When she married the painter, they moved into an apartment on Pemberton Lane. It wasn't large — only just space for the two of them — but the ceilings were tall enough to hang artwork high across every blank wall, and the young couple did so with joy. Hand in hand, they’d often meander through the local galleries, explore student exhibits in the area, drive out on the weekends to art fairs two, even three provinces over. With every year, that apartment grew into their treasure trove, a gallery of their own as the couple added jewel after gem to their collection. This, after all, is how they fell in love.

Back when she was only an art student, Connor’s painting was the first in Nora’s collection: Portrait of a Elise. Hung in the corner of a hotel lobby, the girl at its center captured her. The brush strokes contouring her face were rash, with an imperfection that gave thick layers of paint a kinetic quality, one equal in character only to the Nova Scotian tide. Pink and orange hues illuminated the young girl’s face, personifying her with such clarity that the laugh muffled behind her blue eyes echoed in Nora’s mind. She stood there a while, until the eyes of “Elise” blended into her own, until evening brought a shadow over both of their hair.

Nora bought the painting off the hotel manager that night. She asked about the artist, but the man only shrugged. 

Sorry, miss. It was an anonymous donation.

And yet, Nora would meet Connor the next week. At an art fair in Halifax, it was not him she noticed, but the young girl holding his hand. Bright blue eyes illuminating her face, her laugh echoing through the crowd like bells, she was unmistakable.

Elise. 

It only took a few words exchanged to learn that Connor had been the artist behind Portrait of Elise; only a glance at brilliantly blue eyes to know it was a portrait of his sister.

Nora spent the rest of the fair with the pair. The longer they spoke, the more captivated she grew in Connor’s work. It seemed that all his thoughts touched turned suddenly vivid, alive with beauty that must have escaped her attention before. Conversation never died, no subject ran dry. A couple hours easily became days, days which bled into weeks, and before long, she was spending the nights in his studio apartment. Surrounded by the corpses of unfinished works, she woke up alone in the mornings, only to find him painting in the room next door. 

The paintings grew more honest with age. Connor’s brush strokes stopped trying to capture beauty, and they learned to simply capture. The world seemed a little more mid-tone as he stopped hyperbolizing the colors, yet each of his portraits still sang to Nora.

They’re older now — but their love stays young. 

In that house on Pemberton Lane, paintings consume every wall. Laughter echoes through every hall. In that house on Pemberton Lane, two artists are found.