Chapter Fifty-One
Once Again
Siena, May 25, 2012, Dallas, TX
I was giving Austinhis nightly bath when Ryan walked in, whistling under his breath.
“Hey, buddy.” He returned his son’s thousand-watt smile. “Getting ready for bed?”
“Da-da!”
He bent to give me a kiss. “I have something for you in the bedroom—when you’re done.”
I followed him with my eyes as he disappeared into the hallway. Okay. I thought we’d have the much-longed-for spaghetti with meatballs first.
As I dried the baby with his soft blue towel, Ryan’s steps emerged from our bedroom, then diminished toward the garage. A moment later, he came out and returned to the bedroom.
I raised my head at the shrill screech of an electric drill. What?
After Austin had fallen asleep, I entered the bedroom to find Ryan sitting on the edge of the bed, still dressed in his work clothes: black slacks and blue shirt, no tie. A quick inspection proved he’d not affixed any unseemly contraptions to the bed or the surrounding areas.
“What was that noise?” I searched his face.
But he wasn’t looking at me. His gaze, wide and unblinking, rested on the wall facing the bed.
I clamped a hand over my mouth to suppress a gasp.
There, hung a large canvas, depicting an exquisite medieval bedchamber. A woman’s garments and jewelry lay artfully strewn on the intricate rug: a gold-embroidered blue kirtle, a snow-white tunic, brown goatskin shoes, a ruby-and-sapphire necklace, a gem-encrusted comb. A lady’s dressing table in the corner featured scattered perfume bottles, a carelessly dropped hairbrush, and a flagon of ale.
In a beautiful large bed, decked with white sheepskins and embroidered pillows, lay the owner of the garments. She faced away from the viewer, toward the window’s parted drapes, revealing only a hint of her nose and cheekbone. The woman was nude, her raised hip emphasizing a heart-shaped backside, shapely legs tangled in silky sheets. Her arm rested beneath her chin. A full, round breast with a small nipple that just touched the bed. Her long, wavy hair cascaded around her shoulders, glinting every hue of gold in the morning sun. The woman lay in an unmistakable pose of post-coital bliss, spent and languorous, yet there was something wistful in her sensuality as she watched the window.
Distraught as I was, I hadn’t noticed it at Claude’s show. In the distance, a striking figure of the warrior from my National Gallery of Art mural was turning his mount toward the castle on the lush emerald hillside. As in my work, the bay stallion matched his chestnut hair to a fault. But here, the warrior wasn’t clad in armor. Instead, he wore a saffron tunic and a blue mantle that flapped in the wind across his broad shoulders.
True to the rest of the show, the piece was done in the artist’s impeccable realist style, punctuated by the swirly signature at the bottom: Claude Dumont.
Ryan peered at me, his expression oddly pained. He ran both hands through his hair, and my breath quickened at the sight of the gold band circling his ring finger.
“There’s an inscription on the back,” he said, voice faint, “‘You stole my heart, my beloved, yet yours belongs not to me.’ I was told each peace has the same one.”
My thoughts raced, trying and failing to piece this together. “How? I mean, when...?”
“Our old joint email—I guess it’s on his mailing list.” Ryan shrugged. “It’s eerie. The Dallas show announcement popped up when I was searching for Emma’s email. The one with Arianrhod’s number—to set up more sessions.”
I leaned against the wall, beside the painting. “What—?”
“I don’t like feeling in the dark.” He scoffed. “Anyway, this painting was what I saw in my inbox. I bought it on the spot, sight unseen.”
I stared with rounded eyes, taking a mental account of all the things I thought unaccounted for. “Sessions? As in plural?”
He extended his hand. “C’mere.”
He pulled me in between his legs, staring up at me with a clenched jaw. “Claude called me a week after his show. The morning after our run-in at that restaurant.”
I swallowed, breathing him in: love, remorse, resolve. “He did?”
Ryan pressed his forehead to the spot just below my chest. “What he said...he...” His words emerged a bit muffled as he crushed me into him with all his strength. “He said I broke your heart—” His breath quickened as he raised his head, pushing me into him harder yet. “And I know that phone call may have been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, but it was what he said last that made me question my judgement...for the first time.”
“What did he say?” I whispered as he rose to his full height, still holding me in this deadlocked grip.
“That I’d picked the right painting, but...” He bent to my lips, his breath hot and rugged, hands traveling down my back, hard and rough—his warrior’s beautiful hands. “But too bad it was wasted on me, once again.”
In two quick moves, he pulled off my t-shirt and leggings. “He meant your love.”
Ryan was down to his briefs before I could voice my breathless disagreement with Claude. Then, he lifted me up and laid me down, his Ouroboros tattoo hovering above. “I’m going to prove him wrong every day for the rest of my life. And beyond, as God is my witness.”
His eyes locked on mine—bright, shining stars. And then, there was no him or me—only the two of us in a head-spinning reel of smoldering blasts that filled our bedroom to the ceiling, then burst through to the heavens above to punctuate his vow.