Chapter Four
I love it! It looks great in your living area. You have great taste, he writes.
—
Thank you. So do you.
—
Are you an interior designer?
—
No. I used to work as a Marketing Manager for a food company, branding and stuff like that. I’m a stay-at-home mom now, and I like to dabble with art a bit.
I hate to tell people that I’m a stay-at-home mom. I’m so much more than that.
Dabble?! You’re a fantastic artist. That’s more than dabbling, he writes.
—
Thank you. So are you. Are you a full-time artist?
—
Kind of… I’m a glass blower. That’s my main source of income. I have a partnership with a few art galleries in the city. It pays the bills, but barely, to be honest. The watercolors don’t sell as well.
—
Well, there’s something sexy about a starving artist, I write.
I have no clue where that came from. I want to take it back. Why am I flirting? I don’t even know who I’m flirting with.
True! Well, if starving equals sexy, I’m definitely sexy.
Now, I’m picturing a gaunt, starving man. Not very sexy. I shake my head. This is ridiculous.
Well, nice chatting. Keep up the good work, I write.
—
You too. :)
* * *
The kids and I dash to the front door as soon as we hear some rustling outside. Daddy’s home!
He ruffles Theo’s hair, and picks up Emma in his arms. They are both over the moon. I wait my turn… I always get last dibs. Finally, he leans down to me, wraps an arm around the small of my back, and kisses me. The kids make swooning and kissing sounds and we both laugh. “I missed you, Gabbie,” he says. He’s early.
“Me too.” Yes, I did. In more ways than one.
He’s brought treats for all of us, like he always does. Fancy chocolate bars, candy, bookmarks, pens, and books for me. He’s like Santa Claus.
“How was the signing?” I ask as I serve him some leftover lasagna and salad.
“Oh… the usual,” is all he says. He never elaborates too much. I figure that he doesn’t want to bore me, but just once, I’d love him to share a juicy story, some drama in the book industry. There must be some.
“How’s Julia?” I ask, attempting to make conversation. I don’t exactly have tons of exciting news to offer on my end. I usually talk about the kids, my girlfriends, or the latest painting I’m working on.
Julia is his publicist, assistant… I’m not sure what exactly she is, to be honest. All I know is that she’s always by his side. She’s great, and funny too. Every time I have a chance to see her, she makes me laugh.
“She’s great,” he says. “She and Sarah are looking to start a family.”
“Oh wow… that’s great,” I say. I’m happy. She and her partner, Sarah, are amazing women. “They’ll make the best Moms.”
“I don’t doubt it for a minute,” he says between bites. “I’m not sure who’s having the kid, but I just hope she doesn’t leave me in the lurch. She’d be hard to replace.”
I wince. “Yeah… I like her. I don’t want anyone else to work with you.” I picture some young little pixie, eager to please, and a little too enamored with John. He has a few groupies, but luckily, not many. A lot of his readers are men, fans of action packed crime fiction.
He wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “When are the kids going to bed?” he asks, a playful smile tracing his lips.
I know exactly what he’s getting at. I smile wide. “They’ll be in bed by nine.”
I slip on one of my favorite negligees, and the black hooker heels I can barely walk in. I apply a fresh coat of lipstick, and wonder if he’s missed me as much as I missed him.
I perch on the edge of the bed, cross one leg over the other, and wait patiently. The room is dark, save for the candles I’ve lighted. My heart skips a beat when John finally swings the door open. I shoot him a playful smile, but his reaction is not the one I’d expected — he looks tired and not too enthusiastic.
I know he’s had a long travel day, and I understand, but a small part of me feels rejected. I know he loves me, but is he still attracted to me?
He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, and rakes his hair. “You look gorgeous, Gabbie,” he says, but there’s no excitement in his eyes — no arousal.
He inches closer, and kisses me softly. “I thought I’d get to bed early tonight. I’m exhausted.”
I nod. “Yeah… sure.” I put on a brave face, but I’m devastated. “I understand.”
He shoots me a playful smile. “But tomorrow, I’ll come and find you.” He wraps an arm around my waist, and pulls me in closer. “You know I prefer it when the kids are not around anyway… I love to hear you.”
I smile, and hold on to that promise. I wonder if I’ll still be in the mood tomorrow. I’ll probably be busy doing laundry or unloading the dishwasher, or working on a painting. I’ll have to put everything on hold so he can have his way with me, on his terms, on his schedule. I won’t be into it at first, but he’ll turn me around, and he’ll probably make me come because he usually does.
Well, at least there’s that.
* * *
How did you get into art? Eli asks.
—
I started in my first year of college. My roommate was an art major, and she snuck me into the studio, and taught me a few tricks. I’d just broken up with a boy and needed the distraction. I’ve taken a lot of art classes over the years, but never officially studied it. How about you?
—
Ever since I can remember. My mother was an artist. She was amazing.
I don’t want to be nosy, but I want to know. Perhaps because I’ve lost my own mother.
Did your mother pass away?
—
Yes, she died three years ago. She had breast cancer. She was only fifty-nine years old.
—
I’m so sorry to hear that. My mother passed away too, two years ago. Car accident. She was seventy-five.
—
I’m so sorry. You and I have a lot in common. Losing your mother changes you.
—
Yes, very much. I never had a chance to say goodbye. She was taken away so suddenly. Did you get to say goodbye?
—
Luckily, I did. It was the hardest day of my life. But unfortunately, I wasn’t there for her when she was sick.
I want to know more. Why wasn’t he there? Had they had a falling out? But I don’t dare ask. It’s not my place.
What kind of art did she do? I ask instead — it seems like safe territory.
And I wait. And wait. I’m not sure why he’s not replying.
Emma is frowning. “Mommy, why are you not helping us?”
I absentmindedly search through the puzzle pieces, looking for a match, but my mind is blank. I can’t focus hard enough to help them.
Finally, a photo pops up. Then another. And another.
They’re photos of artwork — his mother’s. An oil portrait of a woman. A watercolor of children standing on a beach. And a sensual nude of an attractive young woman, rendered in oil.
They’re beautiful, I write.
—
Thank you. Yes, she was very talented.
—
I guess that’s where you get it from. My mother wasn’t an artist. She was a nurse. She was a very caring person, always looking out for others before herself. Very giving.
Like you, he writes.
I smile.
Now, how would you know that? You don’t even know me.
—
I can see from your pictures… there’s just one or two of you with your kids, but as they say, a picture is worth a thousand words. I can tell your kids are happy, and that you’re a good mom.
Aw…
I am a good mom.
Thank you.
I scroll through my phone to find a photo of my mother. My heart sinks when I land on one of my favorites, a silly one of the two of us and the kids making faces, taken by a stranger at Disney World. John was in Europe for work, and my mother had offered to take me and the kids to Florida. It was taken just a few weeks before she died. I want to cry every time I look at it. It hurts so much, but it’s also one of my favorite photos because it reminds me of how she was; quirky, silly, and fun.
I send him the photo.