A few moments went by in silence.
“You don’t keep any paintings for yourself?” Theo called.
Skye stilled. She’d been an artist for twelve years. For the last six she’d done well enough that it supplied her whole income, but still, his words surprised her. A small secret revealed: he kept up with her life. Even though she hadn’t been around, he knew about her art. Did hewantto know? Did he seek out information about her, keep tabs on her all these years?
Skye shook her head. Of course her parents would mention her life from time to time. Of course it would come up on occasion.
“I can’t stand it actually. I just have the itch to take them down and keep working on them.” Skye clicked the foundationcase shut as she thought she heard him murmur, “How unfortunate.”
“Come again?” she said, raising her voice as she leaned against the sink toward the mirror and pulled out the mascara wand.
“Do you feel the same when you see your own work around town?”
“Like where? I’ve never had a chance to find out.”
“Surely the Martha would. You’re a local fine artist. You’re a newly returned regional treasure.”
Skye laughed. It was a childhood dream of hers to be featured at the Martha Washington Inn one day, but the dream held no value now. She was better known on the West Coast—and pleasant enough, in a few regions of English-speaking Europe—than here. “The Martha doesn’t know my name from Adam. No, I dropped that dream a decade ago.”
“This kitchen is stunning,” Theo called, his voice more distant. “I never would’ve imagined these bold colors would work so well together, and yet—” His voice ticked up a notch with renewed admiration. “Where did you find this island?”
She smiled as she ran the mascara brush through her lashes. Of course he thought it was stunning. Her own father had walked through the house, grunted, and said, “An orange kitchen. Never seen one o’ those before,” before focusing on the more pressing point—why was there no TV? But no, this was Theo. “It’s a dresser I found at a yard sale,” Skye said, moving on to the other eye. “I just did a little rehab on it and—”
“And put butcher block on top. So clever,” Theo said. “You could go into business as a designer.”
She imagined him running his fingers over the butcherblock of her deep-teal dresser island, analyzing, processing. In fact, she would bet anyone a hundred dollars he was actually doing that right at that moment.
“Are you touching my butcher block?” Skye called out.
There was a guilty pause. “Did you not want me to?”
Skye smiled to herself as she dropped the mascara into the bag and gave one last look in the mirror. Well, she was no anti-aging Theo, but her brown eyes looked larger and rounder now, and the blue-tinted bags beneath them were concealed. Her cheeks carried a subtle pink pop, and with a few brushes through yesterday’s untamed curls, she looked as presentable as she was going to get next to Idris Elba out there. Two minutes and a paint-clad pair of pants, sweatshirt, and ponytail later, she was slipping into her work boots at the back door. Meanwhile Theo stood at the copper farmhouse sink, looking like a kid in a candy store.
“Want a banana or something before we go?” Skye said, ripping off one for herself from the bunch on the counter.
Theo gave a startled turn. “I ate some of that casserole your mother somehow providentially baked and managed to drop off at the cabin during the ten-minute span we were all together.”
“Ah. She is a crafty one, isn’t she?” Skye replied. “And let me guess. You managed all this—the 5:00 a.m. poetic stroll, the slow-morning breakfast—just after your morning workout?”
Theo’s brow lifted. “There’s a Peloton at the cabin, and yes, I did so happen to make use of it for a few minutes. How did you know?”
“Well for one thing, you are the one person on earth who has actually improved with age.” She put up a hand as his browsrose. “Don’t take it personally. It’s a fact, and I’m trying not to hate you for it. And second, you are the most meticulous, self-disciplined person I know.” Skye waited for him to pass and then shut the door behind her. “I once left you unattended in Dad’s toolshed and came back to find you’d reorganized the whole thing alphabetically.”
“So? I like organization. Everybody likes organization.”
“Yeah, well, we were six,” Skye replied. “Anyway, I imagine that level of neurosis as an adult equates to having one of those commercial rotating racks of color-coded ties in your smudge-free, floor-to-ceiling mirrored closets and jogging religiously every morning before dawn. Am I right?”
As she moved to turn the lock, he shifted his back against the railing, their bodies suddenly compact on the back porch covered in empty pots facing the greenhouse and woods beyond.
“So, you think I’ve improved with age, eh?”
She pressed her lips together as she dropped the key into her pocket. “I also called you neurotic in the same breath. But sure, if that’s what you want to focus on...”
Theo’s eyes were bright. “It’s the orange flannel, isn’t it?” He tugged on the cuffs, which were about three inches too short.
“Yeah. Speaking of,” Skye said, hopping down the steps, “you really went a bit overboard with that good ol’ country boy outfit.”
“Forgive me,” he said, following. “I wasn’t exactly brimming with options at ten o’clock at night.”
