eyes again to drift off to sleep. This

glimmer of hope that one of them appeared ok was instant

motivation for Charlotte to return back to John.

Charlotte was now much more elated at how John was

doing from his condition just a couple minutes prior. He was

now trying to raise up on his frozen legs, which appeared so

unresponsive that it looked like he was trying to stand up for

the first time on stilts. Charlotte rushed over and put her

shoulder under John’s arm to help him balance.

“Charlotte?” He asked, still very weak, but in a muchimproved

tone.

Charlotte couldn’t tell if John had a question for her, or if

he was repeating the name because he couldn’t remember who

she was.

“Yes, Charlotte from Cross Roads orphanage. You

remember Cross Roads, right? We were so young then.”

“Jack.” John stated, with only Jack on his mind. “Take me

to Jack.”

Charlotte didn’t hesitate. She let John put as much weight

on her as she could handle, and hobbled over to her car. The

whole time she honestly didn’t know what to think. Fifteen

minutes ago, she never would have guessed that she’d be

bringing the man and child back to her apartment for the

evening. But knowing it was John made all the difference in the

world. If she had known it was John at the corner from the

beginning, then bringing them back to her place would have

been her plan all along.

She opened the door to the rear of her car, and helped

John lay on the seat right beside the young boy. Charlotte sat

behind the driver’s wheel and exhaled out loud. She looked in

the rear-view mirror at the two guys in her back seat, and for

the first time, was amazed at who was sitting back there. It was

John – after all these years. Though she should have felt

nervous about the situation due to their dire health and the

completely unexpected turn of events, John’s next words

provided her comfort beyond words.

“Charlotte?” John asked weakly.

Charlotte’s glance shot back to the rearview mirror again,

to find John staring straight back at her. He said one last thing

before closing his eyes to also fall asleep.

“I remember you.”

Goodreads ** Amazon

The Sight of Love (#2) 

Does love at first sight exist when love is blind? 

Ethan was born to paint. His pursuit of beauty and meaning through art was the only thing his heart desired above all else. Until he met Rose. 

It was love at first sight. A love which was as inspiring and captivating as the delicate life which radiated from a fresh rose. Her sight intoxicating. Her personality angelic. Her love instantaneous and unselfish. 

But was that love enough to last a lifetime? Art often requires sacrifice. But Ethan’s life wasn’t just full of sacrifice for his passion, it would become marked with significant loss. An unforeseeable loss beyond his control and undercutting all which he sought in life. 

Each moment of life is just a brush stroke in a larger painting. Would the love between Ethan and Rose be just the first brush stroke, or instead the reason to keep painting? 

Experience the second book in the compelling “Senses of Love” series. 

EXCERPT

TOUR SCHEDULE

Chapter 1

The key is not in the light, it’s in the darkness. The shadows. Sometimes it’s in the shadows where true beauty is hidden. Indeed, without accurate shadowing, the depth of a painting may not truly be felt, no matter how perfectly the lighting is depicted. It’s the dichotomy between light and dark which allows the fullness of the image to be revealed. Ethan recognized this at an unusually young age and, at first, spent much of his time perfecting the shadowing of his paintings. 

He began painting young, having learned basic techniques by tracing the outlines of other famous works. He never really stopped to analyze why he was so fiercely drawn into being an artist. As Ethan got older, he’d think about kids who were naturally gifted with the ability to sing, and figured that they were just born knowing that singing was their calling in life.

Ethan was a little different though. Looking back, he didn’t see himself as being gifted from birth with the ability to paint. And he didn’t see painting as his only calling in life. Rather, he just knew that he really wanted to do it. Always. He couldn’t remember a time where he wasn’t studying other painters, practicing it, or actually painting a commission. He just always wanted to paint.

His parents certainly didn’t foster this skill in him, but thinking about his parents was just about the last thing Ethan ever wanted to do. He’d rather have watched an infant draw with mashed up peas instead of think about his parents. At least something compelling might randomly appear from the chaos of smeared peas, whereas his relationship with his parents was the antithesis of compelling.

Though Ethan was always intrigued by visual arts, his desire to actually try painting began at only eight years old. He’d managed to sneak from his parents that he was going to try painting. He’d find copies of famous works and hide them in

his room, tracing the outlines when the rest of his family left him alone – which was often. Pretty soon after he started with tracings, he full-on painted rudimentary recreations. It took quite some time, but these recreations peaked with a miniature, but substantially similar, recreation of Vincent van Gogh’s The Starry Night. From afar, an amateur wouldn’t have noticed the difference between the original painting and Ethan’s recreation.

By the time he finished it, he was only nine years old. But despite manifesting such a unique talent for mimicking the iconic painting at such a young age, that was the last time Ethan ever did a recreation. This was simply because the painting didn’t challenge him enough. 

He’d spent months studying the original classic’s brush strokes and mixtures of coloring in the paints. He was obviously significantly more advanced in his attention to detail than even teenage painting enthusiasts. But it wasn’t Van Gogh’s actual painting style which he didn’t find challenging enough. Definitely not. He loved that famous painting -everything about it. Rather, it was the fact that he didn’t create it himself. As much as he admired several famous paintings, Ethan quickly learned that mirroring another artist’s work was just not compelling enough for him.

Still, he learned much from his hands-on study of shadowing in The Starry Night. The shadows in that famous work seemed so simple and overlooked at first. He knew that the average eye would be drawn to the light from the swirling glow of the night sky. But Ethan recognized right away that it was the contrast between those lights and the shadowing of the earth below which allowed the word “beautiful” to accurately convey emotions that were aroused from staring at that great work of art. At only nine, Ethan barely even knew what “beautiful” meant, since he rarely ever heard his parents speak anything close to it. But, still, the first time he saw the painting, “beautiful” was the only word that somehow instinctively came to mind.

And Ethan wanted to arouse that same feeling of beauty in others – only, from his own creations. 

Unfortunately, the impressionist style depicted from Van Gogh’s painting would not be the artistic style he would use to evoke such emotion. Besides learning the importance of shadowing from it, there was one other prominent thing that stood out to Ethan from his tedious recreation of The Starry Night: impressionism was hard to paint!

The impressionist style wasn’t one which depicted a realistic, exacting recreation of a scene. Rather, it used a realistic recreation as a baseline, then sought to focus on the emotion of the scene through a subjective approach. This often resulted in blurred, swirling, or large-brushstroke styles. There really wasn’t a unified mechanism for drawing an impressionist painting.

Rather, if there was a unifying trait, it was to focus on the emotion of a scene instead of how realistic it looked. This often resulted in exaggerated uses of color and style. And this style was just too difficult for Ethan to create. It may have been due to his young age and just starting to cope with emotions, but his intimidation with the style proved a mental hurdle from reattempting to paint an impressionist creation for many years to come.

So eventually, and with the suggestion of a prominent artist whom he lucked into meeting, Ethan switched to a lessprevalent style known simply as romanticism. By the time Ethan was made aware of this style, he was ten years old. So, he was too young to be drawn to the style for any actual romantic aspirations. No, he was drawn into it because of the heightened focus on shadowing which that style more obviously utilized …

and because the first painting he’d seen from the romantic era made him think of Robin Hood! As a ten-year-old, Ethan definitely knew who Robin Hood was, and thought any style of painting that seemed to depict that awesome figure was worthy of his time.

The first romantic painting he had run across was at an art gallery in downtown Atlanta. As was his weekly habit, Ethan would follow his father into the city pretending to want to learn his father’s profession in neurosurgery. Four days a week, his father would study his cases from his office in their upscale house in the rich suburbs of Atlanta. But once a week, on every Friday, his father would travel into the city to meet with his next patient or to actually perform an expensive brain surgery at the hospital. Ethan reveled in that weekly trip to downtown Atlanta – not because he wanted to learn about his father’s profession, but because he utilized the trips as opportunities to study paintings from the local prominent art gallery. The only thing was his parents – and especially his father – didn’t know about these self-guided field trips. Just like he hid his recreations and love for painting from his parents, he kept the purpose of traveling with his father to himself.

Each time his father travelled into the city, Ethan tagged along. He’d feign interest in his father’s profession during the day, which naturally sparked his father’s enthusiasm that his son would follow in his footsteps. His father, Russell Cooley, was a prominent neurosurgeon. Unfortunately, along with this prominence came not only pride, but also an unyielding perspective of practicality. And art – any form of it – is the antithesis of practicality.

This led to deceit by Ethan. Deceit by omission, more specifically. During the morning and later afternoons, Ethan would sit in his father’s study at the hospital, pretending to be interested by the dreariness of the scientific culture upon which medicine was practiced. Painting was the only science that existed to the young boy. Ethan waited and waited for the one hour he had each week to study his own passion. The lunch hour.

Right before noon each day, Russell would hand Ethan enough money for Ethan to go buy them both lunch. Luckily for Ethan, his father ate the same thing each day from the same store. And that restaurant was just down the street from Buckhorn Art Company. This is where the deception manifested. Ethan never ate lunch on Fridays, thus unintentionally embodying the phrase “starving artist” from a young age. Instead, he learned that if he ran down to get his father lunch, then he would normally have about forty minutes to stop by the art gallery before needing to be back at his father’s office at the end of the lunch hour. By not eating, he earned himself another five minutes or so studying all of the classics, as well as some of the modern paintings, hanging in the nearby gallery.

Buckhorn Art Company was not just an art gallery, it was a school. Due to this, the company owner and wellaccomplished local artist, Eugene Turner, kept several halls reserved hanging exact replicas of classical paintings. Eugene charged the public for admission into the gallery. But after a couple of months, he caught onto Ethan’s motive. It wasn’t Ethan’s routine visits which Eugene caught onto first – it was Ethan’s pellucid passion for the art.

This passion manifested immediately the first time that Eugene talked to him about the works of art hanging in the halls with the classic paintings. Those halls were not only a timeline of the evolution of painting, but also a visual depiction of the struggles and triumphs of mankind. 

From their first conversation together, it struck Eugene as peculiar that the first thing Ethan mentioned was the shadowing of a painting. Never before had Eugene ever had someone point out shadowing as their favorite part of any painting, not even from the self-proclaimed professional artists who frequented the distinguished gallery.

“Are you sure – the shadowing?” Eugene asked Ethan.

“Oh, definitely. Look at it!” Ethan responded, fixated on the well-known work of art in front of them. “… but it’s a can of soup.” Eugene was obviously skeptical that anyone could actually find beauty in the shadowing of Andy Warhol’s Campbell’s Soup Can painting.

Ethan started to explain himself, but Eugene wasn’t going to allow it. “Here, follow me.” He was going to test the boy. 

Eugene took Ethan to observe the painting by Edvard Munch entitled The Scream. It was a famous painting that Ethan had stood in front of several times studying the feelings it evoked. Visually, it reminded Ethan of The Starry Night, so he’d naturally been drawn to this similar work many times before.

“What do you like about this painting, huh? What about it moves you?” Eugene intentionally asked the question broadly, trying not to steer the boy towards its shadowing.

“Well, just look at it.” Ethan instantly answered, almost as if he’d studied this painting already so much that he was waiting for someone to ask him about it. “It makes the entire painting, doesn’t it?” He asked rhetorically out loud. The boy was so captivated by the artwork that he didn’t even look at Eugene right next to him.

“What? What makes the painting?” Eugene pressed. 

“It’s the same thing – the shadowing.” There it was. That same answer from such a young boy. Eugene was about to ask for more details about what the boy meant, but he didn’t have to. Ethan couldn’t withhold his enthusiasm for his perspective

of this great work. “I mean – it provides the foundation for the entire painting. It’s only because the body of the person screaming is in the shadows that the scream is felt so intensely.

It’s as though you can hear the scream even though it’s really just a painting. Oh, and the shadowing on the dock provides such depth, making the scream feel real.”

“Okay, just stop.” Eugene interrupted. “Who taught you this?”

“Taught me?” Ethan was confused.

“Boy, have you ever taken an art class before?”

The boy wasn’t sure how to answer. He was embarrassed because he hadn’t. And he thought that the owner of the great Buckhorn Art Company would think less of him because of he lacked an education in the one thing that he wanted so badly.

But the boy didn’t have to answer. Ethan’s pause of silence and look of embarrassment told Eugene enough.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Ethan Cooley.”

“Well, Ethan, my name is …”

But before the man could say his name, Ethan interrupted: “Eugene. I know who you are. I’ve seen your paintings in here – they’re amazing.”

Eugene was even more shocked by how Ethan had observed so much about painting in just the short amount of hours he’d been in the gallery throughout the last couple of months. To Eugene, this wasn’t just a coincidence. This meant something – something which he couldn’t pass up.

Eugene just stared at The Scream for a moment. He wasn’t deciding what he should do next, but how he should do it. When a thought came to him, he instructed the boy: “Here, follow me to this one.”

They both walked down to a different hall, as if rewinding in time a bit to a different stylistic era.

“Ethan, this one is entitled The Kiss, by Francesco

Hayez.”

Ethan just stared, intrigued by it. He’d probably seen it before, but only in a passing moment. He’d always favored the impressionist paintings more than the romantic-era paintings like this one. But, upon really noticing this painting for the first time, something very specific about The Kiss stood out to him.

In the middle of the painting stood a couple kissing in a stone hallway. The woman wore a blue dress, and the man stood over her, passionately embracing her. Again, though, Ethan was too young to be moved by the romantic passion of the couple. Instead, he was interested in it for another reason that was obvious to about any boy his age. The man in the painting had a cape and hat on that looked just like Robin Hood. 

“Wow, that’s so cool …” Ethan said to himself, trailing off in thought as he really studied it for the first time ever.

“And look at the shadowing of the couple. It’s so realistic and well-done.”

“Can you still feel the emotion from the painting just as clear as you can hear the scream in the other one?” Eugene asked.

What Eugene just asked made Ethan pause for a moment. He’d never really considered before that a romantic style painting could depict the same emotion he’d felt from the impressionist paintings. But it did, and he liked it. Even then, there was something even more alluring about this style to Ethan – it would definitely be easier for him to create his own painting in it than the intimidating impressionist style.

“Yes.” Ethan said directly.

“Good, I’m glad you like it.” Eugene remarked.

“But why are you showing it to me?”

“Because, Ethan, I’m personally going to teach you how to paint like it.”

Chapter 2

For as excited as Eugene was to mentor and teach such a

uniquely talented, young boy about the fine art of painting,

Ethan was even more excited to have received the offer.

Ethan’s parents rarely gave him any attention, let alone show

any interest in what he actually enjoyed. So, he spent much

effort concealing his work from them at home. Now, Ethan

had found someone whom he could not only talk about his

passion with, but whom he greatly respected artistically. He had

carefully observed Eugene’s own paintings many times prior to

actually meeting him. To Ethan, this offer from a prominent

artist was the equivalent of winning the lottery.

“Really!?” He blurted out. “That’s great! I’ll see you next

Friday then!”

Ethan began walking to leave the gallery so that he didn’t

get back to his father late. He had already been cutting things

close due to how much time he’d spent staring at the gallery.

And that was before Eugene started talking to him about

paintings. But Eugene moved quickly to catch up to the boy.

The Sight of Love

14

“Wait just a second – hold on.” Eugene needed

clarification of what the boy was talking about. “Why not

tomorrow or Monday?”

“Oh, I can’t. My dad only comes to the city once a week

on Fridays, and he doesn’t know that I come here during

lunchtime.”

“He doesn’t know, huh?”

Ethan just shook his head, not sure if that was a deal

breaker for his new mentor.

“Does your mom know?”

“My mom?” Ethan reacted by laughing out loud to

himself. “No, she’s too busy taking care of the other kids in the

house to notice anything that I like.”

“And how many siblings do you have?”

Ethan wanted to respond by saying “four too many,” but

he didn’t have time to joke around like he wanted to – he had

to get back to his father’s office before his father suspected

anything awry was going on with his son. So Ethan just simply

said, “Four.”

“Wow – four, huh?” Eugene eyed Ethan. He still felt

strangely and suddenly compelled to pursue teaching the boy

everything he knew about painting. So, he didn’t want to pass

up the opportunity to bring Ethan under his so-called

apprenticeship. Perhaps it was because Eugene didn’t have any

children himself and he found something endearing about the

boy. Or perhaps it was because all of his other students were

older than Ethan, and were only learning to paint out of

educational aspirations rather than an innate desire for the

ancient art. Eugene only spoke briefly with Ethan, but he could

see it. He’d been around enough students to know passion and

talent when he saw it. And that was rare.

Eugene threw up his arms, willing to take Ethan on as an

apprentice on whatever terms the boy’s circumstances

permitted. “Fridays at noon it is, then. I guess that’s enough

time, anyways – since it is free.” Eugene would have it no other

way than to be free. True interest in art shouldn’t be restrained

by monetary ability. Besides, if the lessons led to a true, lifelong

passion in the boy, as Eugene hoped it would, then it may just

pay itself off in the long run.

Ethan’s eyes lit up when he heard the word “free.”

“Free?!” He repeated in excitement.

“Yes – free. Does that work for you?” Eugene quipped,

trying to make a joke.

“Oh boy, does it! Now I can finally buy lunch instead of

spending that money to come in here.”

Those were the last words the young boy said before he

turned and ran out the door, back to his father’s hospital. But

those words confirmed Eugene’s desire to teach the boy. When

he had made the offer to teach him, Eugene didn’t even known

of the boy’s sacrifice to starve himself just to stare at the

paintings. This impressed Eugene to no end.

The weeks turned into months, and the months changed

into years. Each week, Ethan was religiously on time and

soaked up Eugene’s mentorship to no end. The days in between

lessons were never ending moments of torture for Ethan as he

wanted nothing more than to learn and practice the craft.

In addition, Ethan no longer had to hide his main

painting supplies in his room. Eugene not only gifted him with

painting supplies, but also gave Ethan space to stash his

paintings. And when Ethan turned sixteen years old, Eugene

surprised him with his own room inside of the gallery that he

could use as his own studio. Ethan was shocked and thankful

beyond words. He would frequently find reasons to tell his

parents why he needed to travel into the city. But really, he was

just using it as a ruse to go to his studio. And eventually, his

parents even stopped asking where he was, leaving him

wondering if they even realized that he was gone for several

hours after school most days.

Still, Ethan’s parents never caught onto his weekly lessons

from Atlanta’s most prominent artist and painting-connoisseur.

Ethan never felt bad about concealing his passion from his

parents. He didn’t even consider it a lie. This was because

Ethan could never actually remember a time where either of his

parents asked him what he enjoyed doing. His father was keen

on his eldest son following in his footsteps into neurosurgery.

His mother remained preoccupied with the other, younger

children, relying naively on her eldest son being independent.

Over the years, and certainly into his teenage years, this

lack of emotion from his family only left Ethan feeling empty

and truly alone. Eugene was really the only person who not only

shared his interest, but also was willing to listen to Ethan’s

perspective on art.

“Ethan,” Eugene told him on his nineteenth birthday,

“You are not only my best student I’ve ever had, but I consider

you my equal.” Eugene was standing at the doorway to Ethan’s

studio, staring at all of the canvases hung around the room

which contained Ethan’s romantic-style paintings.

“I …” Ethan said, turning to Eugene and not knowing

how to even respond to such an unexpected and genuine

compliment. In all of the years which Ethan had studied from

Eugene, he never even hoped to be considered his equal. Ethan

had always seen the opportunity with Eugene as an opportunity

to learn from the singular, living artist who he put on a pedestal.

He was always nothing more than appreciative of Eugene’s

graciousness toward him.

“No, I mean it.” Eugene interrupted, not even allowing

Ethan to say thank you. “Look at your work, Ethan – it’s

beautiful.”

Eugene’s continued compliments struck Ethan. Ethan

was always so engrossed in what he felt compelled to express

that he’d never really taken a moment to step back from his

own creations and see what others might feel from them. He

looked around the studio, staring at about twenty or so of his

most recent romantic works.

“And so I think it’s time that you hang them in the gallery

for others to appreciate.”

“Really?” Eugene’s compliments had left Ethan stunned,

but this offer was even more shocking to him. Ethan got up

from his easel in shock. Never before had he expected, let alone

hoped, that he would one day get to hang his own work in the

galleries of the great Buckhorn Art Company. He’d stared

countless hours at paintings selected to hang on those gallery

walls, and knew just how high Eugene’s standards were when

selecting modern art for them. “Eugene, that’s the best birthday

present ever! Thank you so much!”

The excitement shown in Ethan’s face resonated just as

loud as the scream in the famous impressionist painting that the

two bonded over years ago. But if Eugene’s offer was shocking

to Ethan, then he was left completely speechless by next things

Eugene said.

“Oh, that isn’t my birthday present. This is.” Eugene

walked over and handed Ethan an envelope.”

“What is this?” Ethan asked, dumbfounded.

“I have no children or spouse, Ethan. And I’m getting up

there in age.”

Ethan listened intently, not sure what was going on. He

shifted his glance from Eugene to the envelope and opened it

up.

“It’s my will, Ethan. I’m leaving it all to you.”

Ethan didn’t know how to react. As the years had drifted

by, Ethan no longer considered Eugene just his distinguished

mentor. Eventually, Eugene turned into his confidant. And

after that, Ethan truly felt that Eugene was really the only father

figure in his life. Now, Ethan was learning that Eugene felt the

same way. Ethan wished he could draw what he was feeling

because words were not always his strength. At this moment, he

couldn’t think of anything else to say but “thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Eugene emphasized before embracing

his long-time friend, and the first living painter whose works

had ever genuinely moved him.

Chapter 3

In only a couple short months, Eugene’s health had

deteriorated significantly. It was as if he’d foreseen this

happening and his present to Ethan was not happenstance.

There was nothing in the world more painful to Ethan than

watching his father-figure physically unable to care for the

gallery as he once did. Eugene would shuffle slowly up and

down the hallways despite Ethan’s admonitions to get some

rest. Long ago, Eugene stopped teaching his painting classes,

handing them off to Ethan’s instruction instead. It was

bittersweet to say the least.

But Ethan would never forget the moment when it all

changed. He was in the middle of hanging a newly-received

replica of Frida Kahlo’s famous self-portrait when it happened.

Ethan jumped at the sound of a loud thump which came from

the front of the store. It was a loud, thunderous sound that

Ethan knew could only be made from a person collapsing onto

the gallery’s wooden floor. Ethan ran to Eugene’s side, but it

was too late.

The next several days were a blur. Paramedics. A funeral.

Reading the will at an attorney’s office. Ethan’s world was

instantly changed. He should have been elated to have inherited

such a distinguished estate. Even the local art community was

experiencing the dueling emotions over the loss of Eugene, but

thrill that the legacy had been preserved in Ethan’s more-thanqualified

hands. However, none of it mattered much to Ethan.

He was still overcome by the loss of Eugene. That hole which

existed so long ago due to his family’s emotional absence in his

life had been filled by his mentor. Now, Eugene was gone. That

hole was torn even wider agape.

On his first real evening alone in his new business, Ethan

just sat on a stool in the middle of a hallway staring at Eugene’s

paintings. A deep sea of emotions flowed through Ethan’s

entire body, and he couldn’t contain them. Tear after tear fell

while his gaze penetrated into the soul of Eugene’s works.

Ethan hoped that somehow, if he was able to feel Eugene again

through his works, then maybe his presence would live on in

the gallery. He didn’t know if something like that could really

happen, but his sense of loss was so great that he wished

desperately to fill the void in any way.

Then it came to him. An idea. It was as if a veil was lifted

from his mind when the idea struck. He needed to let Eugene

go in peace. He needed to stop thinking about his own desires,

and instead think about how this was a natural part of life. And

to do this, he was going to have one final celebration of

Eugene’s life through an evening where the entire public could

come appreciate the gallery for free. He would display all of

Eugene’s paintings in one final memorial of his life before

moving on. But even more than that, for one night, Ethan

would give to the entire public what Eugene had provided him -

the ability to come into the gallery to appreciate true art

unrestrained by monetary ability. There would be food, simple

music, and welcoming to people from all walks of life. Anyone

who held even a spark of interest in art would be welcome. It

was a beautiful idea.

The evening came, and Ethan enlisted the help of his art

students to throw it. They were so excited at paying tribute to

their long-time instructor that they pretty much took over

planning the event. They completely ran with the idea and did

all of the marketing and executing of it. They even each

prepared countless hors d’oeuvres and refreshments just in case

the attendance was as they’d hoped. The evening was to be one

to memorialize Eugene with the dignified respect which they

each held for him.

That evening, the students and Ethan all came dressed up

for a black-tie event, despite being willing to welcome anyone

from off the streets into the gallery. And much to their

excitement, the event was extremely well received. It was

quickly apparent that the public not only supported the gallery

and its cultural benefit to downtown Atlanta, but that Eugene

was highly regarded throughout the community. Indeed, Ethan

personally welcomed several attendees who traveled from all

over the county just to honor Eugene’s life.

An interesting range of emotions were exhibited by the

diverse crowd. Those who knew or had met Eugene were no

doubt solemn. Many others attended to express their

appreciation to Ethan for his plan to continue on with the

Buckhorn Art Company. And there were even more people

who stopped by to utilize the free admission into the gallery.

Ethan especially welcomed those newcomers, in keeping with

the spirit of Eugene’s passion and goal to have the arts be

accessible to all.

The halls on which the replicas of the classic paintings

hung were undoubtedly popular. Besides those halls, Eugene’s

paintings were also understandably well-observed. This warmed

Ethan, as his sole purpose for the night was to seek to move on

from losing his friend. Seeing the popularity and appreciation of

Eugene’s work provided relief to Ethan beyond words. Many

individuals and families gathered around his work to not only

pay tribute, but to really study what Eugene had wanted to

express.

However, there was one couple that Ethan saw staring at

Eugene’s work who he did not welcome. His parents. Their

attendance was extremely surprising to Ethan, and at first, he

didn’t know how to react. He didn’t even know if they knew

that their own son was putting on the event. Surely, they didn’t.

Nothing had ever been said to them about the gallery, Eugene,

or even painting. But, then, why would they be here? They

never showed any interest in painting or art.

Ethan’s mind scrambled about why they would be here.

Perhaps it was the free admission and the gallery being just

down the block from his father’s hospital which led to their

attendance. When he realized that it was Friday night, his regret

at so carelessly putting this on during the one day his father was

in town quickly set in. That had to be it. Free admission, and

now his lifestyle was blown.

Ethan’s mind next went to what he needed to do about

this dire situation. Should he hide in his own studio-room and

wait for his parents to leave? No. He was not missing out on

Eugene’s night on account of his parents. So, he made up his

mind and knew what he would do.

Ethan walked straight over to his father and mother, who

stood near the entrance of the building observing one of

Eugene’s artworks.

When his mother turned and saw him, her face lit up.

“Oh, Ethan, hi!” She said, smiling at him. She had dressed up

for the occasion, which now told him that they had planned this

evening out. She never had time to dress up nice due to being

so overburdened with the younger siblings. Seeing this pained

Ethan, because he knew he was about to ruin their special

evening out. As he approached closer to them, his mother

continued: “So this is where you…”

But Ethan didn’t let her finish, interrupting them.

“Mother. Father. I need to tell you something.” He said sternly.

Ripping the band-aid off quickly was the only way he could

handle this tough conversation. He was never this stern and

cold toward them at home. Never. But what he needed to tell

them was so difficult that the only way he knew how to say it

was to get it over and done with.

His father cocked his head at the unusual tone in Ethan’s

voice, listening intently. Ethan could see that his father’s eyes

were bloodshot from after a long day of concentrating at the

hospital. This also told Ethan that they had sacrificed to come

to this free art show. That would also make it hard for Ethan to

ruin their night with his decision.

“I’m not coming home.”

Though his father’s eyes were already blood-shot, there

was still an immediate, stark change in them which looked

pained at Ethan’s response.

His mother looked to his father, unsure of how they

should react, before looking back at her son sadly. “You mean

… never?” All three of them knew what he meant, but she had

to try and confirm it just out of the dread of now losing one of

her kids from under her roof.

“That’s right, mother. I don’t need to.”

“But what about all of your stuff back home? Surely you

want to come get that, right? Or, we can still keep a room for

you there if you ever change your mind and want to come

back…” Her hopes were in vain, and they all knew it.

Ethan shook his head. “Everything I need – everything

I’ve ever needed – is here.” Those words stung, as sincere as

Ethan meant them. He didn’t want to be backbiting or unloving

to his parents, it was just the honest truth to him. Still, he tried

to soften the sudden blow to his parents by explaining himself.

“The prior owner, Eugene, left it all to me. And I’m nineteen

now. Most kids my age are off at college, anyways. So, you’ll do

fine without me. This is my home now.”

One thing stood out to Ethan about the news he just

delivered to his parents – neither of them looked surprised that

he now owned the great Buckhorn Art Company. They didn’t

even ask him any questions about it, either. This made his

father’s response all the more cryptic to him, leaving Ethan

wondering what exactly was meant by it.

His father placed his hand on his shoulder and spoke

calmly. “We always knew this day would come.”

Ethan wanted to ask his father what was meant by that –

whether he meant that the day would come where he moved

out, or whether they somehow knew about his work at the

gallery. And in the years that would follow, not asking his father

for clarification would become one of his largest regrets. But in

that moment, a stronger emotion left Ethan speechless. It was

the feeling that he was letting his father down. All of those

years giving his father false hope had now accumulated and

Ethan realized for the first time just how damaging his actions

were. He felt embarrassed for leading his father on the whole

time. Ethan didn’t regret following his own passion, but he

deeply regretted lying about it. It was in this moment that Ethan

wished he was as good with words as he was with painting

feelings because he couldn’t find a single word to say – even

“sorry.”

His father caught on. His hand still on Ethan’s shoulder,

he drew his son in. During the embrace, his father simply said,

“You will do great at this. I know it.”

The understanding tone in his father’s voice surprised

Ethan. When his father let go, he looked to his mother. A tear

slid down her cheek, which surprised Ethan. It left him

wondering if he had somehow misinterpreted her lack of

interest in him as her really giving him space to do what he was

drawn to. This thought lingered with him while he also hugged

his mom. When it ended, he tried to temper his prior sternness

with an invitation.

“If you ever need me, this is where I’ll be.” The words

had already come out, and Ethan was worried that it sounded

distant – that he again didn’t express himself as he really felt.

He wished he had a paintbrush and canvas in front of him to

paint his parents a picture of how he felt. He’d paint a giant

wave of an ocean engulfing his tiny self in its tempest. That was

how he felt in this moment. But instead, his weakness for

words had left his parents in tears of dismay.

His father managed a smile. “Could we stay here until

we’re done? You know how rare a night out is for us, and

there’s still so much more your mother would like to see.”

Yet again, his parents’ response surprised him. Never

before had Ethan seen any hint of an interest from his parents

toward art, and yet here they were wanting to spend a rare night

out in an art gallery. Perhaps this was an olive branch being

extended by them to Ethan, now that they knew of his passion

for paintings. And it was a branch he was willing to welcome.

“You’re always welcome here.” He paused for a moment

and looked at them both. He knew that this was goodbye, he

just didn’t know how long it was goodbye for. He’d hoped that

the next time he saw them was in his gallery, since he had

invited them to return whenever they needed him. “Goodbye,”

was all he said next, choosing to be done ripping the band-aide

off.

With that, he turned around to get lost into the raging sea

of emotion which his home of artwork had so long fostered.

He was familiar with its endlessly enveloping arms. And it was

his new home. Just as he needed to move on from Eugene, he

knew that he now also needed to find a way to fill the void of

his parents – no matter the size of that void.

He turned to focus on the ocean of other guests, but

something unusual caught Ethan’s eye.

On this free night open to the public, patrons were mostly

only stopping to stare at the classic works of art and Eugene’s

paintings. As to the other modern works, even his own, they all

just passed by without giving them much thought. Except one

person. Out of the corner of his eye, the deeply bright read hue

of a woman’s hair burned as unusual. So, he turned and

observed her, just as if he was observing a painting. Only this

time, he was studying her at a distance from the other end of a

hall.

The actions between her and everyone else was so

strikingly different that he knew he just had to approach her.

She had stopped and actually was staring at a painting in the

modern hall. Ethan couldn’t tell which painting she was

studying, but it didn’t matter. He could tell she was being drawn

into one, and that stood out as vastly different from all the

other guests who had just casually passed by that hallway. It was

as if she had planted her roots in the hallway to study a

painting, while everyone else breezed by in the wind.

After a few moments, Ethan began walking casually

toward the woman. She had undoubtedly not noticed him, since

she was still fixated on a painting. As he got closer, her image

became clearer. The color of her red hair intensified, and he

saw that she was probably just a couple years older than him.

And the painting she was staring at wasn’t just any modern

painting – it was one of his.

“What do you think of it?” He asked, startling her from

behind.

“What do you think the artist was trying to say with it?”

She just asked back. Her question was surprising to Ethan. He’d

asked hundreds of people over the years what they thought of

paintings, and not once before had he been asked a question

back, let alone about the artist’s intent.

She turned and looked at Ethan, and once seeing him, she

broke out in a wide smile. Her red hair contrasted with her

bright green eyes. In this completely unexpected moment,

Ethan instantly knew he had just met the most beautiful woman

he would ever set eyes on.

The fact she smiled when she saw him either said that she

liked him back, or that she knew him already. But Ethan didn’t

have a clue who she was, so he just wanted to see if he was

missing something.

“I’m sorry … do I know you?” He asked.

“I don’t know, do you?” She said back, still smiling while

trying to give him a hard time.

“No … I don’t think I do, at least.”

“Well, then,” she said while extending her hand, offering

for him to shake it. The look in her eye and tone in her voice

had a hint of excitement in it that made Ethan think she was

smiling for the first reason – she was caught off guard, just like

he was, at their sudden meeting. She liked him back; he could see it in her eyes. “I’m Rose.”

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About the author: 

Kyle Shoop is a multi-genre author of compelling stories. His new "Senses of Love" series is a romance series that provides rewarding and inspirational stories.

Kyle is also the author of the Acea Bishop Trilogy, which is an action-packed fantasy series. All books in that series are now available, with Acea and the Animal Kingdom being the first book.

At a young age, Kyle was recognized for his storytelling by being awarded the first-place Gold Key award for fiction writing in Washington State. After spending several years volunteering in his wife's elementary classrooms, he was inspired to write the Acea Bishop Trilogy. He is now motivated to finish his the new romance series. In addition to writing novels, Kyle is also a practicing attorney. 

Kyle and is wife and two children are currently living in Utah. 

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