THE WIDOWS’ GALLERY
Abigail Adams Longley looked around at the three women flanking her in Hall 10/14 of the Uffizi Gallery. They were all staring at The Birth of Venus like wide-eyed art students. Admittedly, the painting was as compelling as when the Medici family originally commissioned the tempera on canvas in the fifteenth century. But for Abigail, seeing the painting again wasn’t cathartic. It was beautiful, but that wasn’t the feeling she was going for. Peace. Why couldn’t she get some goddamned peace in this life?
Abigail glanced at the square-cut, four-carat diamond on her finger, gazed at the sparkle of the ring she hadn’t removed since the day Louis had proposed. And now, a whole year after his death, she still hadn’t taken it off. Conventional wisdom dictated that you weren’t supposed to make any major life decisions until a year after a spouse’s death. Well, it had been a year already, and she hadn’t wanted to make even one decision—major or minor—about where to live, where to go, or what to do. Whoever said money can’t buy happiness had devised another dead-on axiom. She had all the money in the world—in fact Louis had left her a big chunk of the globe. He’d left her set for life, monetarily. But she would have traded every cent for the chance to be with him again. Louis was gone, and the sooner she faced the fact that she was alone on this planet, the better off she’d be.
SOMEDAY MY PRINTS WILL COME
a short fantasy
“Mr. Emissary, just for the purposes of discussion, if ever we became lovers—that is to say, if I were yours and you were mine, and I held your heart—would you honestly want me to seek variety, as you call it, with other men?”
He hadn’t considered that. It was a trick question, and he thought it best to answer it with silence.
“That’s what I thought. I’ve heard it told that fidelity can be quite a turn-on. In my opinion, it is a virtue. You should keep that in mind.”
She had cleared away the plates, and they were sitting on a very roomy and comfortable couch in front of a roaring fire, looking out the window at the waves crashing, drinking wine that tasted like the nectar of the gods out of crystal goblets, and munching on delicate slices of those almond cookies Eva was always baking.
“What do you put in these things?” He thought it was very definitely some kind of a love potion, because he was feeling more amorous by the moment.
“Calm down. I told you before, they’re just cookies.” She drew a breath and continued. “I’ve been thinking, and after some consideration, I’ve decided to let you instruct me in the ways of seduction.”
He choked on his wine and had to put the goblet down. He was speechless. The things that came out of her mouth were a constant surprise.
“I’m beginning to like the sound of this,” he said eagerly, moving closer to her. “It’s not every day a man gets to initiate a goddess. I imagine there would be a lot of pent-up demand, over the centuries.”
“I’m talking about love, Mr. Emissary, not sex.”
A word about the author of The White Gull…
Born and raised in Western New York, Laura Strickland has been an avid reader and writer since childhood. Embracing her mother’s heritage, she pursued a lifelong interest in Celtic lore, legend, and music, all reflected in her writing. Author of Scottish romances Devil Black and His Wicked Highland Ways, she has also penned The Guardians of Sherwood trilogy, two Buffalo Steampunk Adventures (Dead Handsome and Off Kilter), and the holiday novellas The Tenth Suitor and Mrs. Claus and the Viking Ship. For Valentine’s Day 2016 she has written Ask Me, part of The Wild Rose Press’s Candy Hearts series.
She can usually be found at home near Lake Ontario with her husband and her “fur” child, a rescue dog.
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