One to Take (One to Hold 8)

Dropping my chin, I wrap my arms around my waist. It’s a gesture I seem to be repeating a lot lately, only this time, not a second passes before another set of arms wraps around me over them, strong and tight. My back is against Stuart’s chest, and his face is in my hair.

Love filters through my veins like warm honey. I’m in Stuart’s arms. I’m safe and secure and not alone. The hollow ache of emptiness in my chest floods with hope and joy and most of all renewed love for this man.

“Mariska,” he says against my neck, and chills race across my skin. “I told you I’d wait. I’ll go if you want me to leave—”

“No!” I turn in his arms. We’re chest to chest, and I’m holding his biceps. “I want you to stay.”

Our eyes mix and mingle, and all the words we need to say to each other and all the words we want to say to each other hang around us in the air as we hold each other’s eyes. His gaze drops to my lips, and I feel them throb with desire to kiss him. I don’t have to ask. Full lips cover mine in a rough, possessive caress. A little moan slips from my throat as my arms go around his neck. His strong hands are on my waist, moving to cover my lower back, and I pull my body flush against his.

Our mouths move together in desperate kisses, tasting the sweet tang of wine and water, a little salt and the sweet berry of my lip gloss until at last we hold each other, breathing fast, shimmering in this moment of reunion.

“I love you,” he says, warm breath whispering across my shoulder.

“I love you so much,” I say in response, and his arms tighten.

“I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.” Stepping back, he lifts my fingers to his lips, a tickle across the back of my knuckles. “Come with me.”

He starts to lead me toward the bedroom, but as we pass the little studio, I stop. “Wait!” I open the door and turn on the light. “I want to show you something.”

Following me inside, he exhales a chuckle at all the sketches of him leaned against the wall, but when he sees where I’m headed, the room grows quiet.

My abstract painting of the little angel girl dancing as her wings grow sits on the easel finished. For a moment, I can only look at it, stunned by how closely it resembles my vision. The yellow paint mixed with white makes the canvass seem to glow as if lit from within. It feels mystical to me now, spiritual.

Stuart steps in front of me, reaching out as if to touch it, then pausing above her face. “She has your hair.”

Grief twists in my chest, but at the same time, it’s a good thing. We’re here in this place of healing. It’s where we needed to meet long ago, sharing this loss that hurt us both so very deeply.

“She has your eyes,” I say, watching him study the painting.

His hand goes behind his neck—a gesture I’ve only seen him do a few times under extreme stress. His face is lined, and I see the pain in his eyes.

Reaching for his elbow, I pull his arm down and guide his hand around my waist. I slip my arms around his and bury my face in the warmth of his chest.

He holds me, and in that moment, I feel his incredible strength slip. I feel his muscles collapse, and I close my eyes. I’ve come through this pain. My painting helped me release it. Now it’s his turn.

We hold each other as we grieve the loss of our little girl. We will be stronger because of this break, but even more now that we’re helping each other heal.

“I want to go home,” I say, quietly.

Warm hands slide up my shoulders, and he moves me back so our eyes can meet. “Back to Princeton?”

“Back to Great Falls.” As I worked on the painting of our angel, the truth became clear in my mind. “I want to make our home there. It’s where you’re happy. It’s where our daughter is. It’s where we belong.”

His eyes shine with emotion, and he doesn’t speak. He only leans down to cover my mouth with his, and I know it doesn’t matter where I am. He is my home.

* * *

Stuart

Mariska is back in my arms, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like the clouds are lifting. I want to take her away from this place. I want to pick up our life together where we left it. Mo

re than anything, I want my ring back on her finger.

Looking at that painting of our little girl filled the emptiness in my chest with one rough push. It gave her back to me. When Mariska moved into my arms, it put us back together. I’m angry that some idiot doctor tried to make her doubt her gifts. Since the day I met her, she’s been a healing balm to all my inner wounds.

Her face is in my hands, and I smooth back her hair. “Remember when you told me you only dream about yourself?”

Sunset hazel eyes shine up at me, and she nods. “You’re the only person I’ve ever dreamed about who wasn’t me.”