His Hired Bride

by Holly Rayner

The day had been slow. I had been hoping for more overflow from yesterday’s festival, but it didn’t seem like that was going to happen. Only a few looky-loos had wandered in, and all of them had left soon after I spoke with them. They were like crows pecking at someone else’s corn, and the slightest rustle sent them squawking away toward the sky.

  Normally the looky-loos didn’t get to me, but I was on edge today. I couldn’t get the image of Rafiq’s sad eyes out of my head. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had made a mistake by refusing his offer of a grand day out.

  “Excuse me.” A small feminine voice brought me out of my thoughts. A short middle-aged lady with a smart brunette bob and an expensive red pea coat stood in front of the counter where I was sitting.

  “Hi, how can I help you?”

  “Are you the artist?” she asked.

  “I certainly am. Can I answer any questions for you?”

  I got up from the stool, ready to come around the counter, just as the woman pointed a bony finger sparkling with a huge emerald ring toward a painting full of pinks that was called Anastasia.

  “I just love this one. Is it one of a kind?”

  “Much like the artist, yes, all of her works are one of a kind.”

  Rafiq’s voice sounded before I could answer. He had been walking toward us, a big smile on his face as he approached. The woman whirled around to face him.

  “Rafiq, what are you doing here?” I asked, my eyebrows raised.

  “I’m here to do my job,” he said, sidling up next to the woman in the red coat. She had to crane her neck back to look up at him, such was their height difference, but she clearly enjoyed his smile once she did. “And convince this beautiful young woman to take Anastasia home with her tonight.”

  The woman giggled and wrapped her hand around the elbow Rafiq offered to her. “By all means, young man, convince away.”

  He led her back toward the painting, spinning a web as he did.

  “Miss Pryce is a self-taught American artist. She was raised in a loving, supportive home, and thus she was allowed room to find her vision and let it flourish. It’s all in the colors, you see. That’s what you first noticed, isn’t it?”

  “You’re exactly right, it is,” said the woman.

  “Tell me the way the colors of this make you feel. Why do you like it?” Rafiq asked her.

  “I like the way it reminds me of being a little girl again. It reminds me of the dollhouse my father and brother built for me for my 12th birthday. Just looking at it I can still taste the pastries my mother baked us.”

  “You see?” said Rafiq. “None of that is here in the painting, and yet all of it is. This painting had the power to take you back to your childhood and fill your tongue with the taste of forgotten sweetness. This is the power of color that Miss Pryce has mastered. To have one of her works in your home is akin to hanging a living memory on your wall. Think of having that happy sensation every time you walk by it from now on.”

  Whether he knew it or not, Rafiq had drawn a crowd of gallery customers who stood at staggered distances, listening intently to his bold delivery. He was an impressive orator, and art fans loved nothing more than to hear someone knowledgeable dissect art. Rafiq had them eating out of the palm of his hand.

  The woman in the red coat waved her hands at me from across the room, loudly reminding me that the painting was hers.

  “I asked first!” she said. “Create an invoice for me, please!” She seemed genuinely concerned that one of the other patrons would swipe it out from under her.

  Rafiq looked up at me from over the top of her head with a wink and a smile.

  I didn’t have any strength to resist him at that moment. I smiled back with all the happiness I felt, watching him advocate for my craft and my livelihood with all the passion of an artist himself.

  He was making it very, very difficult not to fall in love with him.

  “The art is priceless, friends,” said Rafiq to the crowd. “And you would be truly foolish to pass up the chance to own a Pryce. In fact, this may be the last time her work is within your budget.” The crowd laughed and a few clapped.

  Rafiq turned toward me, still waiting, a little stunned, behind my white counter. He took careful steps toward me as he spoke. The crowd moved to let him by, as if he was a boat cutting through crystal clear water.

  “Speaking of foolishness, I might be the greatest fool here today, even though I own more Pryce paintings than the artist herself at this point.” The crowd loved his jokes, but he didn’t stop to enjoy their laughter. “If failing to worship her art is foolish, then what is to be said about the man who fails to worship the artist?”

  He stared at me, and my heart stopped beating. Heat rose on my skin as the emotions I’d been trying so hard to fight and bury started bubbling up to the surface, beckoned by Rafiq. Something heavy was gathering in the air of the room.

  “Being in this gallery is to be surrounded by beauty,” he said. “But Evie, truly…you are the most beautiful work of all.” He held his hand out to me.

  Not knowing what else to do in front of all the staring eyes, I took his hand, and he kissed the back of mine delicately. Shivers ran down my spine.

  The crowd watched with hushed, baited breath.

  “Evangeline, I have to ask you something,” he said.

  My breath caught in my throat. “Ask me something?”

  “I know that our relationship began as something… professional,” he said, caressing my hand in both of his. His palms were strong and warm, comforting. “But it’s become more than that for me, and I think it has for you, too. I didn’t expect it, but I would be a fool to run from it. You’ve made me want to be a braver man, and there’s no better time to begin making brave decisions than right now.”

  Some of the women in the audience began to coo, and I was suddenly very aware of the sea of eyes staring at us, watching, waiting.

  “Evangeline, I want you to be with me. Honestly be with me. I want to take care of you, and love you,” he said. “Do you love me, Evie? Will you let me be yours?”

  A thousand tons of pressure weighed on my heart and lungs, and I almost felt ready to pass out. Part of my mind was begging to scream at him yes, yes!, and I fought with great difficulty to quiet that voice. I couldn’t do it to myself. No matter what he was saying to me now—especially here, putting on a show, in front of an audience—I knew what he was really like. I knew how he spent his nights and days and what he found worthwhile, and it certainly wasn’t domestic bliss with me, or anyone else. This was just another show, just like our relationship was a show for his father.

  It was fake, I told myself. It had to be fake; there was no way Rafiq loved me.

  With every passing second, the smile on Rafiq’s face faded just a bit.

  Finally I found the voice to blurt it out. “Rafiq, I…I can’t.”

  His shoulders fell. Behind him, people in the crowd exchanged low, sad words, and some of them started to drift away, as if trying to spare Rafiq the embarrassment of their gaze.

  “What do you mean?” he said. “Don’t… don’t you feel anything for me? Did I just imagine what was happening between us? I know I didn’t imagine it, Evie. I felt it last night, holding you in my arms.”

  His questions pierced the core of me, and I couldn’t find it in myself to lie to him about what I really felt, but I couldn’t tell him, either. Or maybe it was that I couldn’t admit it out loud to myself.

  “It’s just…our lives are so different, Rafiq. I don’t think you would really be happy with me. I don’t live like you live, with all the parties, the constant nightlife…”

  Rafiq’s posture straightened, as if I had hit a deep nerve in him that overcame the sadness of the rejection itself.

  “Oh, is that what it is? I see.” He suddenly started looking around, seemingly at anything but me. “Look, it’s fine. I understand. You’re right, our lives are very different.”

  “Rafiq, I’m sorry,�
� I said, reaching out to cover his hand that lay on the counter. “I’m not trying to hurt you, honestly. And it’s not that I don’t care…”

  As soon as my skin touched his, Rafiq pulled away as if I had shocked him. The motion was as upsetting as seeing the pain on his face.

  “I don’t need you to care, Evie. It’s fine. Hell, I’ve got a hundred other women waiting in my contact list. Why settle down, right? That’s not who I am. I’m the party boy. So I will go be the party boy and leave you to your work. I’m sorry to have interrupted your day.”

  The pain in his voice, and in his eyes, betrayed any illusion Rafiq was trying to build that he was unhurt at the rejection. Seeing him so clearly wounded and upset made me feel sick to my stomach, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’d already decided that committing to a man like Rafiq was like laying down on a railroad and crossing your fingers that the track wasn’t being used anymore; it was a risk with almost certain pain involved.

  But as I looked at him there, standing across from me in such obvious pain, that reasoning didn’t feel so flawless anymore. In fact, it had holes big enough to drive a bus through. All I wanted to do was make him feel better, and take his pain away.

  “I’ll leave you to your work,” said Rafiq, running a hand through his smooth black hair. He turned and headed out of the gallery without looking back, or saying another word to me, and there was nothing I could do to deny the hollow his absence left in my heart.

  FOURTEEN