Color My World

by Morgan Malone

  Within seconds, his hands cradled her ass and he carried her up to the second floor, all while his lips ravished hers. She heard her shoes fall off and clunk down the stairs. And she didn’t care.

  By the time Don got them into his bedroom, she had her hands under his faded gray sweatshirt, nails raking the long muscles on his back. His fingers were already fumbling with the button on her jeans. He dumped her on the bed and followed her down. They were naked in seconds, clothes flying all around the room as first one piece then another was removed and tossed in the air. Don rolled off her for a moment to curse unintelligibly. He rose and strode down the hall to the bathroom, emerging quickly with a handful of blue foil. Tossing the condoms on the bed, he grabbed one and ripped the wrapper open with his teeth. He looked at her with such intense longing, she was rendered virtually mute. His eyes never left her face as he covered his impressive erection. Easing down between her wide-stretched legs, he reached out to caress her face, gently, slowly.

  “You sure about this, cara? You know this is dumb-ass crazy, but, God, I want you so bad.” His voice shook with need.

  “Yes,” was all she could say. When he slid into her welcoming heat, her legs wrapped around him again, pressing him deep inside her. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before and it was everything she had believed was only the made-up fantasies of romance writers. Her climax hit her so hard she saw stars and when she started giggling at her clichéd reaction to her first major orgasm, Don growled in her ear and redoubled his efforts. Moving over her, touching her everywhere as he stroked long and deep inside her, all Missy could do was hang on and gasp. Her second orgasm washed over her just as Don stopped moving. She felt him pulsing deep inside her and the clenching of his ass under her crossed ankles. When she wrapped her arms around him, her limp hands calmed the quivering muscles of his back as they both sucked in deep breaths.

  Missy awoke the next morning alone in the tangled sheets. The smell of strong coffee cleared some of the tequila remnants from her brain. One eye opened carefully to the dim light of the bedroom, then widened at the sight of a steaming white mug on the table near the bed, next to it a croissant nestled a white cloth napkin. After wrapping herself toga style in the soft linen sheet, she ambled down the hall, coffee in one hand, pastry in the other.

  Don was framed by the unadorned front windows, light pouring in around him as he stood studying the blank canvas on the easel. At the muffled sound of her bare feet on the polished wooden floor, he turned.

  His tousled salt and pepper hair stood like a silver halo framing his head and mostly silver stubble shadowed his lean cheeks. As he assessed her naked shoulders, his bittersweet brown eyes seemed amused. And wary.

  “Good croissant. Great coffee. Thank you.” She raised the mug in salute.

  “You’re welcome. I stopped to get the croissants for us when I went out to move your car.”

  “You did what?” she squeaked, moving as quickly as she could to the front window to peer down on the still quiet street.

  “I parked it the back so you could leave…undetected.” His voice sounded uncertain.

  “You don’t want anyone to see me leave? What? You don’t want anyone to know you’re fucking the housekeeper?” Her voice rose in anger.

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass who sees you leave or who knows we shared my bed last night. I thought you might not want to do the ‘walk of shame’ over to the Twisted Pelican this morning or take a chance running into Bud wearing the same clothes he saw you in last night at the bar, when he opens his flower shop across the street in about twenty minutes. He’s almost as big a gossip as Charity.” His voice was still quiet, but had taken on a definite pissy tone. And for some reason that satisfied the bitchy, uncertain female who seemed to be currently residing inside her body.

  “Okay, then.” They just stared at each other until Missy took a loud noisy bite of the croissant.

  Don’s eyes narrowed when she stuck her tongue out to lick the crumbs off her lower lip.

  Forty-five minutes later, Missy was driving back up to the North Shore with the windows down and the wind blowing through her still-damp hair. Shower sex with a horny artist was definitely the right way to start the morning. And a no-strings, mutually satisfying, additional benefit to being friends with Don Smith.

  Chapter Six

  There was pain blossoming behind his eyes but it did not compare to the ache in his heart. Don finally emerged from his bedroom, still wearing his clothes from the day before. He stopped in the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth before he swallowed four aspirin with just a handful of water from the bathroom tap. The man staring at him from the mirror above the sink looked at least ninety, with bloodshot eyes and silver whiskers covering sunken cheeks. And a truly horrible case of bed hair.

  “Santa Maria, madre de Dio,” he muttered as he faced the bright light in his main living space. A glance around the room told him most of the tale of the night before. An empty wine bottle stood on the kitchen counter and another was on the floor in front of the still open closet doors. A half-filled glass of red wine was precariously perched next to a paint-stained rag on the table next to his easel. The large canvas he had started less than twenty-four hours earlier rested on the easel, completed, except for his signature. He cautiously approached the painting. The deep undulating blue of the sea and the sky was bisected by a band of sunrise, colors emanating into the dawn and across the water from the pale yellow sun that was just emerging from the horizon. Stars fading in the heavens were reflected as diamonds dancing in the gentle waves. It was looser than most of his work, almost abstract, and it was brilliant.

  Staring at the seascape he had no recollection of completing, his first impulse was to toss it across the room. He would not claim a painting when he had no idea how he had created it. His hands were reaching for the edges of the canvas, he was starting to turn toward the opposite wall, when something halted his movement. The light streaming in from the windows was reflecting off something, sending undulating rainbow prisms flitting around the room. His heart caught in his throat when he realized one of the rainbows danced across the last painting he had done of Gina and Raphael. Their two smiling faces were bathed in a kaleidoscope of color.

  Gina had loved rainbows—they were her signature. She had talked him into painting a rainbow mural in Raphael’s nursery, placing his crib right where the rainbow ended, explaining that their baby was their pot of gold. He had laughed at her; Gina had always been able to make him laugh, her sunny personality the perfect antidote for his sometimes-dark moods.

  Surely it was a message from his lost love. She and his son were at peace. Great sobs wracked him as a huge weight lifted from his soul. Don wiped the tears from his eyes, his hands shaking. For so many years, he had wandered alone. For so many years, he had turned his back on love. And his work, while technically perfect, had lacked the inspiration that had made Donatello Stampone a sensation in the international art world. His portraits had been deemed luminous, visionary, and brilliant. The Vatican owned his Madonna and Child, painted with Gina and Raphael as the models. And he had walked away from his career and his fame the day he buried his wife and son on a cliff overlooking the Mediterranean.

  Don could not bring himself to lock the painting back in the closet, to take the rainbow away from Gina and Raphael. He picked up the empty wine glass and bottle of Pinot Nero and headed to the kitchen. It was then that he realized the cascade of color was also washing over the seascape he had no memory of painting. The rainbow was like a blessing on the picture he had created for Missy. A blessing from Gina.

  Too much emotion seeped through him. He left the empties on the kitchen counter and eased himself down on the overstuffed sofa in his “living room”. For what seemed like hours, he sat and stared at the light and color filling the room, at the faces of his beloved wife and son. And at the beautiful scene that greeted him each morning when he left Missy’s cottage.

  After wandering around Eur
ope and Asia, Don had made his way to North America. He’d traveled extensively in Canada and then settled briefly on the eastern shores of Mexico. A chance encounter with a couple he’d known in Italy who, thank God, had not recognized him, sent him packing. He had meandered along the Gulf Coast and the panhandle of Florida until he’d landed in Naples. But he did not want to stay. He’d attended art school in Naples, Italy and the memories were too strong for him to settle in a city with the same name. The area was recovering from a recent hurricane, especially the tiny island of Mimosa Key—just over the causeway from Naples. Almost the first thing he saw on the island was the battered white building facing the water, its blue shutters hanging askew. After making a few inquiries and one generous offer, the place was his.

  Anxious to keep his identity hidden, he made arrangements with a bank in Miami Beach to handle the purchase and the modest renovations he planned. Don had no desire for anyone to realize he was Donatello Stampone, the up and coming portraitist who had disappeared from Italy years before. He transferred enough money from his account in Switzerland to cover his expenses; even with his years of travel he was still a wealthy man.

  He had begun his life in Mimosa Key as a framer and occasional painter. Early on, he’d made friends with Clay and Lacey Walker. His seascapes had appealed to them as they were building and furnishing Casa Blanca Resort and Spa; the scenes were local, the paintings were huge, and the price was small. He didn’t need the money so portraying himself as a small-time painter helped him maintain his alter-ego and kept a paintbrush in his hands. Even the mural he had created for Levi was not enough to bring him unwanted attention; it was just one more of Levi’s quirks, embellishing his Hottie Rock Star image more than adding to Don’s artistic reputation.

  But then there was Missy.

  She was everything Gina was not. Her dark hair, deep blue eyes, and impossibly long legs were totally at odds with his wife’s petite blonde beauty, hazel eyes and musical voice. Missy spoke in tones of Lauren Bacall, deep and rough—her voice sometimes like sandpaper on his emotions. He had run into her numerous times at Levi’s house, whenever there was a new vehicle to photograph so it could be memorialized on the wall of Levi’s surgery or delivering framed canvases after Levi made another of his frequent forays into Don’s shop to purchase one or two or five of Don’s paintings for his home or office.

  For years, Don had believed all he felt for Missy was casual affection. But, he could not ignore his growing respect for her organizational skills, her matter-of-fact approach to anything Levi or life threw at her, and her independent spirit. Not to mention her ability to get along with almost everyone on Mimosa Key—including Charity Grambling. It was almost as if the crotchety older woman had adopted her. Levi once opined that Charity had a major crush on him and she thought she could pump Missy to get the inside scoop on Levi’s comings and goings.

  “I try to stay on the old biddy’s good side, Don, because she can make your life miserable if you cross her. But I do, really, respect her. She has built a business by herself and she doesn’t take crap from anyone. That’s not easy for a woman to do, even now, you know.” Levi had raised a bottle of beer to Charity and toasted with Don in a booth at the South of the Border. “Kind of like Missy.”

  At Don’s raised eyebrow, Levi had continued. “Well, you know, Missy arrived here shortly after me and not long, I think, after you settled here. When I met her, she had virtually nothing. But she stepped up to the plate, took over my life, and gave me the space and support I needed to build the practice and rebuild the house I bought. She’s honest and hard-working and so damn capable she scares me. Missy’s the real deal. I’d trust her with my life. Hell, I do trust her with my life!” He raised his bottle of beer to Missy before attacking another fish taco.

  She was quite a woman. Don believed what Levi told him then and he had learned even more about the still mysterious brunette since he’d carried her up the stairs into his bedroom and into his life. He winced.

  “Well, not really my life. She doesn’t know anything about me—about Donatello Stampone.” He glanced over at Gina’s portrait again. The rainbows had disappeared, leaving her face bathed in the soft white light of the December morning. Another message?

  “Che cosa faccio adesso, il mio amore? Do I trust her with our past, my lost darling? Do I put my future into her very capable hands? Quel che sarà sarà. What will be, will be.”

  Chapter Seven

  You saved my life with lunch/dinner yesterday! I apologize for not thanking you sooner but I was painting…and selling almost everything in the shop to Clay. Can I make it up to you with dinner tonight? I want you.

  Missy looked over at the message on her phone. Finally. She had been feeling a little pissed off at Don—not for being incommunicado for over 24 hours, but for not letting her know he liked her eggplant parm. She knew how particular he was about red sauce. She couldn’t respond right off—and he could wait a few minutes after making her wait for a whole day—because her hands were buried deep in a chicken carcass. She was still feeling a bit off and the weather had a definite chill to it so she’d decided that a nice chicken soup for dinner would fit the bill. And leave her with enough cooked chicken to make a ton of chicken salad for Levi’s and Ella’s lunches tomorrow and the next day. They were addicted to chicken salad. Especially hers.

  Great idea, she had thought, until she was faced with pulling apart two boiled chickens. Her iffy stomach was roiling around at the sight of bones and skin, something that had never bothered her before. Damn, this really might be a stomach bug. If I’m not feeling better tomorrow, I’ll go see the doctor. She needed to get into town to the bank, in any event. Her quarterly inheritance check had been deposited on December first and she needed to move some money around in her account. She didn’t like leaving a trail on the Internet, so every few months she drove up the coast to Clearwater and did her banking, a little shopping, and sometimes took in a baseball game—especially during Spring Training.

  “I’ve got enough chicken here for an army, Hersch. Good thing you and Lady Marmalade will eat the scraps.” She dropped a handful of skin and bits in the Lab’s bowl. It was gone in an instant and he was nudging her for more. “No,” she said, reaching for a small plastic bag, “this is for Lady.”

  Hersch went over to lie in front of the patio doors and sulk, while Missy finished dividing the chicken between the pot full of broth and fresh vegetables and a plastic container which would soon hold chicken salad. She contemplated making matzoh balls but her stomach turned over again at the thought of beating eggs. “Noodles it is, then.” Within moments, the chicken and egg noodle soup was complete and the kitchen set to rights. Missy paused long enough in her routine to text a quick message to Don.

  I’m not up for dinner tonight but stop by and I’ll share some homemade chicken noodle soup with you. I’ve been wanting you, too.

  She’d barely made it down the hall to the laundry room when her cellphone beeped again.

  Are you tired or sick? Can I bring you something or would you like to be alone? I could kiss whatever is bothering you and make it better.

  A few more text exchanges, while Missy put one load of laundry in the dryer and started another washing, set their evening plans for soup and saltines at seven, with Don bringing diet ginger ale. By mid-afternoon she was feeling better—so good that she made two apple pies, one for Doc and Ella and one for her and her lover.

  Just before seven, Hersch’s barking from Levi’s front porch announced Don’s impending arrival. His Jeep was pulling into the parking space next to her cottage just as she opened the front door. After a quick cleaning of her own place, she’d taken a warm shower and washed her long brown hair. She loved the lavender scent of the shower gel and matching shampoo Ella had given her on her last birthday. Knowing that her bra and panties were the same silky hue as the fragrance and the light sweater she wore had her smiling secretively as Don climbed out of the Jeep. The man was in for a surprise.
He loved peeling sexy underwear off her, although occasionally, he moved so fast that clasps were broken and elastic torn. But he always replaced it on his next visit.

  Damn, he looked good. And different. He’s changed since I saw him last…but how? Same tousled salt and pepper hair, a little damp from a recent shower. Good, she thought, he probably used that evergreen eucalyptus blend of soap and shampoo he favored. It reminded her of a long-ago trip to Tuscany. And he’d shaved. Mmmm, she felt herself getting damp because she knew that when this man shaved, she’d eventually be feeling the silky glide of his cheeks brushing against her inner thighs.

  Don flashed her a blinding smile before he turned to get something from the passenger seat. He produced a fabric tote bag with the top of a soda bottle peeping out, next to the long green neck of a bottle of wine. And flowers. Daisies. How did he know she loved daisies? Within moments, he swept her into an embrace, something he usually waited to do until they were inside the cottage. No public displays of affection was their rule. His lips brushed her forehead while his arms remained wrapped around her, the tote bag dangling from his wrist banging against her butt.

  “Good, you’re not running a temperature. I was worried about you. Charity just told me that there’s been a particularly nasty bit of stomach flu going around, lots of kids missing school. She thinks its food poisoning from what she is sure was bad turkey served at the Mimosa Key Thanksgiving Feast. Always looking on the bright side, that one.”

  Missy laughed as he released her and held the door open. “Charity is a real conspiracy theorist, you know. I’m surprised she doesn’t think some drone dropped poison on all of us. But, I’m feeling much better now, so I don’t think its food poisoning.”

  He moved to put the bag on the kitchen counter, pulling the bouquet out and presenting it to her with a flourish. “My mother always said daisies were perfect for a sick visit because they were like little smiling faces. And everyone loves daisies.”