When We Touch

“Tabby wants to set up a website for online orders, and as time passes, I’m getting more orders for things like birthday cakes, special occasion cakes… Women our age don’t bake as much. It’s becoming a specialized thing.”

“It sounds like a great idea, and you’re a natural. Right?”

Her chin drops, and she looks up at me through her lashes. “You’ve never had one of my cakes.”

Leaning forward, I kiss her nose. “I’ve tasted other things of yours, and they’re very good.”

“Jackson!” She slaps my arm, which makes me laugh. “I don’t make coochie cakes…” She pauses, and I see her thinking. “Only penis cakes.”

“What?”

She laughs loudly at my surprise. “Betty Pepper orders penis cakes!”

My eyes go round, and I stand, pulling her to her feet. “Are you telling me you’re a dirty Betty Crocker?”

She snorts loudly, and it makes me laugh. Scooping her off her feet, I throw her over my shoulder and start for the bedroom. “I’ll give you penis cake…”

“Jackson! Put me down,” she laughs, but I head down the hall to the bedroom. As we pass the smaller room I’ve been using for a studio, she starts wiggling out of my grasp. “Stop. Wait!”

I set her on her feet, and stand beside her as she looks into the room. The sketchpad is where I left it propped on the easel. Light from the doorway falls directly over the charcoal drawing I did of her, and the effect is dramatic.

Every curve and shadow seems more pronounced, and she walks slowly toward the image of her. It’s a replica of my painting. Her legs are strategically crossed to cover her private parts, but from the waist up, she’s exposed.

Her dark hair flows in ripples around her shoulders, and her beautiful breasts are on full display. I took my time on them, sliding my fingertips under the curves, over the nipples…

She reaches out and holds her hand above the lines and shades of her face. “When did you do this?” Wonder is in her voice, and my stomach tightens.

“Do you like it?”

Her chin lifts and she looks up at me. “It’s so good. It’s… like the other one.”

Stepping behind her, I wrap my arms around her waist, leaning down so my chin is on her shoulder. She places one arm over mine.

“I couldn’t get you out of my head any other way. I had to draw you.”

“You still paint?”

We’re both speaking as if we’re in church, hushed and reverent. We’re in the presence of my dreams, both of them married together on paper in front of us.

“I haven’t painted in a long time. About ten years.”

“But you sketch?” She steps out of my arms, turning to face me and hold both my hands in hers.

“This is the first sketch I’ve done in about as long.”

Small lines crease her brow. “Why did you stop?”

Now it’s my turn to look away. “I lost my inspiration when I lost you.”

“And now you’ve found it again?” It’s a quiet question, a question so full of meaning. It’s the question of what will happen next.

“That depends…”

Mentally, I’ve already made a place for

her and her daughter here. I have unfinished business, we have truths to sort out, but the outcome doesn’t change. Ember belongs with me.

Lifting her fingers to my lips, I kiss the top of her hand. “I’d like to paint you again now, with all of your changes.”