True Colors (21 page)

“So she’s responsible for all the white,” Emma
said. “The walls, the carpet—it’s kind of sterile, if you ask
me.”

“Not my true colors,” he joked, his gaze
flicking toward the painting on the easel. The colors Emma had used
to depict him and the ocean were so rich, so lush, so vibrant. He
should have figured she wouldn’t be a huge fan of Vanessa’s austere
decorating choices.

“Meanwhile, I set up my foundation. I funneled
more than half my wealth into it. Vanessa was appalled.”

“You should have consulted her,” Emma said,
surprising him by taking Vanessa’s side. “A big financial decision
like that? The couple ought to make it together.”

“She didn’t want to make financial decisions,”
he explained. “That wasn’t why she was upset. She was upset because
my personal worth had been cut by close to two-thirds.”

“But…you said you still have a lot of
money.”

“I do. But I had a lot less than I had when
she’d accepted my proposal. She wanted to marry a billionaire. A
mere millionaire wasn’t good enough for her.”

Emma scowled. “It’s not like you blew the money
on something stupid. I mean, a foundation—that’s pretty
noble.”

He made a face.
“I didn’t do it to be noble. I did it because it seemed like the
right thing to do. I wanted to see the money put to good use,
helping people the way my family could have been helped when we
first arrived in America. And helping kids in poorly funded school
districts. Helping kids become more math- and science-literate.
Helping kids in developing countries, where the need is so great.
The foundation was a way to spread my wealth around and let it
accomplish some good in the world. I couldn’t have spent all that
money if I lived to be a thousand years old.” He sighed.
“Apparently, Vanessa
could
have spent all that money. She was furious with me
for not granting her the opportunity.”

Emma absorbed this. “So she broke up with you,
and you were stuck with this house.”

“I never really
considered it my house. I didn’t even want to think about it. I was
grieving. And feeling like a schmuck. I thought she’d loved
me.
Me
, an egghead
from M.I.T.”

“A very sexy egghead,” Emma said, tickling a
faint smile out of him.

“I found Andrea Simonetti running a real estate
office in town and asked her to rent the house. I didn’t want it
sitting empty, but I couldn’t sell it until I’d looked at it one
more time. And for a year, I couldn’t bring myself to look at it,
because seeing it and remembering how stupid I’d been to buy it for
Vanessa would make me bitter. But this spring, I finally decided I
was ready to sell it. I never gave any thought to the tenants.
Until I met you.”

“And discovered I was running an illegal art
school on the premises.”

“I was angry about that.”

“I know.” She smiled.

She wasn’t responding the way he’d expected.
She seemed rather placid about everything he’d told her. She’d
known about Vanessa—he’d told her that before—but she hadn’t known
about his wealth. Perhaps she just didn’t care about him enough to
be angry that he’d concealed the truth about himself for so long.
Or perhaps she was an extremely clever actress, behaving blasé so
she could get her hands on his money, the way Vanessa had wanted
to.

He simply couldn’t believe that of Emma,
though. The one time he’d tried to give her something—the continued
use of this house—she had rejected the offer, and she’d rejected
him.

“I would never try to buy you,” he said. “I
hope you know that.”

She averted her
eyes and toyed with one of her shoelaces, twisting it around her
finger and then releasing it. “I never thought you were trying
to
buy
me,” she
said slowly. “But yes, I’m poor. I’m your stereotypical starving
artist. I’m okay with that. I didn’t become a painter to get rich.
I became a painter because painting is what I do. It’s how I
process the world.”

He could more or less understand that. He
processed the world through mathematics, through logic, through
computer code. Different medium, but essentially the same
idea.

“I don’t mind being poor. I grew up poor. I’m
used to not having much. It’s no big deal to me. As long as I have
a roof over my head, some food in the fridge, an occasional glass
of wine, and my art supplies, I’m fine. I don’t need more than
that.”

“That sounds more noble than my foundation,” he
joked.

Her eyes flashed
with emotion. She didn’t smile. “I don’t mind being poor, but I’ll
be damned if I’m going to be someone’s charity. That’s how you made
me feel, Max. Just when I’d figured out a way to make everything
work—a place to teach my art, a way to earn a little extra
income—you stepped in and acted as if I
couldn’t
make everything work. You
offered to fix everything for me. I didn’t know how rich you were.
I didn’t know that my staying on in this house wouldn’t make any
difference to you, money-wise. What I knew was that we’d slept
together, and then you offered me the house because you
owed
me. You made me feel
like a whore.”

His heart broke a little. “God, Emma. I never
meant that.” He wanted to reach for her, gather her to himself, hug
her until he could convince her that he’d had only the best of
intentions. He’d wanted her to have everything she wanted: a roof
over her head, food to eat, wine to drink, a place to create her
art. That was all.

She wanted so little. He had so
much.

“I thought you’d be angry with me for not
telling you who I was. I feel I’ve been dishonest with you. But
I’ve learned to be very discreet about my wealth.”

“You were afraid that if I knew how rich you
were, I’d turn out to be another Vanessa, huh.”

He shrugged.

“In case you
haven’t noticed, I do not look like a
Sports Illustrated
swimsuit
model.”

“I’d have to see you in a swimsuit to know for
sure,” he said.

There. A hint of a smile.

“I don’t want your money, Max.”

“What do you want?” he asked. “If you were
going to paint your own dream portrait, what would you
paint?”

Her smile widened. She gazed past him, through
the glass wall at the morning beyond, the wide blue sky and the
wide green ocean below it. “Paint,” she said. “I’d paint paint, and
canvases. I’d paint time. I don’t know how to paint that, but
that’s what I want. More time. I’d paint a bottle of wine, or maybe
champagne.” She turned back to him. “I’d paint an ocean view, just
like yours.”

“I didn’t realize the ocean view was my dream
until you got me to acknowledge it,” he admitted.

“It’s a good dream. There’s something elemental
about the ocean. It’s where we all came from. Where we
started.”

“All things being equal,” he said, “would you
let me make that dream come true for you? Would you let me give you
an ocean view?”

“If you’re talking about this
house—”

“I’m talking
about
you
, Emma.
I’m talking about
us
. You took this house and made it a place of creativity, of
beauty. But it needs more. It needs color.”

She eyed him quizzically. “You want me to
redecorate the house?”

He couldn’t abide the distance between them any
longer. He reached out, snagged her hand, and drew her to him. Once
he had his arms closed around her, he felt totally at peace, the
same way he felt when he gazed out at the ocean. “Just by living
here, you made this house yours,” he said. “It’s your
home.”

“What about Monica? She lives here,
too.”

“She lives here,”
he agreed, “but you inhabit the place. You make it a place of
learning, of sharing, of creating. If you want to pay me rent, pay
me rent. I don’t care. I just want you to stay here. No,” he
contradicted himself. “I want
us
to stay here. I want this to be
our
place.”

“Our little love nest?” she asked skeptically,
even as she snuggled closer to him.

“Our home. You can make it into a
home.”

“You live in San Francisco.”

“My foundation is
there. I can fly back and forth. I don’t have to be there every
day. I’ve got a phone. I’ve got a computer. I’ve got enough money
to buy a private jet if I need one.” He brushed his lips against
her brow. “I’m not giving you anything, Emma. I’m asking
you
to give something
to
me
.”

“What can I give you? Other than the
painting?”

“Love. Trust.” He used his thumbs on her chin
to tip her face up, and he pressed a kiss to her mouth. “Color.
Fill my world with color, Emma.”

They kissed again, slower, deeper, a kiss that
shimmered with light and shadow and shape, a prismic array of
colors. A kiss that convinced Max that Emma was the source of all
things beautiful in his world, that with her talent and creativity
she could turn anything he might imagine into a reality. A kiss
that assured him that he could share her vision, that if he saw the
world through her paintings—through her eyes—their love would shine
like a rainbow.

A kiss that proved his dream didn’t exist
merely on canvas. It existed here, in this room overlooking the
ocean. It existed in this kiss.

Saturday was always a busy night at the tavern,
and thank God for that. Gus earned half the week’s take on that one
night alone.

Tonight was no exception. The day had been
warm, and even though the summer season hadn’t officially begun,
the town beach had been swarming with visitors that afternoon.
According to her two waitresses, who’d spent the day at the beach
themselves before checking in for work, only a few brave souls had
waded into the icy water, but plenty of people had taken to the
sand, reading and building castles, playing volleyball and tossing
Frisbees.

A fair share of those beach-goers had chosen to
end their day with some liquid refreshment at the Faulk Street
Tavern. The place was packed, the noise level high, the liquor
flowing and the cash register humming.

Even so, she kept an eye out for Ed. He’d said
he would stop by later that night, which meant he’d help her close
up and then accompany her back to her apartment for the night. She
doubted he’d be in before ten, but she watched for him, anyway. She
didn’t like worrying about him, and tonight she wasn’t worried. He
wasn’t on a high-risk case. He wasn’t chasing down a drug dealer on
a trawler. She didn’t need him to come to the tavern to reassure
her that he was safe.

Tonight was about want, not fear. She wanted to
see him. She liked looking at him—and sleeping with him. Nothing
wrong with that.

Many of the booths and tables were occupied by
Faulk Street Tavern regulars. More regulars lined up along the bar.
A group of lobstermen at one table celebrated a particularly
profitable haul with a couple of bottles of pricy single-malt
scotch. A crowd of young couples had pushed several tables together
into a long row; the women ordered festive mixed drinks but the men
were mostly sticking with beer. Manny raced back and forth from the
kitchen, delivering steaming platters of wings, onion blossoms, and
mini-pizzas.

Gus wondered if she should improve the food
offerings. People came to the tavern mostly to drink, not to eat,
but if they ate, they stayed longer and drank more. Manny was
skilled enough at food preparation to serve up the basics, but it
might be time to consider hiring a chef for weekend
nights.

Someone must have slipped a quarter into the
jukebox. An old Frankie Valli song began to play: “Can’t Take My
Eyes Off You.” Schmaltzy, but no one ever said there was anything
wrong with a love song being schmaltzy. The dance floor quickly
became clogged with couples, arms wrapped around each other, bodies
slowly swaying to the romantic song.

She finished filling a couple of pitchers of
beer, set them on a tray, and noticed the door opening. She
recognized the couple who entered. Impossible not to remember that
red hair. Her own hair had been like that once—well, maybe not
quite as intense a shade, and certainly not as long and wild. Now
her hair was tempered with gray, and she kept it short so she
wouldn’t have to pin it back while she worked.

On Monica’s friend, the long, curly tresses
looked good.

The man with her looked good, too.

Champagne yesterday, she recalled. Champagne
and a beer. And then the woman had stormed out of the
place.

Tonight, she
didn’t look as if she had any intention of storming anywhere. She
held hands with the man, smiled up at him, then led him through the
crowds in search of a table.
Good luck
with that,
Gus thought.