He was scarcely able to breathe when she did that.
Finding her lips in the dark, kissing her until she giggled, was the best part of any day. No matter what occurred in the munitions plant, he knew he’d be pulling Helen with her big smile and lovely curves close to him that evening and kissing her with the scent of lilacs in the background.
The scent of lilacs grows stronger and he closes his eyes, inhaling.
A bump. He jolts forward in the tiny gallery, knocking over a stack of unframed canvases. He scrambles to pick them up, his hands shaking.
A tight giggle.
Right, the little chit. He edges away. Two clocks are ticking somewhere, and his brain fires up, instinctually prepared for an explosion. It’s too tight in here. Cramped.
“Daydreaming, are you?” Her bright voice is like the squeal of car brakes.
The aisles are narrow. He keeps his back to her to pretend she isn’t infringing upon his space. “Just thinking.”
“Penny for your thoughts.” She comes alongside him, an imaginary penny pinched between two fingers as her overly red lips flash a conspiratorial smile.
“N-n-not for sale.” He turns back to Covington’s painting, honing in on the sweep of brushstroke that is his signature.
“I think perhaps what you need,” she says, “is a bit of color in your life.” She elbows him playfully, and he jerks. He adjusts his coat to hide the twitching. What happens if he goes into full-blown—
“Oh, come now. It’ll cheer you.” She reaches for him.
“I doubt it.” He edges away, studying the Covington collection. Refocusing.
Yes. Paintings. The paintings.
He blinks, steadying his gaze upon them. They tell the story of Newlyn the fishing village with an impressionist’s eye, thedocks and gritty beaches, the wharfs and seascape. The only human in any of his paintings is a hunched fisherman shown from the back. Which aligns with what the shopkeeper said.
Perhaps the man is right and his painting isn’t a Covington after all.
In that case he has nothing to offer Helen.Nothing.
“Covington,of all things. Of all the artists in this gallery, no one’s as dull as Rupert Covington. He’s—”
William stiffens. “You know him?” He turns and forces himself to look at her directly, which pleases her.
“Rupert?” She purses her lips and then releases them in full bloom. “We’re practically neighbors. His work has hung across from mine for all five years I’ve been here.”
“Did he…that is, has he ever painted a woman? A lady?” He’s read half a dozen entries now in Merryn’s notebook. He skimmed for mentions of Covington, then backed up to savor an entry each night after his work.
Her eyebrows rise and she laughs. “You know nothing about art, do you? Rupert Covington never painted people.”
“Why not?”
She shrugs. “He’s always been a bit of a mystery, even around Newlyn. He’s notorious for refusing portrait commissions, you know. Some considered it selling out. And he wouldn’t have been caught dead selling out.”
William stares at the dark-blue back of the fisherman in Covington’s painting. “How might I call upon him? Has he a local address?”
Silence. William turns and she’s staring at him. Amused. Looping pearls around one finger. “No one contacts Rupert Covington. He and his wife keep to themselves, especially since he made a name for himself. But come, let me show you something.” She tugs him across the aisle. “If you want to see the people of Newlyn, look here.”
He huffs but gives a polite, cursory glance at what are likely her creations. The modern style isn’t displeasing, but there is no comparison. Her brush strokes are broad and excitable with deep, varied colors. They are sudden and eager. Young.
If William closes his eyes, he can see the painting of Merryn, the highlights on her gown, the faint copper streaks in her dark hair. “His wife. Who is Covington’s wife?”
She rolls her eyes. “I’ve no idea, I’m not his keeper.”
Useless. The girl is useless. With her tick-tick heels and that too-tight voice and atap-tap. Tap-tap.He clenches his teeth as her pen hits a desk. “Please stop.”
