“I just wondered—”
“Can you do me one favor?”
“What’s that?”
“Forget about me.”
“Five and a half years so far and I’m not very successful.”
“It’s all over now. We know it. The conversation has been had, the stories told, the papers signed.” Another call came to board flight 781 to Atlanta.
“All right. I’ll move on. But Stephen, that doesn’t change one simple thing.”
“Corina, don’t—”
“I love you.”
She said her good-byes and he hung up, crashing down to his bed. She was killing him. He smoothed his thumb and finger over his eyes, squeezing out the shallow wash of tears.
This was it. The last, last time he’d cry for her. Then it was over.
After a few moments, he collected himself, dried his face, and called Darren, who declined a physio appointment because he was heading to the shore with his family.
“Take a respite, Stephen. Rest. Do something with your family today.”
“Have a good time, Darren. See you tomorrow.”
Robert came in declaring the breakfast buffet was ready. Stephen thanked him and jumped in for a quick shower, where a nagging idea began, finding life among the heat and steam.
Talk to Archbishop Caldwell. The retired archbishop lived in a cottage along Hessenberg’s northern shores. Stephen felt sure he’d read that somewhere.
He wondered if the old chap was up for a visit.
“Robert, I’m going out for the afternoon,” Stephen said, coming down the stairs, finding his butler waiting for him in the foyer.
“This came for you.” Robert met Stephen in the kitchen. “By special courier from the Galaxy via the King’s Office.”
“On a Sunday?” Odd. “I didn’t purchase anything at auction. Who sent it?”
“Not sure.” Robert held up a hammer, ready to open the crate. “Shall we?”
“We shall.” Stephen motioned for him to open it, helping lift the lid when it was free, then sliding the painting from inside, breaking away the packing paper.
He knew what it was without looking. The Pissarro. Setting it against a chair in the living room, Stephen stood back, and the magic of the golden gas lamps reflecting off the rain-stained Rue du Roi made his hunger for Corina burn.
“My, sir, what an exquisite painting. Camille Pissarro is one of my favorites.”
“Mine as well.” Corina. This was her handiwork. In the painting’s muted brown, rust, and gold colors of the Rue du Roi, he was with her, walking along the avenue arm-in-arm among the other lovers. Her kiss on his lips awakening his heart.
You love her.
Stephen glanced at Robert as he exited the room. “Send it back.”
“Send it back to whom, sir? I–it’s a Pissarro. Are you sure you don’t want it for your collection?”
“What collection, Robert?” Stephen faced him, holding his arms wide.
“Perhaps one day you’ll start a collection, sir.”
