One to Take (One to Hold 8)

“Remember that time you said I would take a sea voyage,” Slayde says, grinning at me sideways.

“Yeah.” The reference to a coffee reading embarrasses me now.

“I was certain you were full of shit. I can’t swim, and there was no way I was ever going anywhere on a boat.”

Watching him as we head to his car, I don’t speak. I have a feeling I know where he’s going with this, but I’m not sure.

“And?” I say once we’re inside and headed back to Bayville.

“And six months later I was getting on the Sea Empress for a voyage that would change my life.”

Looking out the window, I release a deep breath. “Your point is…”

“You are special, Mare. You do have a gift. I don’t care what that old man in there says. I don’t care if he decides his reputation is more important than giving you peace of mind. You don’t have a mental illness.”

My insides warm at this unexpected vote of confidence. I feel the tears rising in my eyes, and I hastily blink them away. “Thank you, Slayde.”

“Just my unqualified opinion,” he shrugs. “Now come on. I’ll take you back to your place, then you’re coming over to have dinner with Kenny and me tonight.”

“I’d like that.”

* * *

Inside my apartment, I square my shoulders and go to the closed door of my little art studio. I’m not ready to open the door, but I want to paint. I need to stretch a new canvass and get these emotions out of my head.

Turning the handle, I brace myself for the sight of him, but when I look, I’m not overwhelmed with heartbreak. I walk through the room inspecting these exquisitely sensual drawings of him, and when I lean closer, I see the face of a man—a beautiful man, a stubborn, dominant man, but still only a man.

I see him through the eyes of a young girl in love for the first time. My emotions are clear on the canvass, trying to make him larger than life, more than a mere human, but Stuart Knight is only human. He is strong and capable, and he’s right more often than he’s wrong. But I was wrong to force him to be something more.

Again, I trace my fingers along the lines of his jaw, the shading of his cheekbones, and the contours of his eyes. All of it was done with so much care. My stomach aches when I realize how much I depended on him to be unshakable.

These thoughts are in my head as I place a new canvass on the easel. I walk to the closet where I keep my supplies and sort through the different colors. I take out tubes of white and blue, brown and yellow, purple and green, along with my brushes. Setting all the items on a tray, I walk to my bedroom and change into my old jeans and a shirt spattered with paint. My hair is too short to put up in a ponytail, so I have to settle for large barrettes on each side.

The first stroke is the hardest. It’s a long swath of green, the prairie grasses dark as they blow in the wind. Taking the yellow, I touch the tips with the gold from my memory. The glowing light that surrounded us in that sacred moment. Hours pass as I work on the grass, the bluebonnets scattered in the field, the edge of yellow where the daisies were. In the center is a blank space. I’m working up the courage to fill it.

With my eyes closed, I can still see her. The sun, if it was sunlight, danced off the honey highlights of her long curls. Her eyes glowed green above her round cheeks, and she was so happy as she danced. I’ll start with the filmy white dress she wore, working my way to her chubby baby arms and hands, before adding the golden wings that grew and grew until they lifted her from the ground, carrying her away from me.

The harsh ring of my phone cuts through the silence. I open my eyes, and my face is wet with tears. Only the outline of a little girl is on the canvass. She’s not complete anywhere but in my mind. My phone rings again, and I drop the brush in the jar of turpentine before going into the kitchen to find it.

“You okay?” My best friend is on the line, and I glance up at the clock. It’s after seven. “We thought you’d be here by now.”

“Oh, no…” I look down at my clothes. Other than my hands, I’ve somehow managed to keep from getting paint all over me—a first. “I was painting, and I lost track of the time.”

“You were painting?” Kenny’s softens. “It’s okay. You want to take a rain check so you can keep working?”

“No, no!” Reaching for the barrettes, I take them out of my hair and smooth the bumps away. “I’ll just change clothes and be right over.”

Slayde has grilled steaks, and Kenny has prepared her special dairy-free mac and cheese. She’s lactose intolerant and always experimenting with non-dairy versions of her favorite dishes.

“I think I’d like another tattoo,” I say, scooping up a forkful of the large yellow noodles covered in a golden cheesy crust. “Oh my god.” Covering my mouth, I have to duck. The dish is buttery and creamy and so comforting. “How did you do this?”

“Lactose free milk and goat cheese. Isn’t it amazing?”

“It’s like heaven!” I take another huge bite, and she laughs.

“So what about this new tattoo?”

“Mm,” I lean forward in my chair, taking a sip of wine. “Do you have a pencil?”