And so, instead of simply portraying a gnarled, sprawling tree, weathered by time, its limbs thin at the ends as if no longer offering protection beneath its awning and an empty landscape with the lake beyond looking gray and stormy as though it were angered by the betrayal the title represented, she’d painted herself—alone—a survivor. Standing beyond the once-protective shelter of the limbs and intricate roots of the huge oak, only her back presented as she stared over the lake.

It was a sunny day, not even one wispy cloud to mar the canvas, and the blue of the water sparkled like tiny diamonds that had been scattered by a playful child. And the tree, while showing its age, looked more of a timeless guardian, spreading its arms outward, ever watchful and mindful of those in its protective embrace.

Escape. Freedom. Once it had been those very things to her. And now things had come full circle because the finished painting represented her freedom from her destructive past.

Now she only had to hang it. The final step in her metamorphosis from hopelessness and helplessness to strength and optimism.

“Have you changed your mind about displaying it?” Wade asked.

There was a note of hope in his voice, almost as if he knew that putting it out there was . . . acknowledgment. Baring all the things she’d hidden for the last twelve years. And he was afraid she wasn’t yet ready. He was worried she’d revert to the woman she’d been when they’d first met. God only knew why he’d persevered. Why he’d shaken off the countless aloof and cold rebuffs from her and dug persistently through the layers of numbness, fear and paralysis to the heart of her. Then settled for the only things she could give him. Friendship. And finally, inexplicably, her trust.

No, he didn’t think she was ready at all.

He was wrong.

She was ready. It was something she should have done so much sooner. She’d spent so much time numb, refusing to allow herself to feel . . . anything. Because emptiness was preferable to the overwhelming pain and grief she’d long ago resigned herself to, as though she had no choice but to suffer such a barren existence.

No, she didn’t feel desire for Wade. Not the kind of the lover he’d referenced. But she did need him. His friendship and unwavering support. She needed those things more than she was comfortable admitting, but she was also done lying to herself and living in constant denial that she was okay, that everything was fine, and she was all right. Normal.

Because she wasn’t. And she’d likely never be. But she’d finally accepted that and opted to make the best of what she did have and stop dwelling on all she’d lost.

She looked at him again, this time not masking any of the vulnerability she knew he could read in her eyes. There was a time when she would have died rather than allow anyone to see her so weak and . . . fragile.

His face softened and his eyes warmed with the friendship she’d come to define their relationship by. The very thing she needed most but had never embraced. Until now. And in the lines of his face, a face that could in fact be quite hard, unyielding and even dangerous, she saw his acceptance of the only thing she could ever offer him.

She knew he’d accepted it long ago, but perhaps had never truly seen until now. Or wanted to see. Because she feared his giving up and her losing the one steadfast thing she now had apart from her art.

Her shoulders sagged imperceptibly, and she realized she’d been holding her breath, harboring the fear she’d vowed to no longer live with, because she’d been afraid of his rejection and of being alone. Again. As she’d been for so very long.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, easing the painting down with his free hand until its edge rested gently against the wall. He gathered her close, offering her the warmth and strength of his hug, something she’d come to cherish rather than dread for the physical contact she’d always avoided at all cost.

“You’re ready,” he said, as if having read her thoughts and answering his own question in the process. “I’m proud of you, Anna-Grace.”

“Don’t you dare make me cry,” she warned, already feeling the betraying sting of tears.

He gave her another affectionate squeeze and then relinquished his hold on her.

“So where do we place the guest of honor?” he asked, his gaze sweeping the gallery and the other paintings of hers that were artfully displayed to their full advantage. “I think center stage, don’t you? This means something, Anna-Grace. You mean something. And it—like you—needs to be celebrated.”

Okay, so he was going to make her cry. She wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand in disgust and glared accusingly at him. He merely smiled back, and she marveled at the feeling of closeness—a connection—to another person. So what if she wasn’t ready for a romantic relationship? Maybe she never would be. A woman didn’t need a man to be whole, and she was more than happy to prove it.

But a friend? Everyone needed a friend. And she realized, not for the first time, that part of the reason her grief, her piercing and gut-wrenching sense of betrayal over what Zack had done, was so sharp, unrelenting and . . . life changing . . . was that he hadn’t just been the man she had loved, had adored beyond reason, had planned to spend the rest of her life with, and have his children. The man who had shared her hopes and dreams and every secret she’d never dared expose to another living person.

He’d been her best—and only—friend. The one she turned to for comfort. Love. Acceptance. The very best part of her very being, her heart, her soul. He’d been her confidant. The one person she trusted never to let her down, as so many had in her young life.

And yet those past betrayals paled in comparison to Zack’s.

She shook her head, furious with herself for going back. Again. And she set her lips firmly, sending Wade a determined look he couldn’t possibly misunderstand.

Zack had been her entire world, and he’d turned it completely upside down, discarding her like the trash she’d been called by the people of their town. By his own father, for that matter. How could she have thought he would be different from anyone else in a place where she simply didn’t exist or matter?

But now her world was what she made it. And she had no liking for the world she’d previously lived in, one of her making. Only she could change it. Create it. Make it better—perfect even. And it was high time she got on with doing just that.