She could feel her heart rise then, and quicken in her throat. She forced it slowly back.
“I—” He almost stopped himself. “I’m sorry I didn’t show you earlier.”
“You can paint?”
“I could. Not anymore.”
At first she pondered her next thought, or move—but now she flatly refused it. She didn’t ask if he might paint her instead; no, she would never compete with that woman, and now she touched his hair. She ran her hand through, and said, “So just don’t ever paint me.” She fought to find the nerve. “Do other things instead….”
It was a memory Clay held dear, for it was hard for her to tell him all this (but death was a hell of a motivator); how Michael had come up to meet her, and she’d led him directly over—to the place where Abbey had left him, whe
re he’d lain, undone, on the floor.
“I said to him,” she’d said to the boy, and she was in such a withering state. “I said, ‘Take me where you were exactly’—and he did it straightaway.”
Yes, they’d gone there and they’d held and gave and hurt and fought, and forced everything unwanted away. There was the breath of her, the sound of her, and a flooding of what they’d become; and they did so for as long as it took—and between each turn, they lay and talked; Penelope often spoke first. She’d said she was lonely as a child, and wanted at least five children, and Michael said all right. He even joked and said, “God, I hope we don’t get five boys!” He really should have been more careful.
“We’ll get married.”
It was him—it just came out.
They were grazed by then, and bruised; their arms, their knees and shoulder blades.
He went on. “I’ll find a way to ask you. Maybe this time next year.”
And she shifted below, holding tightly.
“Of course,” she said, “okay,” and she kissed him and turned him over. Then a final, near-silent “Again.”
* * *
—
And the next year came the second title.
Paintwork at the Piano.
December 23.
It was Monday night, with the light turning red outside.
The noise of neighborhood boys came in, playing handball.
Penelope had just walked by them.
On Mondays, she always came home around this time, a little after eight-thirty; she’d finished the last of her cleaning jobs, a lawyer’s office, and on this night, she did as always:
She dropped her bag down by the door.
She walked to the piano and sat—but this time something was different. She opened the lid and saw the words, on the keys, and they were lettered there simply, yet beautifully:
He’d remembered.
He’d remembered, and how her hand covered her mouth, and how she smiled, and burned in the eyes; all doubt driven far, even gone for now, as she wavered above the letters. She didn’t want to disturb them, or smear the paint. Even if it was dry for hours.
But soon she found the resolve.
She allowed her fingers to fall down softly, in the center of the words PLEASE MARRY.