Where We Left Off (18 page)

“And we love you.”

Just then, Boone and Corbin bounded into the kitchen, only to stop short when they glimpsed our exchange occurring before them. “Oh, Corb. We leave them alone for five minutes and they become a heap of hormonal tears. Women.”

“You, sir, are two comments away from a good beating.” Again, Sharon came at him with the towel, flicking it repeatedly at his backside as he dodged and hopped away from her. They had so much fun together that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Boone joked.

I laughed into my glass of merlot, loving all the banter and loving this family. It was so, so good to be loved.

Dinner and the conversation during it
was
just what I needed. We laughed when Corbin slung his lasagna from his tray, sending it across the room to splatter on the wall like an abstract painting. Babies got away with so much. I figured their innocence allowed them to misbehave every once in a while and go without proper punishment. Boone and Sharon adored that child, and their new wall decoration sent them into a fit of laughter, which only encouraged him to add one to the adjacent wall. In their eyes, he could do no wrong.

Sharon and I were washing up dishes, Boone on the floor stacking colorful learning blocks with Corbin, when my mother-in-law spoke up in a way that indicated she’d been storing this conversation for this precise moment.

“Mallory.
” She said my name too formally for my liking. “I’m not sure how to broach the subject, but there’s something I’ve
been wanting
to talk
with
you about.”

My heart stuttered nervously. “Yes?”

“Have you thought about dating anyone?”

Of all the things the mother of my dead husband could ask, that was not one that came to mind. I chuckled a little in relief, a little in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry. It’s not my place to ask. It’s just,” she stammered on as she vigorously scrubbed the dried on lasagna from the pan. “It’s just, I think ultimately it would be nice for Corbin to have a male role model in his life. I understand that Dylan’s only been gone a year and a half, but I worry if you never let him go, you’ll never be able to fully move forward.”

“Move forward with someone else.”

“As odd as that sounds coming from me, yes, with someone else.”

“I don’t know, Mom. I don’t think my heart is there yet.” I didn’t want to cry again tonight. My shoulders sagged and I shook my head. “I’m sorry.”

“Oh goodness, you shouldn’t be apologizing for loving my son.” Her hands were wet and soapy but she wrapped them around me still. “Don’t ever apologize for that.”

After things
were cleaned
up, we joined Boone and Corbin in the family room. Sharon carried the bottle of merlot and tilted it toward me. “Another glass?”

“I’m good.” I waved my hand. “Actually, if you don’t mind watching Corbin for a little bit longer, there’s something I need to drop off real quick.”

“You hear that, Buddy?” Boone scooted closer to my boy and he rolled a small soccer ball toward him over the rug. Corbin batted at it, squealing. “We get to play
even
longer.”

“Of course,” Sharon said as she took her seat on the floor next to the two. “Take all the time you need.”

“I shouldn’t be long.” I stood to gather my purse and keys and as I walked to the entryway, I heard the three chatting to one another and for the first time in a long while, it didn’t feel like something—or someone—was missing.

When I got to my car, the reality of that washed over me.

Then I burst into the tears that had been saving themselves for this exact moment.

Heath

“This place is great.”

I looked at the high ceilings and exposed ducts, their glints of metal an appealing addition
against
the deep, matte black ceiling. The walls were high, about twelve or more feet and it was industrial, yet modern.

“Thanks,” Monica said, but she didn’t shift her attention to me. She was counting boxes on her fingers and was lost in thought as though it required all her brainpower to sort this out. “My mom put both a lot of time and money into it.”

“You can tell.”

It was a small studio, so I made my way around as she busily organized the delivery. There were tiny lights hung on the walls, spaced evenly apart in order to showcase paintings, I guessed. Four corrugated metal wrapped podiums stood near the entrance, their stands empty, and reclaimed wooden shelves jutted from the south wall. The gallery was bare, but obviously awaiting something.

“I could use some help with these.”

I jogged over to Monica. She was dressed in a baby pink sweat outfit, her hair slicked into a
ponytail
that still hung well past her shoulders, even when pulled back. In silver glittered lettering, the word
ADORBS
was plastered on the backside of her pants. I cringed, wondering what on earth I was doing here, with her, with a girl that had
writing
on her ass.

“Okay, put me to work.”

Monica pointed to a box leaning against the wall. It was as tall as myself and about four feet across, though thin in depth. “Open that up. Mom wants them to go on that wall over there, but I think they’re going to be too big.” Her eyes moved to the wall I had just been looking at with the canned lighting and display hooks.

I began peeling off packing tape. “What are these all for? Some kind of show?”

“Yeah,” she said as she crouched down to open smaller boxes that were more square than the ones I was tackling. “The theme is
Truth
. Mom commissioned a bunch of her favorite artists to create their take on the word. We already have a life-size, chicken-wire Jesus in the back that we’re going to have to wheel out here once all the paintings are hung. These ones I’m opening are from her favorite Italian artist, Leonardo
Vitalli
. Not sure what he created, but it’s bound to be something outrageous. He tends to be that way.”

“What about these?” I still hadn’t gotten my box open. Whoever packed it secured it like it was Fort Knox. “Who are they from?”

“An artist in Kentucky my mom discovered a few years back on a trip she took to the Derby. She happened to stop
into
a coffee shop where his work was on display and fell in love with his technique. He’s pretty much a nobody when it comes to the art world, but Mom likes his work and it actually sells for a lot out here.”

Kentucky
. I didn’t let myself linger on that and focused my efforts on opening the box instead. The paintings were wrapped in copious amounts of bubble wrap, so much that I couldn’t distinguish anything about the pieces unless I peeled each layer back. There was a long strip of masking tape stuck
across
the front and in Sharpie pen, the words,
True: Emotion.
I scanned the piece and saw two more similar labels.
True: Love
and
True: Heartache.

“Do the paintings come titled?” I asked. I wasn’t sure how I’d be able to figure out which belonged to which unless the images clearly indicated one way or another.

“Not sure. Open them up and we’ll have a look.”

Monica came to my side and grabbed the corner of bubble wrap from one end and I took the other. Underneath the protective layers, there was a covering of paper that she used her long nails to claw at, pulling it free. Only half of the image was exposed, but it was more than I needed to see.

“Oh my God.”

“He’s good, huh?” She peeled the rest of the parchment off the first painting and discarded it to the concrete floor. “That’s phenomenal. A little morbid and sad, but totally beautiful.”

I couldn’t breathe.

“I love how he can make something so abstract feel so real. I mean, just look at that.”

I needed Monica to stop talking.

“Let’s open the others.”

I threw my hand up and it met her shoulder. “Wait.”

Her eyes went wide and then she stepped back, giving me space. “Okay.” Her response was hesitant, but she allowed me the moment I needed. “I’ll finish up with these. Let me know when you want to look at the others.” There was a wary look in her gaze. “But that’s a good response. Mom’s gonna be happy with that one. Super emotional.”

My mouth was tacky, numb. I couldn’t feel my fingers. The percussive heartbeat in my chest pounded intensely, clanging against my ribcage. My face heat, palms sweat.

I couldn’t look away; I was drawn into the image. Catapulted back. Back in time. Back in heartache. Back in emotion.

Back in love.

This painting in front of me was all three titles in one. I didn’t even need to see the rest.

From behind me again, Monica took cautious, slow steps. Her head peeked over my shoulder. “I don’t really get it,” she said, her minty breath hot on my neck. “I mean, I get that they’re in a boat of some kind. But the machines and the tubes, it’s like a hospital bed, too.”

I forced a swallow.

“And she kinda looks dead.”

The boat. Our boat. Her safe place.

“I love how their bodies are all tangled, though, like you can’t tell where he begins and she ends. Like they’re one person.”

Because they were.

“They look so young. It’s sad.”

I stepped toward the painting. It was just an object, I told myself. But it wasn’t, there was no truth in that thought. I ran my hand over the paint that bubbled up and hardened on the canvas. I had to feel it under my fingers. It was the closest I’d been to Mallory in the last twelve years and my body needed to feel that. I needed to feel that.

“Umm.” Monica’s tone was scolding. “We don’t really want your dirty prints all over these. You shouldn’t be touching that.”

I ignored Monica’s demand and stooped down to study the scene, the way the colors wove and blended to create a story in sweeping, heartbreaking strokes.

“If you like it that much you can bid on it at the auction.” Monica left me where I was and I could tell she was pissed that I wasn’t paying her any attention. I didn’t care. I couldn’t deal with that right now. “Or take a picture or something …” Her voice trailed off with her footsteps.

I remembered the two remaining paintings and tore their covers from them. There was relief in the fact that they weren’t of Mallory and me, but it didn’t make them any easier to look at.

The second was drawn from the same bird’s eye view as the first, but rather than a hospital bed underneath her, thick green grass grew around Mallory’s prone body. There wasn’t anyone
at
her side here, only a headstone at her crown. She curled in on herself, her body full, her stomach round.

My breath caught.

Mallory, pregnant. And grieving.

True emotion,
love
and heartache all over again.

I could hardly bring myself to view the third.

The front door to the studio chimed just as I slid out the last painting and I heard Monica’s voice when she greeted the visitor. I was glad for her distraction and that I could take my time here without Monica peering in on me. The shock still clung to me, so fresh and raw.

And I felt it even deeper when I looked at the third image. It was Mallory as a little girl, sitting on her father’s lap. Two wings enveloped them, layers of white and gray feathers that looked so real I imagined they would be soft to touch, like velvet. Hair that appeared almost spun as gold wrapped around them. It took me immediately back to the image Tommy painted in the room on that day long ago when I watched him work—the painting of his wife. It was essentially the same one, only with Mallory and Tommy added into the frame, their family of three.

I was lost in the paintings when the murmur of voices crept up behind me, and it wasn’t until I sensed the two bodies right there that I turned around to break from my trance.

“I’ll just put them on the back table and your mother can decide what she wants to do with them. The hydrangeas will only keep for a few days, but I know they’re her favorite.”

The blood ran from my face, the feeling from my limbs.

She was absolutely, impossibly stunning.

The woman I’d imagined her becoming during the time apart was nothing compared to the one who faced me right now. I couldn’t fathom any man on earth laying eyes on her and not giving up everything to make her his. She radiated and captivated. My God, she was even more perfect than I remembered her being, and she’d always been perfection in my eyes and in my memories.