Small but filled with immensity. “Yes,” she whispered. Theyhad traveled from coast to coast, and soon they would turn around to head home, where Nathaniel would finally be free.
“September 15th is less than a month away,” she said.
“Twenty-six days.”
She smiled, glad he knew the exact number. “You must be looking forward to getting back to counterfeit.”
“Among other things.”
Shelovedhis dry sense of humor, for his eyes gleamed as he sent her a look of pure admiration. If Rembrandt weren’t five yards away, she’d give in to temptation and steal a kiss.
“What could be more exciting than counterfeit?” she teased.
Again, that closed-mouth smile as he shrugged. “Sometimes I investigate fraudulent documents. Occasionally issues of banking records. All of it is very interesting.” He turned and gazed out over the sea with an expression of aching wistfulness. “But no matter what I do or where I am assigned, my heart will be with you.”
She leaned into the wind, savoring the sun on her face and the clean scent of the air. Whatever the future held, they would be together soon.
Nathaniel counted the days until he’d be free of the White House job, but as his day of liberation drew near, it seemed time slowed. He was constantly within yards of Caroline but couldn’t touch her. He dined with her, conferred with her to ensure the first lady’s comfort, and they even went sight-seeing together. They stole glances when no one was looking, and sometimes he secretly slipped a note beneath her dinner plate to tell her something silly or sweet.
He wouldn’t break his word to President McKinley by making advances toward Caroline until he was no longer working in the White House, but she was making it hard. In Los Angeles she bought a Spanish flamenco dress and modeled it foreveryone in the dinner car, swaying to make the tiers of black and scarlet lace flare. A moonlight serenade had been planned in San Francisco, and Caroline managed to pawn the first lady off on Pina, allowing her to join the table where he sat with Rembrandt and the reporters. The way the candlelight illuminated her profile ought to have been captured by an artist.
They had a three-day stop in San Francisco, where he accompanied the president on the famed cable cars to visit the Japanese Tea Garden. Caroline was yards away the entire time, keeping them all amused with witty observations and flirtatious chatter.
One morning the McKinleys were invited to a luncheon at the Presidio, and Sullivan was the only guard needed, for the first couple would be well protected on the military base. Mrs. McKinley’s sister accompanied them, which meant Caroline was free as well.
“There is a museum worth seeing,” she said as she sat next to him in the parlor car after breakfast. The toe of her slipper peeked out from beneath her hem and tickled his ankle.
“I am impervious to temptation,” he said, wishing a frisson of electricity hadn’t just shot through him, but he didn’t move his leg.
“They have a Vermeer on display.”
That was all he needed to hear. “Let’s go.”
Most of their group had already departed for the Presidio, so he and Caroline went to the museum alone. The Vermeer was near the back in a position of honor. It wasThe Milkmaid, another of Vermeer’s famously quiet scenes of domestic tranquility. A sturdily built woman poured milk into an earthenware bowl, shades of ochre and umber giving the picture a somber tone. The kitchen scene was dim, but pale light from the window above lent quiet dignity to the maid’s chore.
“It reminds me of the Vermeer in the Corcoran, the dreary one of the lady reading the letter,” Caroline said. “This oneis dull too, but beautiful. It makes me want to step inside the painting for an hour or two.”
“Yes,” he agreed, for the painting quietly paid tribute to the dignity God imbued into seemingly mundane acts of daily service.
A family of tourists came lumbering toward the Vermeer. “Why did the artist bother painting such a homely woman?” the father asked as he drew alongside them.
“She’s not homely, she’s flat-out ugly,” a boy said.
“She’s not too ugly,” the mother defended. “I’ll bet she’s making a bread pudding, and this picture is making me hungry. When can we go to lunch?”
“Come on, two more rooms,” the father said. “We paid to see everything, so let’s get moving. This is great art we’ve paid to see.”
“I still say that woman is too ugly to be in a painting,” the boy said as the trio moved into the next room.
Nathaniel tried not to smile as he stared at the Vermeer, but he was dying to know Caroline’s opinion.
“What do you think?” he asked when they were alone again. “Is she too ugly to be in a painting?”
Caroline took a moment before responding. “She has a dignity and strength that shines through even three hundred years after Vermeer painted her. I can tell by the way she handles that pitcher that she knows what she’s doing, and she makes me embarrassed that I can’t cook.”
He laughed. “Me too.”
“I agree that it’s a lackluster painting,” she added. “But I like it better than the one in the Corcoran, for nothing could be as frightfully dreary as thathausfraureading a letter.”
