He didn’t get to finish because at that moment, the door behind them slammed. They both turned to find Ezra standing there, his face pale, his eyes wide and his hands shaking at his sides.
“What the hell are you doing?”
* * *
Ezra
Ezra could barely stay upright as he strode across the room and jerked the cloth back up to cover the portrait Oliver and Anna had been looking at. He pivoted back and glared at them.
“These are my private things,” he snapped, wishing his voice didn’t shake.
“Ezra,” Anna said softly. “We…I…only wanted to see the portrait you created of us. I was curious.”
“You had no right,” Ezra said.
Oliver moved forward, positioning himself slightly in front of Anna. “Watch your tone,” he said, gently but firmly.
Ezra blinked and realized how sharp he’d sounded. How loud. He hadn’t meant to shout. To overreact. “I-I’m sorry,” he whispered.
Anna shook her head. “You needn’t be.” She squeezed Oliver’s arm as she slipped around him. She touched Ezra’s cheek gently and he let his breath come out in a shuddering sigh. How strange that he could be so soothed by a person he hadn’t even known a week before. “The portrait of Oliver and me is beautiful.”
He nodded. “I-I was going to show it to you soon.”
“But that isn’t why you’re upset,” Anna continued, her voice gentle.
He caught his breath again and stared past her at the shrouded canvas. He could cover it all he liked. He couldn’t unsee it. Unfeel what it made him feel to paint it. To look at it. That was always with him.
“Who was she?” Anna asked.
Ezra hesitated. Did he want to tell Oliver and Anna the truth? Did he want to strip himself down emotionally as much as he had already done physically with these two people? When he truly considered that, the answer was…
Yes.
He extended a hand and gently tugged the cloths back down from both the pieces. Next to each other, they both told a story. Very different stories, but each featuring people who played important roles along the timeline of his life. Anna squeezed his hand and then moved back toward the portrait, staring closer at the image Ezra had so carefully and lovingly created.
He could hardly breathe as he watched her, as he felt Oliver’s eyes on him. He didn’t show this pain, not to anyone. And yet it felt so close to the surface in that moment. So near to these two people who had so unexpectedly come into his life and reawakened his creativity and his true, deep passion.
“Her name was Beatrice,” he said, his voice rougher than he wanted it to be. “She was…I loved her. I would have married her, against my father’s wishes, against my grandfather’s threats.” He shook his head as his mind took him back, back to those heady days. Those horrible days.
“Who was she that they would not allow you to be happy?” Oliver pressed gently.
Ezra looked at him, realizing that the answer would be very stark to this man who believed he could not have happiness because of his position in the world. “An actress. She used to pose for me in the early days when I was developing as an artist.”
His mind swirled him off to heady days and nights with Beatrice. With her laugh and her smile and her encouragement that had helped him become the man he was today.
“What happened to her?” Anna whispered, lifting her gaze to him.
“She died,” he choked out. “She got very sick, and she died. Five years ago.”
From behind him, Oliver made a soft, choked sound of pain and Ezra felt him move even before Oliver touched him. The other man’s fingers tightened around his forearm and it was…comforting.
“I’m sorry,” Oliver said.
Ezra nodded. “Yes. Everyone is sorry. I’m sorry. Her life was far too brief and far too difficult. Her death…changed me.”
“How so?” Anna asked, stepping closer and taking his other hand. He was suddenly surrounded by them, enclosed in a protective circle of their warmth and empathy. Safe. When was the last time he’d felt safe?
“I used to paint for myself,” he said, feeling the hollowness. “And I couldn’t anymore after she died. Every piece I’ve done has been a commission since then. Until…”
