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And then there’s Artemis.
She created impossibly symmetrical marble jellyfish. At eight years old, she sculpted them with such breathtaking precision that her father couldn’t stop talking about them for four weeks straight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him prouder.
He kept every single one. God, such a sweet man.
My smile widens as I breathe in the familiar scent of stone dust, oil paints, expensive cedar wood cologne, and my husband. A fragrance I’d recognize anywhere, even after nearly three decades together.
The love of my life stands with a chisel in one hand and a crystal glass of Prosecco in the other.
His light brown hair is now threaded with enough silver for strangers online to call him distinguished. It’s honestly infuriating. Lucan ages like a Renaissance painting while I entrust my future to collagen powder, sunscreen, and whatever miracle cream our daughters’ beauty brand releases next. It’s simply unfair.
My husband tilts his head, studying the sculpture before him.
A sculpture of me.
I lost count years ago of the masterpieces he’s created in my honor. Pink rose gardens, gorgeous marble fountains, entire rooms devoted to me in every home we’ve ever owned.
For nearly thirty years, Lucan has immortalized my face in marble, and I still think it’s the most romantic thing in the world.
My youngest calls it an unhealthy obsession.
Fortunately for Lucan, I find his obsession with me adorable.
I’ve never wished he’d stop looking at me as though I’m his favorite work of art. Besides, I’m just as hopelessly obsessed with him. I simply express it differently.
I can’t sculpt to save my life, so I spoil him with home-cooked meals, thoughtful gifts, and as many ‘I love yous’ as he’ll tolerate.
“You know,” I say, stepping inside and quietly closing the door behind me, “most husbands buy their wives flowers.”
Without taking his eyes off the marble, he replies, “Flowers die, mio cuore.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my smile.
“Normal husbands don’t spend six months carving thirty-foot statues of their wives.”
One corner of his bearded mouth lifts.
“That’s because normal husbands don’t get to love you.”
I roll my eyes.
The shameless flirt.
Nearly thirty years of marriage, and he still lays it on as thick as the day we meet.
The worst part?
I still can’t get enough of it.
I never will.
After carefully shaping the sculpture’s mouth, he finally glances over his shoulder.
The moment his blue eyes meet mine, his expression softens completely.
He looks at me as though I’ve walked into the room carrying sunshine in my hands.
Somehow, my husband still sees me as the most beautiful thing he’s ever created. Which is saying something, considering he’s one of the most celebrated sculptors in the world.
