Chapter 52
Vivian
My husband surprised me again. He’s been so patient, so understanding, it’s hard to reconcile this tender side of him with the dominant, macho, alpha he is.
I realize, I might have misjudged him. There are more facets to Q than I appreciated.
After he asked—no, begged me not to ask him to stay away, and I agreed, he’s been sleeping in our bed the last few nights.
But he hasn’t touched me, except to spoon me.
I woke up when he slipped into bed last night, then sighed in contentment when he pulled me into his arms. And I woke with the evidence of his arousal stabbing into the small of my back.
I knew he was awake, and for a few seconds, I was sure he was going to make love to me.
But he pushed my hair aside, kissed the curve of my shoulder, wished me a good day, and got out of bed.
He bathed and left me with another kiss on my forehead.
Oh, my God, I felt so desired. I felt his restraint, and that turned me on even more. In a daze, I made it to my studio to find he’d left me a cappuccino in an insulated tumbler. I almost burst into tears with his thoughtfulness, then indulged myself by sipping the cappuccino slowly.
Why does it feel like our relationship has evolved? That he’s even more in tune with my desires? It makes me feel cherished, but also… Nervous? I place the tumbler aside, then walk over to my easel to survey the last painting I created. This is the final one I need for the show.
It’s also the only one that isn’t Quentin-themed.
An abstract in blue and black, with wing-shaped shadows hidden between the layers of colors, it’s the darkest painting I’ve ever created, and the most personal.
I wasn’t sure what it was meant to be, only that I felt compelled to splash colors onto the canvas.
Now that it’s done, I can see it in perspective.
I know what it is. I don’t want to sell this one, but I committed to the gallery owner to deliver twenty-five paintings, and this is one of them. I can’t go back on my word.
There’s a knock on the door, and when I turn, it’s to find Lizzie popping her head around. "Can I come in?" She beams at me. I wave her in, and she walks over and hugs me. "So good to see you!"
"You, too." I squeeze her shoulders. "How was the tour?"
"Great!" She steps back, and there’s a sparkle in her eyes. One I recognize. It’s how I feel when I’ve completed a painting and I know it’s good.
It’s that sense of complete satisfaction at having emptied everything you have into your creation.
That sense of having plumbed the depths of your subconscious and given it shape, knowing it's not yours anymore.
We smile at each other, and then Lizzie hugs me again. "Marriage suits you."
“Thank you.” I bite the inside my cheek. “I heard about you confronting my husband, by the way.”
She seems a little taken aback, then she holds up her hands.
“I’m sorry if it felt like I was interfering...
Which I was. But when I realized how unhappy you were on that phone call, and I could tell you’d been crying…
. And while you didn’t let slip much about the details, I gathered enough from our various conversations to realize your man was being bull-headed. He needed a talking to, and—”
“You decided you were the person to give it to him?” I half smile.
“Something like that.” She squeezes my shoulder.
“I hope I didn’t make things worse. I mean, clearly, I didn’t because you’re here all smiling and glowing.
And I’m sorry if you feel I overstepped, but you’ve done so much for me Vivi, and I couldn’t stand by and see you unhappy. I had to do something about it.”
I take in her nervous tone and the anxiety in her features.
I do think she overstepped, but that’s Lizzie.
She’s impetuous and spontaneous and she meant well.
Besides, whatever she told Q seems to have changed his mindset completely.
“I am grateful for what you did, but”—I wag my finger— “don’t do it again. ”
“I won’t, but I don’t think I'll need to, going by that dazed look in your eyes.”
“Dazed look?” I scoff. “Must be from all the painting.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it nowadays?” She waggles her eyebrows.
“Oh, shut up”—I pat her cheek— “and speaking of… Being on tour seems to suit you. Must be all that sweating during a performance, hmm?”
She laughs; so do I. Then she shifts her weight from foot to foot. "I may have… uh… met someone."
A burst of happiness blooms in my chest. I feel so happy and I want Lizzie to feel the same. “How wonderful!” I throw my arms about her. “Tell me all about it." I pull her over to the couch in the corner, then head to the small refrigerator in the corner.
"Wow, all the comforts of home." She accepts the bottle of water I offer her.
"Quentin insisted, after he found out I hate to leave the studio when I’m working. He keeps it stocked with water, juices and healthy snacks, so I never starve."
"That’s very considerate of him."
I nod. "He knows how to calm me down and anticipate my needs before I do. And he's so caring. Oh my god!” I’m swooning, but I can’t stop myself.
She flashes me a knowing smile. "He’s one hot silver fox."
You have no idea. I clear my throat. "Anyway, I’m done with the paintings. I can relax."
She glances at the one on the easel. "That’s very different from your normal style.
" She rises to her feet and moves toward it.
She surveys it closely. "It’s edgier, and evocative, and sexy; yet also, haunting.
There are depths to it… It feels like every time I look at it, I could find a new meaning.
"I do like it." I walk over to stand next to her. "I wish I didn’t have to sell it."
"So don’t."
I shake my head. "I’m contracted to give all twenty-five of the paintings for the show."
She shoots me a sideways glance "You could afford to buy it, you know?"
I scowl. "What are you talking about?"
"Pay the gallery owner and buy it for yourself."
I laugh. "That’s insane. I painted it. And you’re saying I should buy it back for myself?"
"You have the money, don’t you?" Her phone buzzes. She pulls it out of her pocket; her hands fly over the screen. There’s a smile on her face. "I have to go. Someone's waiting for me."
"Is that the boyfriend?"
She rolls her eyes. "Too early to call him that."
“But it’s headed there?”
She blushes a little. “We’ll see.”
“You haven’t told me anything about him yet,” I remind her.
“Let’s save some of the gossip for next time, shall we?”
Hmm. Why do I get the feeling she’s hiding something? I open my mouth to ask, but she leans in and kisses me on my cheek. “No more questions; I’ll tell you when I’m ready.”
Okay then. Guess I’m not the only one who needs a little space.
She turns to leave.
I call after her, "See you at the exhibition."
"You haven’t seen Quentin, have you?" I lock my fingers together, cursing myself for asking the question which has been buzzing in my mind all day. It’s been five days since he first left me the cappuccino in an insulated tumbler.
He’s taken to leaving it for me on my bed stand so it’s the first thing I see when I wake up.
Every night, he sleeps with his big body curled around me.
But no matter how late I stay up, I haven’t managed to catch him.
I’ve been sleeping in, thanks to the relief of getting all my paintings out the door.
I woke up today, determined to talk to him.
But it was already two p.m. by the time my eyes opened.
Damn, I missed him again. I’ve missed hearing his voice, missed his chuckle, his devilish smirk, that spicy male scent of his, and that tenderness in his eyes.
I miss how he anticipates my every need.
More than anything, I want to kiss him and be held by him when I'm awake—instead of only when I'm asleep.
So, I'm disappointed that I slept in so late. On the plus side, I feel like a new person. By the time I make it down to grab something to eat, it’s three p.m.
Mrs. Harmon looks up from the casserole she’s been putting together in the kitchen and shakes her head when I asked if she’s heard from Q. "Afraid not. Are you sure he hasn’t messaged you?"
I begin to shake my head, then realize I haven’t checked my phone in the past few days.
I often get that way when I’m painting. I forget about the world.
I head to my studio and, after scrounging around, find the device under an unused canvas.
I bring it to our bedroom and plug it in.
As soon as the battery is charged enough, I switch it on. A stream of messages pops up.
I have a few from Zoey and Summer. They’re worried that they haven’t heard from me and ask me if I’m okay? I reply and let them know that I’m fine.
I also have one from Lizzie, letting me know she’ll be stopping by.
Then, seven from Q.
Husband: This made me think of you.
There’s a picture of a pink rose in full bloom attached to the message.
My heart flutters. A warmth steals over my cheeks.
Oh my god, was Q walking in a garden somewhere?
The picture seems to imply that, for the rose is part of a bush.
It’s not in a vase. My big tough husband took time out to go to a park? OMG, he’s changed so much.
Husband: And her unmatched loveliness of looks. And the rare splendor of her locks, were mine.
I can hear his dark voice reading out Poe’s words in my head. I shiver.
Husband: I dreamed of you last night. I wish I were there with you right now.
Oh my god, I press my hand into my chest. I can’t get over how open he’s with his feelings.
Husband: I miss you, baby
A giddy sensation takes ahold of me. It feels so good to know he missed me too.
Husband: Miss you
Little sparks of happiness flare in my chest.
Husband: Have I told you lately how much I miss you, wife?
Those sparks of happiness grow into bubbles of fire that float through my blood stream.
The last message pops up.