Chapter 25

Meadow

Henry and I hold hands as we walk through the streets of an indigenous art fair in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The sun shines on his handsome face as he pauses to admire an enormous terracotta vase. The Native American woman sitting in the booth has long gray hair and exquisite Native American pottery.

“This is beautiful,” Henry says with a wide smile. He reaches out to touch it with a reverence I’ve often seen when he really admires another artist’s work.

“Thank you,” she says, nodding. Her dark complexion glows in the sun. Wrinkles dance around her eyes, making her appear wise as well as talented.

“How long did it take you to make this?” I ask.

She throws her hands up into the air in front of her and shrugs. “Oh, I really don’t keep track of the time when I create.”

“I totally understand that,” Henry says, nodding.

Her eyes light up. “Are you an artist too?”

“Yes. A potter, actually.” He hands her a postcard featuring one of his best vases.

She stares at it for a while. “I’ve seen your work before.”

“Really?”

“I think it was… were you in The New York Times?”

Henry and I share a laugh. He says, “Yes, actually, I was in The Times.”

She extends her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Henry Garrison.”

“Thanks. Same here.”

“I would love to feature some of your work in my gallery,” I say, handing her my card. “I know my clients, and I know it would do well.”

“New York City?” She smiles as her kind eyes dance with mirth. “Fancy.”

“I wouldn’t classify Pathways as fancy, but we do pride ourselves on unique showings. Your work would fit right in with our image.”

She indicates Henry. “Any place that features his work must be all right.”

“Thank you,” I say. “And… if it’s possible, I would like to purchase this one.”

“Of course!”

I open my purse, but Henry touches my arm. “Please, let me buy it.”

I automatically bristle. “But–”

“I insist,” he says, retrieving his wallet before turning to her. “Please tell me you deliver because there’s no way we can travel home with this. On the way out here, the guy in the seat behind me on the plane got pissed when I reclined. If I drag a huge vase onboard, there’s no telling what might happen.”

She chuckles but nods. “No problem. Just let me know which address to send it to.”

The beautiful Native American lady takes her time working with Henry to get the vase arranged to be shipped. I spend the next few minutes admiring her exquisite work when a huge man bursts into the booth, holding a vase. A vase that is almost a carbon copy of one of Henry’s.

I rear back in shock and stare at the man. He’s hot as hell, about two hundred pounds of perfectly sculpted muscles. His spiky black hair frames a chiseled face with piercing blue eyes. Those eyes are currently boring a hole right through me. I scan my eyes up and down his frame, certain I’ve never seen him before in my life. This isn’t the kind of GQ male model type a woman could ever forget.

“I’m looking for Meadow Hughes.”

My heart starts racing, and I glance over at Henry, who’s still deep in conversation with the artist. Since we’re on a much-deserved long weekend, and he rarely gets to talk shop with someone he admires, I don’t want to interrupt him. I’m going to have to deal with phony baloney vase hugging hottie man all by myself. I’ve dealt with worse.

“I’m Meadow.” I take a step closer to him.

“My name is Shane Kirshner.” He stops only long enough to fish a piece of worn paper from his pocket. As he hands the vase to me, he clears his throat. “I am here because you are near. My only vice is that I’m not nice. It’s become my plight to make it right. Please accept this gift so my karma can shift.”

Is he high?

But he looks normal, just shifting from foot to foot in discomfort. I almost laugh at his forlorn expression. I clutch the vase with both hands and lift it to inspect the bottom. It is Henry’s work. I point a finger at the guy, stopping just short of poking him in his massive chest. “How did you get this?”

“I… I can’t say.”

I sputter an angry moan. “Of all the crazy, bullshit…”

Henry’s return interrupts my mini tirade. “Hey, Shane. Good to see you again.”

“Henry.”

The guys gaze haunts me. There’s something about him. Something I can’t shake. I feel like I’ve met him before.

“Meadow, I know Shane from the center. His dad is one of my best donors and wanted him to do some ‘forced’ volunteering.”

I breathe a strangled sigh of relief. I must have seen him at Kidz Sculpt in passing. Jeez, for a second there I thought I might be losing my mind. But with as many clients and guests that come through Pathways, I could have easily passed pleasantries with Shane and not remembered.

“Nice to see you again, Meadow.” He shakes Henry’s hand. “But I’ve really got to get going. I’ve got a plane to catch back home.”

I’m not sure I want to know what this is all about because Henry’s looking at me with a goofy grin on his face. “Well, aren’t you going to look inside the vase? I had it hand delivered, you know.”

I tug at my bottom lip with my teeth. With narrowed eyes, glaring in my man’s direction, I dig inside the vase and pull out an ivory vellum envelope.

Ripping open the seal, I pull out the heavy postcard inside. In beautiful embossed script it reads:

You’ve been nicebombed.

“Really, Henry? What is this all about. I can have as many of your vases as I want. Why would I need this one? And why would you send some random from NYC here to New Mexico to give it to me.”

He just smiles at me, sending flutters of anticipation straight to my heart. “This vase is special. Don’t you recognize it?”

I stare down at it. Apparently, I should remember its significance, but I just don’t. I twirl it around, frowning. “Is this some kind of a game and I don’t know the rules?”

He rocks back on his heels and puts his hands in his pockets. “It’s the vase we made together. When… you know.”

My eyes widen into saucers, and I grip the vase to my chest, shielding it. As if doing so will keep it from the prying eyes of everyone else inside this booth. “Oh, my God! You didn’t!”

“I did.”

I wag a finger in his direction. “And now you come to tell me that you fired it and glazed it and gave it to some crazy person to give to me hundreds of miles away? In public?”

He grabs my hand by the wrist and plants a kiss to the inside of my palm. “Don’t go getting your thong twisted. There’s more. You haven’t looked far enough inside.”

I dig my hand inside the vase again and gasp when it stops on something soft. And hard. And lined with velvet. Once I pull it out, Henry’s already dropped to one knee.

“Meadow Hughes. Just like this vase, I want our lives to be spun together for all eternity. My love for you knows no bounds, so today, I want to pledge that oath to you. Will you marry me?”

A hush falls over the oversized tent. Every single pair of eyes inside watching. Waiting. Something bubbles up inside me and threatens to take over my body. But when I welcome it, I discover it’s not fear. It’s something else entirely. It’s butterflies of hope mixed with a rightness. The connection dancing between Henry and I becomes unbreakable.

The air thickens around us, white noise tickling my ears. Or is that the rushing of my blood?

The words catch in my throat, so I simply nod and throw myself into his arms the moment he starts rising to his feet. Thunderous applause breaks out around us, but it sounds distant. The only thing that matters is Henry’s arms around me, holding me. Loving me.

And our lips pressed together, melding us into one perfect team.

In the future, I might look back on this moment as the one where my life changed forever. The one where I ceased to exist as Meadow Hughes and became the other half to a whole.

“I love you, Henry Garrison. I really, really do.”

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Mansplainer by Colleen Charles ©2018 All Rights Reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Colleen Charles loves reading and writing stories that entertain and sweep the reader away from their everyday life.