Chapter 51
Vivian
Husband: I love you!
My heart flutters. I’ll never tire of him telling me this.
I haven't seen him since that mind-blowing, panty-melting kiss in the elevator, a week ago. He’s been sending short messages like this one at least twice a day, and OMG, each time I read them my entire body lights up.
Husband: You are so talented, baby!
He promised to show me how much he loved me, and clearly, this is his way of honoring my need for a little space.
Husband: You are the most beautiful woman in the entire world.
He surprised me again. I miss him, of course, but I’m equally happy to have this time to focus on my craft.
Also, he uses punctuation in his message. OMG, how cute is that?
Husband: Not a moment goes by when I don’t think about you. I can’t wait to see you again!
Gosh, I had no idea the man could be so romantic. I am swooning.
His housekeeper continues to cook for me.
Only now, she insists on knocking on my door to get my attention.
As I get deeper into the flow, as I feel my muse take over, I begin to ignore the knocks.
There've been times when I've skipped meals until hunger forces me to open the door and retrieve one of the trays. Painting day and night without any disturbance is a luxury I’ve never had before.
And he gave me that.
He gave me the mind-space to create. And ensured I have all the materials I need for it.
He ensured I could use this room as a studio.
I don’t have to worry about my sister or my father.
I check in with both most days, but the last time I called, my sister told me she was going on another European tour with her troupe.
Q had arranged to have my father, and his carer—who was now also his girlfriend—flown to Johns Hopkins for the medical trials he got on.
When I called him, he sounded happy and excited.
He’d responded better than expected to the medication and said he felt so much better already.
It means I can continue to focus on my craft. I have Quentin to thank for that. I am grateful to him. But a part of me is uncomfortable with it. That, with his money, he can change my life in the space of a month, is something I’m still coming to terms with.
And then, that kiss in the elevator. It was different from the way he kissed me before. The way he looked at me when he said his actions are going to show me how much he loves me—it was that look in his eyes that made me realize how serious he is about us.
And his texts are proving it. Is that why I miss him?
He no longer sleeps here; I know that because the pillow next to me remains undented every night. So, he's sleeping in his office, or he's moved into a hotel.
After a few days, I started sleeping on the couch in my studio.
It's big enough to double as a bed, and it means I don’t have to waste time walking up the corridor to our bedroom.
It also means, I’m not distracted by thoughts of Q and his scent, which surrounds me in the bed we shared.
Now, I have less than a week to go, and the tension within me is building.
I can feel it in the way I’ve been painting nonstop for the last god-knows-how-many hours. In the way the colors leap from my brush and take a life of their own on my canvas.
There’s a knock on the door; I ignore it. It’s probably the housekeeper.
A few minutes... Or is it hours later? There’s another knock.
“Go away,” I yell. My head spins, and my fingers cramp with fatigue. I shake them out, roll my shoulders, and push through the exhaustion. I’m on a roll, and nothing can stop me. I must keep going until I finish.
I dip my brush into the paint and continue to splash the colors on the canvas. Keep going. Don’t stop. This is the last canvas, and my most important one. I have to complete this in time for the showing. My phone buzzes from somewhere in the room. I ignore it. It stops, then starts again.
I growl, then march to where I’ve left it face down on the couch and shove it aside. It hits the floor, then bounces once before sliding away.
I head back to my canvas and continue painting.
There’s another knock on the door. I don’t answer it.
One more knock. I block out all noises, focus on my painting.
My stomach growls; I ignore the hunger pangs.
My throat is parched, and my head hurts.
My eyelids flutter down; I shake myself awake.
Dip the brush in the paint, press it down on the canvas.
And again. And again. A few more strokes, just a few more.
The door bursts open. The brush slips from my fingers, and my knees give way.
I don’t have the strength to turn my head.
The floor comes up to meet me. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for impact, which never comes.
Instead, something hard and ungiving bands around me.
I’m lifted up, and when I open my eyes, I see him.
"Q"—I swallow—"what are you doing here?"
He says something, but the words fade away, then darkness overwhelms me.
When I come to, I’m in my room, in my bed, under the covers. I try to sit up, but a firm grip on my shoulder stops me.
"Rest," a hard voice rumbles from above me.
I look up into those piercing blue eyes of his. Anger smolders in them. I flinch, and a shutter lowers over them.
"You need to eat." The lines around his mouth seem deeper. His jaw is tight. He seems upset with me. The tendons of his throat stand out in relief. He’s barely keeping a grip on his temper, I realize.
"Why are you angry?" I sniffle, hating myself for the weak tears that overflow my eyes.
His features take on an agonized expression. He wipes away my tears with his thumb. "Not angry at you, baby; angry at myself for not being around to take care of you."
"I missed you." The words are out before I can stop myself. It’s my turn to flinch. I must be feeling weaker than I realized to let those words slip out.
His features soften. "I missed you, too, Raven."
"Oh." I swallow around the ball of emotion in my throat. "I didn’t realize I'd miss you so much when I asked you to stay away. I didn’t realize you’d actually honor my request, either.”
He seems taken aback, then barks out a laugh. “That was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The number of times I called Mrs. Harmon to ask about you, the number of times I asked her if you’d eaten—” he shakes his head. ”It's a wonder she hasn’t quit yet.”
“I knew you were keeping tabs on me through her. It should have made me angry but, if I’m being honest, it also made me feel cherished.”
“And I do cherish you, baby. More than anything else in my life.” He cups my cheek.
"When you asked for space to focus on your painting, I knew you were also asking for time and a little space to work things out in your head. This showing is so important to you, and I thought it best to allow you to focus on it. Now, I wonder if I made the wrong decision. Now, I wonder if I shouldn’t have insisted on taking care of you while you painted.
" He drags his gaze down my body, then back to my face. "You’ve lost weight. You haven’t been eating or sleeping—some of which, I know, is because you’re in creative flow, but if you don’t keep up your strength, you’ll never be able to do your craft justice. "
His words send a thrill of warmth coursing through my veins. There’s no mistaking the worry in his features, or the caring nature of his words, or the anger which smolders in his eyes. Before I can say anything else, the door to the bedroom opens. His housekeeper walks in and hands him a tray.
"Thank you, Mrs. Harmon." He nods at her. "You may leave now."
She turns to me. "I hope you feel better soon, Mrs. Davenport."
I blink. Eh? She’s referring to me? I'm Mrs. Davenport… Of course, I am. I did marry Quentin. But no one’s called me that before. "Thanks," I mumble. She leaves the room and the door snicks shut. Then, there’s a spoonful of food in front of my face.
"Open," he murmurs in a husky voice.
I part my lips, and he slides a spoonful of liquid into my mouth. The aromatic taste of spices, mixed with the heavier composition of the broth and the creamy addition of yogurt, fills my senses. "Mmm." I chew on the pieces of vegetable and meat, and swallow. "This is delicious."
"Mulligatawny soup. It’s my mother’s recipe."
"Mulliga-what?" I stumble over the word.
"It’s an old Anglo-Indian recipe. My mother’s father was from the sub-continent. He was a soldier in the British Army."
That’s the first time he’s willingly shared something of his past. I stay silent as he feeds me another spoonful, and am rewarded when he continues, "She took after her mother in her looks, with fair skin and blue eyes.
She was self-conscious about her heritage, probably because she was bullied about it in school.
She preferred not to have anything to do with that side of her family.
But whenever we boys didn't feel well, she’d make us Mulligatawny soup. "
I swallow another mouthful. "It’s very tasty."
"This one has chicken broth and vegetables, a dash of yoghurt and is flavored with curry powder. That’s a blend of spices like cumin, coriander, turmeric, fenugreek and pepper,” he adds.
I stare at him. "You’re very knowledgeable about Indian food."
He hesitates. "I went through a phase in my teens when I researched Anglo-Indian history, including the food. I was curious about my heritage, especially because my mother refused to talk about it. Then I joined the Marines, and that became my life."
"You Davenport men take after your maternal grandfather in your tradition of serving the country, it seems."
His gaze widens. He looks at me in surprise. "I never thought of that before." He continues to stare at me, and my cheeks heat.
"What?" I murmur.
"You’re beautiful," he says with absolute seriousness. It's not patronizing; he means it.
I lower my eyelashes. "Thank you. Also, I’m hungry."