8. Sylvia #2
“So, I’ve always thought that injustices or failures, like bank loans, accrue interest over time. Since I’ve owed you this apology for a long time, I had to go big. I hope you like my choices. I had to guess since I haven’t shopped with you in so long.”
I blink and look at him, a butterfly starting to flutter deep inside me. “That is not a bundle of art supplies.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “I don’t remember what’s in it,” he says and he can’t even make that lie sound plausible. “It’s for you, so you’ll have to be the one to look inside.”
Mike steps back, giving me room. I see the bulges in the paper, the shape of the corners, and I know that it is from the art supply store.
Nobody ever bought me supplies the way Mike did, with such abandon and so many good guesses.
I untie the twine slowly, wanting to make the suspense last, but soon enough I’m pulling back the paper, gasping at the contents.
Such generosity. I’m stunned.
There are brushes, so many brushes, sable brushes and hog bristle brushes, all different sizes, and a set with a dozen tubes of fabulous oil paint, the luxe brand that I love but have seldom been able to justify.
There’s a huge sketchbook with lovely thick paper, and a pack of pencils in varying hardness, a collection of charcoal pencils and several packages of conte and pastels.
There are canvases, too, five or six of them, stretched and prepared and just waiting for that first stroke of pigment.
It’s a huge haul, hundreds of dollars’ worth of stuff, and I feel as if he just let me into Aladdin’s cave.
“Bonus that you couldn’t apologize sooner,” Merrie says, revealing that she’s come over to watch and Mike gives a gruff laugh.
“Better now than in another decade,” he says, eyes twinkling. “It might beggar me then.”
“It’s too much,” I protest. “I’ll pay you for it all.”
“Not a chance.” Mike is not negotiating on this, but I try.
“Half.”
He shakes his head. “It’s an apology, Sylvia.”
“You can’t do this,” I argue.
“He just did,” Merrie says. I throw her a look and she smiles back at me.
Great. She’s taking his side.
“If it makes you feel better, consider it an investment,” Mike says. “When you have your next show, you can repay me with a painting.”
There are a lot of assumptions packed in there.
Next show. I’ve never had a single one.
And a show requires not just a gallery, and one interested in mounting said show, but an entire array of completed paintings. The only one I’d count belongs to Una, and it was finished more than fifteen years ago.
I open my mouth to argue, but I make the mistake of looking up.
I meet Mike’s steady gaze, my heart skipping that he’s watching me and he smiles.
Slowly. Just the way that always drove me wild.
His eyes are so blue, his attention complete.
It always made me feel like the only person in the world when he looked at me like this .
And when he speaks, his voice is low and thoughtful. “I remember how much you loved to paint. I remember watching you work. You would be so immersed in it, unaware of anything else. I remember admiring your concentration.” He drops his gaze but I feel his intensity.
My throat is tight, unable to even think of what he might want in exchange.
Mike carries on, his own voice husky. “Once there was something magical between us, Sylvia.” The way he says my name lights a spark inside me.
If he’d whispered it, I’d be lost. “I’m sorry for all those things I said, but mostly for meaning them at the time.
I’m sorry I destroyed it all with my jealousy.
I would be honoured if you could give me another chance.
I’d like to be friends again, out of respect for what once was.
I know that forgiving a mistake doesn’t mean forgetting it ever happened, but maybe we could start again. ”
Friends. I consider the array of art supplies, stalling for time, although I knew I’d give him whatever he asked. I don’t need a gift, as much as I love this one. An apology is wonderful, but I’ve already seen that it’s not even possible for me to maintain a barrier against Mike.
Besides the fact that I have no right to do that.
I should think of Sierra, but to be honest, in this moment, I’m thinking about me.
I’m remembering the hole in my life when I couldn’t call to share something with Mike, when I couldn’t count on him to just loom up behind me and rest his hand on my back.
Protective. Reliable. A rock. I’d really love to have that again.
Even if there can’t be romance, he’d be a wonderful friend.
I nod, then meet his gaze, realizing that he’s been waiting for my reply, that he’d wait all day for it. I smile. “I’d like that, Mike,” I say softly and watch relief flood his expression.
For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to sweep me up and kiss me, hold me off the ground and make me dizzy with his touch all over again, but he stops himself. He takes a step back, his gaze clinging to mine, and pushes a hand through his hair.
“Good,” he says, then smiles crookedly so that my heart goes thump. “Good.”
I offer my hand and his smile broadens. “Here’s to new beginnings.”
“God, yes,” he says, his words so heartfelt that I end up smiling, too. Then his hand closes over mine, warm and strong, engulfing my fingers and I feel him temper his grip. We shake, solemnly, then he exhales. He beams down at me and his words are rough, heartfelt. “Thank you, Sylvia.”
“Thank you, Mike.”
We might have stood there forever, lost in each other’s eyes, my hand lost in his, but Merrie clears her throat pointedly.
“Is this détente then?” she asks.
More like surrender, but I don’t admit that out loud. “Yes.”
“And a joint venture,” Mike says to my surprise. “I understand there’s talk of a greenhouse on the roof.”
Merrie and I exchange a glance. There was some pie-in-the-sky talk the previous weekend, when we were punch-drunk on the success of the opening, but it went no further.
Mike continues. “I’ve promised to teach Sierra about greenhouse growing.”
The penny drops. Sierra did say it would make a cool project for her but I didn’t think anything of it at the time.
“We were just tossing around possibilities,” I say.
“It sounds like a solid idea to me,” Mike says. “You could grow a lot of herbs in a small space, and the sunlight on this roof would be great. Sierra is certainly enthused.”
Merrie gives me a hard nudge from behind. “She is,” she agrees. “I think it’s good for kids to have projects and goals.”
“Absolutely,” Mike agrees. “So, I made a call and a friend of mine can give us a tour of his greenhouse tomorrow afternoon, if you’re up for it. Sierra can ask all the questions she wants and you can get a better idea of feasibility.”
“But you run greenhouses of your own,” Merrie says with a frown. “Why go to someone else’s?
“Well, I can’t take guests into our facilities, not when we’re in peak seasonal production.”
“Why not?” Merrie demands.
“We have to avoid the introduction of biological variables.”
Merrie snorts. “I’m not going to spit on your crummy tomatoes.”
“But you might bring parasites or fungi into the greenhouse, without meaning to do so. On your hands. On your shoes. Because the greenhouse is a closed environment under glass, and a warm, humid one, any pest or mold can spread to every plant in a hurry. The crop could be at risk, so we don’t give tours.
” Mike nods. “Rupert, though, has a smaller old-school greenhouse. He lets the wind blow through it for ventilation and loves to show it off. Sierra could learn a lot from him.” He smiles again and there’s affection in his expression. “I have.”
I have a feeling that there’s another reason we’re not going to the Cavendish greenhouses but it’s okay by me to avoid the possibility of seeing Patrick Cavendish. Maybe that’s Mike’s reasoning, too.
“Unfortunately, I have a date at the spa tomorrow,” Merrie says unexpectedly. “So, I’ll pass.” She nods at me. “Bring me some tomatoes, if they’re any good.”
And just like that, it will be me and Mike and Sierra. There is a lot of fluttering in my stomach at the prospect, but this is for my daughter’s project. I can do this. “Thanks for setting it up,” I say.
“Two?” Mike suggests. “Pick you up here?”
I nod agreement, watching as Merrie brings him the bill and he pays. They exchange a few friendly words, then he strides out of the café – sparing me a long backward glance that makes my mouth go dry.
“I didn’t know you painted,” Merrie says, so close that I nearly jump out of my skin.
“Because I stopped before I met you.”
She’s fingering the tubes of oil paint, running a hand over one of the prepared canvases. “This is good stuff, top of the line.”
“I’d rather stretch my own canvas, but yes, these are good ones.”
“Sounded like a sincere apology.” She’s watching me, her curiosity undisguised. She’s either completely in Mike’s camp or close to it.
And I can’t blame her.
“I think it was.”
“Uh huh. And an excursion for Sierra’s sake.”
“Yes.”
“He’s no slouch when it comes to setting things right.” I nod, because it’s true, and she continues. “Easy on the eyes, too. That is one fine man-butt.”
I fight a smile and talk about the art supplies instead of Mike’s butt (which is, indeed, fine). “It was a nice gesture, but I’m afraid it’s a waste.” I can’t stop touching the brushes, but I feel Merrie arch a brow.
“How so? If you’re passing on him, let me know so I can be first in line.”
“It’s not that.” Her suggestion is more irritating than it should be. “I have no time to paint…”
“We’re closed Sunday through Tuesday.”
“I need to take Sierra to the bus…”
“Still leaves Monday and Tuesday.”
“Plus, I have nowhere to paint. That house is at max capacity with the three of us… ”