Goodbye, husband.
I put my phone on silent and unwrap my granola bar before I get back to work.
Whatever contractor advisedJames on my studio lights is a genius. Not only can I use the dimmer to adjust the brightness up and down, but I'm able to make the lights warmer or cooler, so I can imitate the conditions in the gallery. As I stare at the newest layer on my painting, I'm seeing it exactly as it will look in the Whitmer.
It’s exactly what I envisioned.
The light ripples across thousands of tiny mica shards, making it seem like the clouds are moving across the canvas. The paint is heavier and darker at the bottom, giving the impression that rain is just about to fall. In a tiny line across the top left, I've carefully used crushed diamonds to add a silvery edge—a hopeful light. You can only see it if you stand at the right angle, which means viewers will have to look closely to discover the painting’s depths.
It's mysterious and layered. It's exactly what I needed to be a large feature piece of the entire show. I know that tomorrow, I'll see all the errors I’m missing now. There will be a hundredthings I'm desperate to change. But for now, I'm full of a bone-deep satisfaction that makes all the aches and pains in my body disappear.
I take a step back, wiping the back of my hand across my forehead.
“You're shaking.”
A low, gravity voice rumbles from behind me. James. It takes me a second to realize that he's right. My hands and arms are trembling, and my stomach chooses that exact moment to growl.
I turn around sheepishly. “I swear I ate.”
James’s full lips tighten. “When?”
“When I texted you.”
“Maura, that was hours ago.”
Shit. I pull my phone out of my pocket and check the time. It's almost ten, which means I blew through lunch and dinner.
James jerks his head toward the door. “Come.”
I follow him down the stairs to the kitchen, where I spot three large takeout bags on the counter. The salty scent of lo mein and sesame chicken meets my nose, and the groan I let out is indecent.
“How did you know?” I sigh, rushing forward to open the bags. “Exactly what I wanted.”
“Lucky guess.” He pulls plates from the cabinet. “You mentioned once that you crave lo mein when you're stressed.”
I pause with a container in my hand. “I said that?”
“Three weeks ago. You were complaining about your father's assistant calling about some gala.”
“You remembered that?”
“I remember most things.” He says it like it's nothing, like everyone memorizes offhand comments their contract wife makes about takeout preferences.
“The better question is, how did I find room on the counter to put it down?” There’s no heat in the words, even though he’dhave every right to be annoyed. The kitchen island and counters are littered with loose sketches and half-drunk cups of tea, the remnants of my day of work.
“Sorry. I’ll clean it up,” I promise.
“Eat first. Clean later.” He crosses his arms and scowls, the picture of sternness.
Grabbing a plate from the cabinet, I load up on egg rolls, fried rice, and sweet and sour pork until I’ve got a teetering mountain of deliciousness ready for me. By the time I’m done, James has cleared off just enough space for the two of us to sit at the counter.
He raises a brow at my plate. “Did you leave any for me?”
I pretend to think. “There might be one egg roll left in the box?”
“Careful, Maura.” He leans forward, his eyes hooded as he whispers into my ear, “If I get too hungry, who knows what I'll eat?”
Goosebumps rise on my arms and legs. There are no purple slots in James’s schedule today, but he rarely gets this close to me unless sex is a possibility.
