But I wasn’t here to think about Matt. I was here to think about painting this room as if it were part of a castle. I forced my attention to the layout, took some snapshots with my phone, and started imagining what and where I could paint. Maybe I could put the girls’ mother somewhere in the painting. The idea sparked a rush of creative excitement unlike anything I’d felt since college.
Inspired, I studied the photos on the bureau again. I needed to see more pictures of her, shot from different angles. Maybe there were more photos in other rooms. I headed out into the hall and toward the master bedroom. Through the open door, I could see a collection of frames on the long, mirrored bureau. Curious, I flipped on the light and walked inside.
The room was as plain as a vanilla wafer. The walls were bare and beige, and the tailored drapes exactly matched the walls. I guessed they’d come with the house and Matt had simply moved in. The furniture was simple yet elegant, a tasteful mix of new things and antiques—most likely the furniture he’d shared with his wife. The king bed was covered with a plain brown comforter, unbrightened by throw pillows or a colorful blanket. A lone lump against the headboard indicated the comforter covered a single pillow.
I walked over and picked up a silver frame on the bureau. It held a wedding picture, showing a glowing bride and a beaming Matt. My heart fluttered. Once again, I was struck by the stunning beauty of the couple. They looked like the figurines on top of a cake. Perfect. Just perfect. The kind of perfection that makes your chest ache.
It wasn’t the bridal gown—which was fitted and strapless, breathtaking in its simplicity—or the woman’s hair or flowers or even her flawless face and figure that made my throat thicken. It was the way Matt was looking at her. His gaze were so tender, so full of love... It was exactly the way every woman longed to have a man look at her.
“What are you doing in here?”
I jumped at the gruff male voice, nearly dropping the photo, and whipped around to see Matt standing in the doorway. He regardedme in exactly the way every woman doesnotwant a man to look at her. Angry. Outraged. Suspicious.
“I, uh... Peggy, uh...”
He stood there, glaring.
“... Peggy let me in,” I managed.
“To go through my bedroom?”
“No.” My face burned. I could feel it turning the color of a boiled beet. “I, uh, was looking at the girls’ room to see about painting a mural.”
“This isn’t the girls’ room.”
“I—I know.” Sweat broke out on my upper lip. “I saw it, and I looked at the pictures, and I thought your ex-wife looked so beautiful...” I ran out of words.
His scowl deepened. “First of all, she’s not myex-wife. We didn’t divorce.”
“I—I know. I meant your dead wife.” I immediately realized how harsh that sounded. “No—late! Yourlatewife. Or—or your wife who’s passed. Or...”
He slashed his hand through the air, cutting me off. His scowl was so dark it reminded me of those scary trees inSnow White. “Secondly, being let in the house doesn’t give you the right to snoop through my belongings.”
“I wasn’t snooping!” But I was, and my shame knew no bounds. “I mean, I didn’t open drawers or anything. I just wanted to see your pictures.”
“So you just invited yourself in for a look around?” His glower deepened. “You just thought that would be okay?”
I slinked backward. “I, uh... didn’t really think.”
“You didn’t think.”
Oh fudpuckers. Hearing my own words come out of his mouth made me feel like a total moron.
“Do you usually have impulse control issues?”
“No. Not... not usually.” He was being a jerk, but he had every right. I wanted to melt right through the floor in a puddle ofmortification. “Look—I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have come in here. But the photos in the girls’ room were so beautiful, and I was thinking I might be able to incorporate your... your...” Oh, God. Here I was again, faced with the same problem. “I mean, theirmotherin the painting, and I wanted to find a photo that showed her from different angles, and your bedroom door was open, and I saw the...”
The front door opened, then slammed. Excited girls’ voices sounded below.
“I don’t want the girls to find you here,” Matt said in a dark, low voice.
“Okay.” I stood stock-still, not knowing exactly what he wanted me to do. Was there another staircase? Did he want me to hide in a closet? Bail out a second-story window? “Where...?”
“Daddy!” called a child’s voice from downstairs.
“Get out of here.” His voice was a whispered growl.
“But they’ll see me if I go downstairs.”
