Chapter Eighteen
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Maple
The lighting in the lobby is horrible. Fluorescent, artificial, and leaning yellow, it makes the hues of my painting appear more gray and amber than blue and gold, and the glare is something awful.
“You could always drag your studio back upstairs to your suite,” Etta suggests for the third time, “and out of the public hotel lobby, where guests are, of course, welcome to rest, but we as a business do generally recommend enjoying the more hobby-centric portion of your stay in your rooms.”
“I’m not going back to my room, Etta,” I huff. “That room is cursed. I can’t work in there. Every time I try to fix this blasted scene, I get nowhere. I need fresh eyes—a change in perspective. If you’re not kicking me out, I’ll get that here.”
She smiles woodenly from behind her counter. “Of course we aren’t kicking you out, Mrs. Swallow.”
Ohhh, she’s mad mad. She hasn’t Mrs. Swallowed me in days.
I’d probably care more if I weren’t so desperate to fix my painting. Unfortunately for her, my priorities lie with my art today, not her job satisfaction. Though, personally, I feel I’m contributing to both at the moment.
I educate her on that fact.
“If I drug all this back up to my room, then we wouldn’t be hanging out anymore,” I inform her. “I’m multitasking. You’re welcome.”
“We’re so honored,” she replies dryly.
I nod. “Yes, you are.”
Discreetly, she rolls her eyes.
Beside her, Mary bites her bottom lip, gaze darting between her boss and her guest.
I sniff.
In full truth, if anyone is honored, it’s me.
Etta and Mary have been nothing but kind and friendly to me since I got to the Nivora, above and beyond the call of their job duties—even above and beyond the call of the fat tips they’ve been receiving.
I’ve come to think of them as friends, albeit the friendships are as fresh as wet paint.
Still, I’m grateful for them, and I’m glad to have them near while I despair over my art.
It’s a comfort to know that at any point I can simply turn, and people I’m coming to care about will be near.
At home, I would often seek out Iverson in the same way when working on a problem, and while it’s not a one-for-one comparison, Etta and Mary hold their own against the memories of his comfort.
Even if Etta has spent the last thirty minutes trying to banish me from the lobby while Mary alternates checking in guests and watching us bicker.
“Do you think it needs more blue?” I ask the room at large, returning my attention to my painting.
“I don’t think it needs anything but for that ugly red blotch to be removed,” Etta replies with a fair bit of sass. Touchy, touchy.
“The red stays,” I insist with no real conviction.
My eyes have been catching on the jarring square of color all morning, and I’ve been wondering how accurate it really is.
If not red, though, then what? What shade would be true to life instead?
With no answer, I leave it and focus on the things I know how to fix—a shadow here, a highlight there, a wonky tabletop in the foreground.
As no guests currently make use of the lobby, Mary leaves her post to stand next to me while I do my best to make a curved line straight.
“I’m not changing the flag,” I reiterate. “But I am open to any other suggestions you might have.”
She shakes her head, and her hands go up in surrender.
“Oh, no, I could never. I think it looks incredible. Every time we see it, I’m amazed you’ve managed to somehow make it look even better.
I can’t imagine how you’ll improve it from here, but I look forward to seeing what you deem perfect if not this. ”
I resist the urge to sigh. I already knew asking her for feedback would be fruitless. I do not get to be annoyed when I created the scenario I knew would be annoying.
“Thank you,” I murmur, remembering the modicum of decent manners my parents taught me.
She shrugs my manners away, then… hovers. Nervously. Right over my shoulder.
My hand freezes on the canvas, and my head turns slowly toward her. “Did you need something else, Mary?”
She shifts from one foot to the other, twisting her fingers in front of her. “I wouldn’t call it a need,” she says.
Patient, patient, patiently, I remove my brush from the painting and give her my full attention. “Did you want something?”
She hesitates, saying nothing, then she bursts, saying everything so quickly I have to ask her to repeat herself without speed.
Sheepish, she does. “I was wondering how things are going with your husband. We know you’ve been going out with him some, and we were curious if that meant you’d be leaving us soon. ”
Aha. I see. I glance at Etta, wondering if this “we” Mary speaks of includes her. The older woman raises her eyebrows in a clear indication for me to get on with the answer.
I suppress a smile. They totally consider me their friend, too.
As a token of our mutual friendshipping, I update them on the happenings with my husband, starting with an expanded explanation of our wedding, and ending with his current dedication to not only courtship, but the self-reflection journey he’s undertaken.
“Ohhh,” Mary says. “So that’s why he’s been in the hotel gym all afternoon!”
My paintbrush droops, and I blink. “He’s been what?”
“Your lover boy has been on our treadmill for the last hour,” Etta informs me. She taps her fingers thoughtfully on the lobby counter as her eyes narrow on Mary. “We weren’t going to tell you.”
Suddenly, her insistence that I return to my rooms makes a lot more sense.
“Why is he running here?” I ask.
“He’s your husband,” Etta reminds me. “Shouldn’t you know?”
Well… maybe.
I shrug. “He’s also a boy. The ways of boys are a mystery to me.”
“Maybe he wanted to feel close to you,” Mary suggests with a dreamy sigh.
“I thought he was here to bother you,” Etta says. “You two are more reconciled than I knew, though, so maybe Mary is right.”
“Maybe,” I agree. “If you’re sure it’s him?”
“It’s definitely him,” Mary replies. “And he brought another guy—bigger, a little, and kind of intimidating. Not that your husband isn’t intimidating himself, but the other guy was…” She trails off and waves her hands in the air.
Etta grunts. “The other guy looked like he’d let you stab him and enjoy it,” she says succinctly.
Ah. Malcolm.
“That’s his brother,” I tell them. I hum and press the blunt end of my paintbrush into my lower lip. “I wonder if he’s making any progress.”
Mary blushes. “When I checked on them, they definitely looked like they’d been making some progress.”
I raise my brows. “Mary, Mary,” I scold without heat. “How daring!”
She hides her face behind her hands. “I’m sorry!
” she cries. “I was just walking past and they were the only ones in there and they’re so attractive.
” Her hands drop, and she stares at me, mortified.
“Not that I was checking out your husband! I would never do that to you. I swear. They’re just– They’re so–”
I laugh, cutting her off. “I know what they are,” I say. “I have eyes as well.”
She hides again.
I snort and drop my paintbrush into a glass of water, then wrap an arm around her shoulder. Steering us to the counter, I exchange entertained looks with Etta. “Here,” I say. “Go back to work, and we can all pretend you weren’t ogling my hot husband behind my back.”
She gives a properly horrified gasp. “I wasn’t! I swear I wasn’t!”
I press my lips together, beyond amused. “I’m teasing you, Mary. Don’t worry about it. Ivy and Malcolm are hard to ignore on their own. Together? You didn’t stand a fighting chance.”
Etta shakes her head. “Go back to your painting. I’ll take care of Mary.”
Mary whimpers at the thought.
Etta’s shining brown eyes catch mine, and she winks.
I smile. “I’m going to go check on Ivy,” I decide. “The painting can wait. Do you two mind keeping it safe for me?”
Mary bobs her head pitifully while Etta graciously tips hers. “Of course,” the younger woman crows. “We won’t let anything happen to it!”
I grin, then get directions to the gym and head that way. It’s easy enough to find, which is to be expected, but what’s not expected is the floor to ceiling wall of windows displaying every inch of gym floor once I’m in the correct hallway.
The gym itself isn’t massive, though it is larger than I would have thought for a hotel.
Three treadmills line a back wall, joined by an elliptical and a stairstepper.
The opposite wall boasts an array of weights and mats, and the center of the room is taken up by two weight benches and what I think might be a squat rack.
What really catches my attention isn’t the equipment, but the men making use of it—one man in particular.
On the middle treadmill, Iverson jogs shirtless and dripping sweat. As I watch, he jumps, feet landing on either side of the treadmill’s moving belt to give him a break. He hunches, back muscles stretching taut as he strains for breath.
Beside him, Malcolm keeps a moderate pace, his shirt flowing and dry. He glances at his brother, mouth moving. Iverson replies, lifting a hand in a rude gesture.
My eyes stray to his back.
My breath catches.
He’s trying so hard. So, so hard.
Hard.
Muscle.
My fingers twitch.
He’s killing himself for us. He’s doing cardio for us.
A bead of sweat slides from his hair to his neck to his spine, and he heaves one huge breath before hopping back onto the belt and resuming his jog.
My lashes flutter.
His calves really are rather strong, aren’t they?
And his thighs…
And his back.
I take a step backward, slowly, then another, faster.
One more. Two. Three, and then I turn, walking quickly to the lobby where a basket of art supplies waits for me beside my easel.
I grab a sketchbook and a pencil quickly, pausing only long enough to wave at Etta and Mary as they speak to new guests before I hightail it back to the gym hallway.
Once there, I fall to the floor, leaning against the wall opposite the glass with my knees up.
I scoot a couple of feet until I have an angle that will afford me the best view possible without making Iverson aware that I’m here.
I settle the skirt of my dress around me, tucking it under my feet to ensure no passersby will see anything they shouldn’t, then rest my sketchbook against my risen knees. I turn to an empty page, poise my pencil over the paper, and aim my eyes at my husband.
I am distracted from my task immediately.
For as often as Ivy and I are together, I’ve never been with him when he exercises.
I know—because he’s told me—that he has a gym in the basement, and I also know that he uses that gym in the mornings before work.
AKA: when I am sound asleep in bed. I know now that when he has been working out all of these years, I should have been dragging myself from the comforts of my mattress to observe him a time or two hundred.
Even haggard, he oozes masculine appeal. I wonder how much better it is when he’s doing an exercise he’s practiced at. How many sketchbooks could I have filled in all this time…
Why am I not filling the one in my lap now?
I blink and shake off my stupor. Then, I draw the magnificent lines of my husband on my pages, and I commend myself for not drooling on them as I do.
Maybe I can’t put a canvas together to save my life these days, but this? Sketching the contours of a man I have always loved?
This, I can do.
Happily.