“I’ve wondered about that myself, but the autopsy report confirmed his death as a broken neck. There was nothing you could have done to save him.”
“I wanted to save him, for you. I delivered some sketches I thought would exonerate you.”
“They did help, but they weren’t discovered until I’d been in jail for almost two weeks. At least my lawyer arranged for me to attend Mark’s funeral so I could be with the girls.”
“I saw the picture of you and the girls at the cemetery. It almost broke my heart.”
“I guess it made all the state papers.”
“It made the papers all over the country.”
“But you still didn’t answer my question. It’s been a year. Why didn’t you come back? Don’t you think I deserved an explanation, or at least a goodbye?”
“Alex, you don’t understand,” Nick pleaded. “I didn’t think I deserved you. I was in no condition to do anything for you. I couldn’t be the man you wanted or needed me to be. I had to get my life in order before I could even think in that direction. I had to stop punishing myself before I could be worthy of you. I didn’t want to ruin your life like I ruined Sam’s.”
“I’m sure Sam didn’t feel that way.”
“The truth was, I didn’t love her enough.”
Alex looked at Nick. He was nothing like the man she’d seen in the bushes, nor was he her same professore. He was more complex and more content. And he truly looked sorry for leaving her the way he did.
Nick looked around at the overgrown yard that had gone to seed in the last year. She couldn’t afford a lawn service, and she didn’t have time to do the job properly. Sometimes, after she’d sold a painting, when she had some extra cash, she hired the boy next door to do the job. Or the colonel would take pity on her and, at his wife’s insistence, come down the street and do the honors. But mostly it just didn’t get done.
“Looks like you could use a good lawn man,” he observed, the twinkle back in his eye.
“And where would I find one of those?” Alex teased, releasing some of her anger.
“Well, it just so happens school is out, and I got to thinking I need some fresh air. Since I’m an experienced yard man, I might be able to help you out.”
“I can’t afford Reed’s anymore,” Alex said.
“No charge. You’d be doing me a big favor. I’ve been stuck in a classroom all year. I need to see the sun, and I could use the exercise. I’d trade my services for some time in your studio—God’s studio.” He gestured to her backyard and his gaze took in the foliage, the expanse of the lagoon, and the bald cypress that was growing healthy and strong.
“Oh,” Alex said, considering the offer. “Well, I teach my Ladies Art Class four days a week here, and then there’s my one-week Summer Art Camp series for four- to twelve-year-olds. You should see the way they fling the paint from their brushes onto my white dining room curtains. I have to escort the younger ones to the bathroom to wash their fingers before they use my walls as a canvas. I have my hands full.”
“So how about if I just paint outside here? When you’re free, we could paint together.”
“I’d like that.”
“Do we have a deal, then?”
She nodded. Nick Anselmo was still hard to resist.
“Let’s shake on it.” Nick inched closer and clasped her hands in both of his.
“Alexandra, I tried to stay away,” he began. “It wasn’t easy. I’ve missed you more than I can say.”
Those were the words she had waited so long to hear. Her tears began to flow and wouldn’t stop. Tears that told her tale of disappointment, hardship, and bitter loneliness, the same loneliness he had surely experienced when Samantha had been taken from him. The loneliness evident on the girls’ faces when their father was no longer there to kiss them goodnight. The loneliness that sliced into her heart like a jagged knife night after night, the worry that somehow she wouldn’t be enough for them.
Nick gently wiped away her tears and she shivered in response to his touch, even in the heat of the sun. That was the moment her soul began to thaw. The moment her heart opened and began to truly forgive.
It might have been all the times when Nick took a break from his work and took the time to instruct Emory or Ella on how to hook a line and catch a fish. Maybe it was when he took the girls out in the paddle boat Mark had bought when they moved to the house but had tired of after a few outings.
Before Nick came back into their lives, that boat stayed propped against the wall, serving as a catcher to collect rain water for the mosquitoes to breed. But the thing Nick most enjoyed was giving the girls pointers about painting during their summer vacation, teaching her children about the contrast between light and dark on the canvas.
“Ella has her mother’s talent,” Nick would say, or “Emory has your eye for color. She doesn’t stay between the lines. She’s an original.”
Nick was endlessly patient with the girls. He always had a compliment, never a criticism. He and Mark were as different as night and day in that respect. And the most valuable thing he brought to their lives was himself. This man had time for them. They were no longer just an afterthought.
“Emory, don’t put too much detail in the foliage. Keep it impressionistic. You know impressionistic?”
“Ella, use deep colors for shadows instead of black. Don’t let your composition get too symmetrical. Keep a distinct foreground, middle ground, and background.”
Professore Anselmo was back in full teaching mode. And the girls began to blossom like the flowers in her garden and heal in response to his interest and attention.
Nick and Alex painted together outdoors every day that summer and became reacquainted. He brought an easel, and he supplied most of the paints. She provided a picnic lunch, which they shared out in the gazebo overlooking the lagoon.
He still had a ravenous appetite, no doubt left over from the years of homelessness and hunger. He sparked her passion for art all over again, and he sparked another kind of passion. It flared every time she looked at him, every time his arm “accidentally” brushed against hers. He moved slowly, as if afraid to spook her. Too slowly for her taste.
“You’re improving, Alexandra,” Nick said. “Your perspective is very original, a bit lighter than your usual style, but I like it. Your old subject matter and colors were deeper, richer and more thoughtful, but your brush strokes on the new paintings are less self-conscious and more expressive. Your work has definitely matured, although there’s a lot more I could teach you. I think it’s time for some private lessons.”
“Oh, but I couldn’t afford—” And then she saw him smile and realized his proposition was about more than art. They laughed awkwardly, remembering the last time she’d felt free enough to flirt with him.
Nick walked over to study her latest painting of colorful beach balls floating in a pool.
“This is new. It’s very good. Do you have many more like it?”
“I’m not painting landscapes anymore.”
Nick touched Alex’s hand gently.
“I would very much like to see what else you’ve got, bella. I have some ideas about putting together a show just for you. I’ve got the connections, and you’ve definitely got the talent. Although you’re good enough to stand on your own, it would be my honor to help pave the way in any way I can.”
“Oh, Nick,” Alex said, her eyes tearing. “That won’t be necessary, but it means a lot that you would offer. I felt horrible about forcing my paintings into your show last year. It wasn’t one of my better moments.”
“Honestly, I didn’t mind at all. It was nothing compared to how my sketches ruined your life.”
“Your sketches didn’t ruin my life. Mark did that all by himself.”
“I did wonder whether you ever truly cared for me as a friend or if you were just using me. But, in the end, I was happy to be used if it meant being closer to you. You’ve brought your art to life, bella, and you’ve brought me back to lif
e.”
What Alex couldn’t find the words to say was that he had brought her back to life too. They were coming back to life together. She was happy to see the new spring in his step and to hear him call her bella.
Alex knew for certain their relationship had turned the corner when she heard the doorbell ring one morning. For just a minute she thought maybe it was Mark—until she realized for the thousandth time Mark was never coming back. And she had come to terms with that. She rushed to the front door, but no one there. Someone had left a package. She wasn’t expecting anything.
Alex brought the package into the house and placed it on the dining room table. Excitedly, she tore off the packing tape and unwrapped the brown paper. When she saw what was inside, she gave a cry of delight.
Nick was no longer working in black and white or delivering simple sketches. This was a full-blown, museum-worthy work of art. A color portrait, a signed Nick Anselmo original. Did anything as fine as this even exist?
He’d taken his time with this one. No more dark and tawdry themes. This one was full of light and life.
It was a portrait of her. Alex studied it, and a tear rolled down her face. In it, she was beautiful and lively, young, as she was when they’d first met at the university, long hair flowing, the slightest smudge of paint on her cheek.
She was outdoors doing what she loved to do best—painting—dressed in her orange shift. It was rich in detail. He didn’t have a picture of her, so he must have relied on his memory, spent hours remembering every line in her face, the exact curve of her hip. It was as intricate and intimate as if she’d done a formal sitting for him.
She couldn’t wait to frame it and hang it in a place of honor in the house. She could have made a fortune if she’d sold it, and she certainly needed the money, but she knew she’d never part with this picture.
After she opened the portrait, she went outside, where she found Nick leaning over the garden tools he had taken from her shed, nervous as a schoolboy, examining her face intently for approval, for her reaction to his gift.
Alex smiled. “Thank you.”
“Do you like it?”
“I love it.”
“It’s my way of apologizing for just running out on you. For everything.”
“I didn’t try hard enough to find you. I didn’t want to leave a trail for the police.”
“Because you thought I might have killed Mark and gotten away with it?”
Alex shrugged. “I hadn’t wanted to believe that. But really, thank you for the painting. It’s wonderful.”
“I think it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever done,” admitted Nick. “That’s because I had a beautiful subject. I had to paint you from memory. Luckily, you’re seared in my mind forever. The thing is, Alexandra, while I was painting you I realized I didn’t want to rely on memory. I want you in my life. You and the girls.”
Alex was stunned. It was too much to hope for. She’d been so closed off, so emotionally stunted from the events of the past year, like she was frozen into a rigid portrait. Afraid to trust. Of course she’d imagined what a life with Nick would be like. She’d yearned for it—but she’d long since given up on that dream.
When she didn’t answer, he pressed his case.
“I guess I’m not making myself clear. What I’m forgetting to say is ‘I love you, Alexandra.’”
The talk of love made Alex blush. He loved her. He had loved Samantha too. Was he really ready to open up his heart again?
“I have a house in Sarasota. It was a foreclosure. I got it for a steal. It’s old, but I’ve spent the year fixing it up. You and the girls would love it there. And I have a studio that could be expanded for two, or more.”
Nick was painting a beautiful picture. She could almost see her family in that place with this man.
It would be a dream to paint in a real art studio. Mark had considered her art a waste of time. But her art was who she was, and Nick understood that. He understood her.
Alex could already envision the studio. It would be well-designed for her tools, equipment, and supplies. There would be plenty of room to spread out, to lay out her work, unhindered. There would be two extra easels for her girls so they could paint by her side.
As it was, she was tripping over the artwork in her house. The laundry room floor was crowded with an octagonal floor cloth a neighbor had commissioned for her breakfast room. A collection of masks she had fashioned was scattered throughout the living room, and a headboard and footboard she was distressing sat in the middle of her foyer.
“The school has offered me an opportunity to teach a course in Florence,” said Nick. “It will be a chance to reconnect with my family in Italy. And while we still have the summer I want to take you and the girls to meet my father. And to Paris, of course. You would love it there, Alex. There’s so much I want to show you.”
Another dream come true, but…
“We could leave immediately,” he said, caught up in the excitement. “I’ll—” Nick saw her hesitation and paused.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t,” Alex said.
Nick looked stricken.
“Am I too late?” he said softly. “Is there someone else?”
“No, that’s not it. I just can’t leave Ponte Vedra Beach right now.”
“Of course, the memories. This is the children’s home. If you don’t want to leave, then of course I understand. We could stay right here.”
He was serious. He would give up his wonderful position, his new life, the life he had hoped to create for his new family.
Alex looked around her backyard, at the lagoon and the bald cypress tree, the cypress Mark had planted and that had miraculously survived last year’s storm. She would miss this scene. But it was embedded in her brain. Nick was embedded in her heart. It would be hard to leave. But it was time to pull up roots, chase new challenges, and explore a new future for herself and her girls. There was light and sun and beauty in other places. And they would find it.
“That’s not what I meant,” Alex said. “There’s really nothing left for me here. It would be nice to get away. But I’m scheduled to have my own show at Beachside Gallery. I can’t leave until next month. And I want you to be there.”
“Bella, that’s wonderful. Your own show, and you let me go on and on about helping you get a show. You didn’t need me at all.”
“No, Nick, that’s where you’re wrong. I do need you. And so do the girls. What you propose would be a fresh start for all of us.”
“Is that a yes?” he asked hopefully.
Alex smiled and nodded.
She had lost a lot of weight since Mark’s death. Nick swept her off her feet and twirled her around like she was as light as a feather. Lighter than air. He pressed her close and kissed her, kissed her like she was the only woman in the world, like it was his first kiss, their first kiss. And Mark and Samantha were no longer part of who they were together.
With a flourish, he took out a ring box from his pocket and handed it to her.
“Nick, is that…?”
“You’ll have to open it and see, bella.”
When she did, her heart soared. It was a beautiful, emerald-cut diamond, in a simple but elegant platinum setting. Not flashy, but perfect. Not a food processor or a juicer but a diamond. Her diamond.
“It belonged to my mother,” Nick said. “If you’ll do me the honor of becoming my wife, my life would be complete.”
Alex wiped the tears from her eyes. She didn’t have to think twice about it.
“Nick, I’d love to.”
Nick swept her up in his arms again and set her down only long enough to place the ring on her finger.
“It’s too big, bella. We’ll have to put some meat on those bones. I like Rubenesque women.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“Because of you, I now have something in common with the Mona Lisa,” Alex said, touching the ring, and thinking about one of her favorite masterpieces.
�
��What’s that?”
“A permanent smile.”
A word about the authors…
Marilyn Baron and Sharon Goldman are sisters.
Marilyn Baron writes in a variety of genres, from women’s fiction to historical romantic thrillers and romantic suspense to paranormal/fantasy. She and her sister even wrote a musical called Memory Lane.
She’s received writing awards in Single Title, Suspense Romance, Novel with Strong Romantic Elements, and Paranormal/Fantasy Romance. She was also The Finalist in the 2017 Georgia Author of the Year Awards (GAYA) in the Romance Category for her novel Stumble Stones, and The Finalist for the 2018 GAYA Awards in the Romance category for her novel The Alibi. Her novel The Siege was nominated for the 2019 GAYA Awards in the Romance Category. Groundwork for Murder is her 24th work of fiction.
A public relations consultant in Atlanta, she is chair of the Roswell Reads Steering Committee.
A native of Miami, Florida, Marilyn graduated from the University of Florida in Gainesville, Florida, with a B.S. in Journalism—a major in Public Relations and a minor in English (Creative Writing). She met her husband at UF and both of her daughters graduated from UF. Marilyn now lives in Roswell, Georgia, with her husband.
Find out more about Marilyn on her website: www.marilynbaron.com/
Visit her on facebook at:
http://www.facebook.com/#!/pages/Marilyn-Baron/286807714666748
and follow her on Twitter @ MarilynBaron.
~*~
Sharon Goldman is an award-winning artist whose paintings are in private collections and who has exhibited in numerous galleries throughout northeast Florida, including the Haskell Gallery in the Jacksonville International Airport.
As a native Floridian, Sharon strives to create work that captures the spirit of Florida. Her colorful palette, unique cropping, and background as a designer and art director help her envision her novel compositions, which she describes as painterly realism.
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