Authors: Sydney Allan
Tears sprung to his eyes. He dropped the precious message and squeezed his baby with renewed vigor, as though crushing her to him might bring them closer. God, he loved her. Loved her more than anything, more than life. He'd never known such love before. It nearly made him weep.
Weep! He hadn't done that even when she'd been born.
And then he felt them, the cool and hot salty rivulets coursing down his cheeks. He was crying. Such release, such joy. Who would have thought it could be.
A simple expulsion of salty water from his eyes was cleansing his soul of decades of sorrow. A gasp fled his mouth, followed by a series of laughter-sounding whimpers.
And then he was still. Like the forest after a violent storm. Quiet and peaceful, renewed. Raphaela wiggled in his arms, and he set her down upon her feet. She looked up at him, curious, her head tipped like a puppy, her smile not quite as confident as it had been moments ago.
He plucked a curl from her shoulder and it spiraled around his fingertip, and then she wandered away from him, wrapping her arms around Faith's waist.
Stooping, he picked up the paper he'd dropped and studied it, looking to Faith for reassurance.
She smiled warmly in response, hugging Raphaela, a glow over her face. "She did that all by herself. I didn't coach her. I swear it."
"I believe you." And he did.
Heavy silence.
Faith and Raphaela walked away, stopping before a painting sitting on the floor, propped against the table.
"I painted this years ago, Raphaela. It is very special to me, but I want you to have it," Faith said as she stooped down.
Curious, Garret followed them, and studied the picture, a portrait of a little girl in a ballet costume. She sat on the floor, tying her shoe, a flounce of snowy fluff around her. The painting was exquisite. "You did this? Did you paint it recently?"
"Recently? No. I haven't painted in years."
"God, why?"
Faith shrugged her shoulders. "Hopefully someday I'll be able to paint again." Sadness hung in her eyes. What was she hiding?
He sat down next to her. "Tell me."
She smiled, the expression strained and shallow. "It's a long story."
"I want to hear it. Does it have something to do with what you said that first session? You said you lived with naysayers. Did they do this to you?"
"No one did anything to me. I did it to me. I let their words kill my spirit. I let them steal my confidence. I played them over and over in my head until I believed them. And then one day as I stood in front of the easel, it was gone. I had no inspiration, no desire."
"But you have so much talent! Look at this. It's…It's very nice," he said, studying the colors, the detail of the girl's hands and clothing. He reached out and touched it, almost expecting the little girl's arm to be silky smooth and warm.
"Nice?" she asked with a smile. "That has to be the best review I've ever gotten."
"It is?" He looked at the painting again. It really was outstanding, like a print he would find in an art book. It was a shame she hadn't painted in so long. He wished he could somehow reverse all the damage that had been done years ago.
"No, I'm being sarcastic."
"Oh. I deserved that. You sure you want to give it away?" he asked, leaning down to get a better look. He wasn't exactly an art critic, but he knew good form, knew what he liked. And he liked it.
"Yup. It's Raphaela's if she wants it."
"But with you being unemployed--" He stopped himself. Why mention that now? "To be fair, I should at least offer to pay for it."
"You know what? You're right." She wore a sly grin now, and he wondered what was coming. "I'll take thirty."
"Thirty dollars? That's a little cheap, don't you think?"
"No, thirty thousand. I could use the cash, since I'm moving."
His gaze dropped to the painting then lurched back to her face.
She smiled.
He swallowed. "You're teasing…aren't you? I mean, I can pay--"
"Stop it! Of course, I'm teasing. You're too serious."
Relief flooded him in soothing coolness. "Thank God."
"What's wrong? You don't think it's worth the price?" She was teasing him again. He liked this playful side of her.
"Sure it is, and I'm grateful for your generous gift. I’ll make it up to you somehow." His face heated as he thought of the options. There was more than one way to repay her kindness, and many of those ways would be more fun than work. If only he would have the chance.
"I can see what you're thinking," she whispered, stepping closer and nudging him with an elbow.
"You make me feel like a kid again," he confessed, wanting to take her in his arms and kiss the sly grin from her mouth, but knowing he couldn't. Would never again do that. His spirit sank, but he tried to keep up the lighthearted chatter. "How do you do that?"
"I don't know. Must be my charm." She was so close, smelled so good. Her sleeveless top bunched at the neckline, revealing the swell of tanned breasts.
"I need to get the hell out of here,"
She scowled. "Shouldn't you be watching your language? There is a child in the room. You wouldn't want her repeating that, would you?"
He paused. Repeating it? He hadn't thought about that, never needed to. He'd always assumed she would never speak. "You're right. I wouldn't."
"How would you like a home cooked meal?" Faith asked, taking him by surprise.
"I'd like to, but I shouldn't." He didn't explain further, knew he didn't need to when she nodded.
She took Raphaela's hand and, carrying a box in her other hand, walked to the door. Holding the heavy framed painting, he dashed to her, pausing inside the door for a smile of gratitude, and regret.
He would never again hold Faith in his arms, taste her, feel the warmth of her gaze upon him. Revel in her gentle embrace. But his first concern had to be Raphaela, even if his heart was not in the decision. He would do the right thing, be responsible and make a logical choice, based upon Raphaela's needs, not his desires.
He didn't have to walk far before he found Marian. She was standing no more than twenty feet down the hall, and gauging by her expression, she'd been watching them. "Marian, Ella's fine."
"I saw." Her voice was flat, but anger lay on every feature.
He shook his head, was he making the right decision? Would Raphaela be any better off living with two parents who barely tolerated each other? "Do you want to talk about this now, or later?" he asked, hoping she would say later. A quiet dinner with Faith was sounding better and better… Where was his self-control?
"I suppose it can wait until later," she said, hedging.
Relieved, he said, "We'll see you in the morning."
"But--"
He turned from her, and forcing a cheer he didn't feel into his voice, he said, "Goodnight, Marian." And before he had a chance to change his mind, he headed down the corridor. What would a simple dinner hurt? Raphaela enjoyed being with Faith. He would do it for her.
As he led Raphaela toward the door, his mind whirred with thoughts, rehearsing the conversation he wished he could have with Faith, like he used to do in high school, before he asked the girl on the date.
His heart pounded in his chest. What would he say? Would he say something stupid? Would Faith laugh in his face?
What had gotten into him? Since when was he that shy, awkward kid again? After all these years, who would have thought the pimple-pocked teen, the one he'd struggled to put behind him, would resurface?
They walked out of the lodge and into the stifling evening heat. The cicadas sang, filling the forest with buzzing music. Birds called to one another in their secret languages, tweets, and twitters, some more musical than others. The leaves, green, slashed with white sunlight, high above his head, sighed in the slight breath of breeze blowing through them.
Faith's cottage sat about fifty yards from the lodge down a shady, gnat-clogged path. It was a charming building, about the size of a one-car garage or a shed. Unlike the lodge, it was sided with white-painted wood. Blue shutters flanked windows positioned on either side of the front door like black eyes. The cottage looked like the dollhouse his sisters had played with years ago. He smiled at the memory, hesitated with a raised fist, and then knocked.
"Garret? What a surprise," Faith said when she answered the door.
"I know I declined earlier," he stammered, then tugged Raphaela closer, "but Ella insisted we come for dinner." He shrugged. "You know I can't tell her no."
"All right," she said with a giggle, a bubbly sound as charming as anything he'd ever heard. How was it the woman could do the simplest things, and he found them utterly endearing? "But you really should learn to be a little firmer with her. She's bound to run you ragged if you don't." She smiled down at Raphaela. "Right, Ella?"
Raphaela didn't respond.
Faith opened the door wider and motioned them in. "It's not much, but it's free. That is, until tomorrow."
"It's nice--homey," he said, drinking in its simple décor. Nothing pretentious. A floral sofa and welcoming recliner sat upon a rag rug and huddled around an oval coffee table in the middle of the living room. An oak dining table and chairs sat beyond that. He scanned the living room again.
No TV. He could appreciate that.
"Can I get you something to drink?" she asked as she walked toward a small doorway behind the dining table.
"Sure. What do you have?" After finding Raphaela some paper and pencils in the box of art supplies sitting on top of a stack of cardboard boxes, and making her comfortable at the dining table, he followed Faith into the kitchen.
The room was bright: yellow tiles and paint, white appliances that looked like they'd come out of a 1950's Sears catalogue, and red curtains on the window over the sink. It was a funny room, so unlike anything he'd been in. He'd seen photographs of rooms like it, old photographs of his parents when they'd been in high school--back when they'd been in love and gone to the prom.
"Is a soda okay? I have cola or root beer."
"Cola's fine. Thanks," he said taking the plastic bottle from her hand. He opened it with a crack and swallowed several gulps before replacing the cap.
She chuckled. "I was going to ask if you'd like a glass. Guess the answer is no."
He smiled and shrugged, then leaned against the countertop and let his gaze wander the room again.
"You're mighty quiet."
"Sorry, this place is so… It reminds me of old pictures of my parents. Smells good," he added when she lifted the crock-pot lid and stirred the red sauce. "Home cooked? I thought you'd have everything packed up."
"I'm not as packed as I should be. It'll be a long night. I'm procrastinating," she admitted with a smile. "Hate moving."
"Yeah. I haven't moved in years, but I still remember the grief." He stirred the sauce and took a nip from the spoon. "Mmm. Delicious."
"Thanks. Spaghetti's one of my specialties. I'm honestly not much of a cook, never needed to be, since I've been alone most of my life. But someday I'd like to learn. I have my grandmother's cookbooks. She left them to me when she died. I guess she figured I needed the help." She chuckled, replacing the lid, wiping her hands on the ruffled apron she wore before running a hand over her hair, which she'd tied back in a low ponytail. A few strands framed her face, arcing around her cheekbones, and brushing her jaws.
"That apron is something too." He never expected her to be so…so old fashioned. She was an artist. Weren't they supposed to be edgy, unconventional?
Maybe today being traditionally domestic was unconventional. He chuckled at the thought.
She dropped her eyes to her apron, plucking at the ruffled edge, and giggled. "It came with the cookbooks, and I sort of like it."
"Don't get me wrong, so do I." Could this woman be any more different from Marian? Could she surprise him any more? She was like the proverbial breath of fresh air, so refreshing, so innocent. He wanted to know everything about her. Every secret, wish, and dream.
And he would never get the chance.
Minutes swept by in the space of seconds as the dinner was prepared and placed upon the table. And lighthearted conversation about nothing in particular--their favorite places in Kent, the chance that they might have met somewhere before--accompanied the delicious meal of tossed salad, pasta and garlic bread.
After they'd stuffed their stomachs, growing sleepy and contented, Faith pulled out some books and games for Raphaela to play with, scattering them over the living room rug. Then Garret sat next to Faith on the couch, their elbows brushing whenever they moved their arms. He sensed Faith wanted to talk about something, based upon the way her gaze roamed the room, never quite reaching him.
"Thanks for the dinner. It was superb, but I have to wonder, did you have a subversive reason for inviting us? You're not yourself," he said, breaking a stressful silence.
Faith looked at him, her lips turned into a soft smile. "I don't know how to say this. I feel so stupid."