“Oh. Right. Of course. I—well, I’ll go now. Thank you, sir. Mr. Covington.” He laughs with glee and scampers off.
Rupert leans on his knees and stares at the rough boards under his feet. “He any good, Shelington?”
“He’s sufficiently eager.”
Rupert sighs, shaking his head. “Have him meet me around noon on the beach.”
“Noon? You’re always out early—”
“I said noon.”
Pete’s silent for a moment. “I could have her trailed, you know. See if she might be willing to return.”
“No good.” Rupert shoves his long fingers through his hair. “If she doesn’t wish to be here…well, she might as well stay gone.”
“You never talk about her anymore. And you never told us why she left.”
Mostly because he hasn’t a clue himself. It’s the great mystery of his life, but also a great shame. She chose to leave for unknown reasons, and to stay gone, despite what they’d had. It had been magical—but only to him, apparently.
At times he wonders if he dreamed her up. It isn’t possible for a person to bethatbeautiful, not in real life.
Jarring laughter erupts and he stands, heading for the stairs. He’s paid his dues for the night, and now he can return to his room in peace.
But a hand stops him. “Those notes, Bert. I hate to push the matter, but the missus wants them paid up.”
The tailor. Four suits for his exhibitions—no, five. He wore none of them, canceled every showing. Perhaps he should try again. But to do that, he needs paintings to sell. He hasn’t created any new ones in over a year now, and he hasn’t painted anything worth selling since life took a tumble.
“Tate says he’s ready for another show come fall. The tourists are pouring through, but that’ll dry up when the snow flies. Best to collect now.”
“Right.”
“Bring your paintings by any time, Bert. He’ll set you up, run the show. You don’t even have to be there.”
But his paintings do, and that’s the difficulty. “Tell Tate to send inspiration, if he truly wants more to sell.” With a sigh, he pulls his cap on his head and pushes past him. “I’ll have something by end of month.” Changing direction, he walks alone along the rocky beach, pausing to glance out at the great rambling castle on its own island, the mass of towering stone standing alone in the sea. An island—that’s what he’s become.
A man isn’t meant to spend his wedding anniversary alone. He should be touring that great castle with her. He’d promised to take her there, and he’d put it off. That’s why she left, isn’t it? That sort of neglect. He’d fouled it all up, hadn’t he?
Back at the rooming house, the landlord whips open the door for him, as always, and nails him with a knowing look. “It’s that time of year, in’t it?”
Slipping off his hat, he glances around the dark parlor. What would it be if he forgot she ever existed? Forgot what it was to whip his brush across canvas with light strokes, capturingbeauty that she brought alive in the world? Color. Movement. The power of a single moment preserved in oils on canvas.
Perhaps some moments aren’t worth holding on to forever.
“You’ll feel better in the morn, luv,” she says, cuffing him gently on the arm. “Wedding anniversaries only come ’round once a year.”
Notes come due a lot more than that. Notes, debt, and needs—those are plentiful.
He looks out at the full moon while sipping his coffee. He whips out a sketch pad, roughs in the shape of the moon against the backdrop of St. Michael’s Mount, shading in craters, and then he sweeps oil paint over it, giving it dimension. Depth. He leans back, squints, and the work stands out against the page, and his chest widens with appreciation. A strange peace steals over him as he looks at the rough art he’s produced. Hecanforce himself to create, and it is still beautiful.
He sleeps hard that night and wakes feeling better, as promised. He’ll be a sellout, painting mediocre art, but he’ll be surviving, paying his way with the art of his hand, which is precisely what his father promised he wouldn’t do.
After cleaning up, he tucks a couple of small canvases and an easel under his arm and grabs his tattered case of paints and brushes. He’ll simply keep on as he has been and release the need for greatness. He tasted it for a time, and perhaps simply proving his father wrong, supporting himself, is a form of success. Until she returns, at least. He cannot help hoping.
Clambering down the rocky path, he stands on the pebble-covered beach and looks across the water.
Suddenly, he cannot breathe. There’s a stark whiteness against the rocks and cliffs, a softness standing against the hardness. Beautiful. Lovely and pure. Miraculous.Celestial.It’s an abandoned item of clothing, most likely. The holiday tourists are always leaving things behind.
But it stirs. Rises. She is slender and lovely with a cloud of long, dark hair falling to her waist, and she is looking directly at him across the sloping beach through her windswept hair.
