“No, I can’t deny that it was real,” he agreed. “I just can’t count on it lasting.”
And before she could utter another word, before she could try to persuade him to stay, he turned and left the gallery.
Outside he hesitated, then dared to look back. Kathleen was standing where he’d left her, her expression shattered. He realized then that being left wasn’t the only thing that could break a person’s heart. Leaving was tearing his to pieces.
* * *
When Ben left the gallery, he didn’t go to Destiny’s. Instead, filled with anger and regret and anguish, he drove back to the farm and went straight into his studio seeking that solace he’d tried to explain to Kathleen.
Filled with an almost frenetic energy, he pulled out a canvas, daubed paints on his palette and went to work.
He began, as he often did, with a wash of blue. As the color of sky filled the canvas, his tension began to ease. He was able to convince himself that nothing had changed, that his world was still orderly. He sat back, filled with relief, and sighed deeply.
He took the time to brew himself a pot of coffee, then went back to the canvas, but this time the first stroke of the brush betrayed him. It wasn’t the familiar, sweeping line of a majestic oak at all, but the curve of a woman’s body. Kathleen’s body. There was no mistaking it. Why would this come to him now with no photo to work from, no live Kathleen there to guide him?
He threw down his brush, tossed his palette across the room and began to pace, muttering to himself as if that alone would get her out of his head. When he was certain he was back in control, he went back to the easel.
Impatiently he tried to change the form, to add a texture that spoke of something solid and unyielding. Instead, the image softened and blurred, the very picture of welcoming arms and tender flesh.
Another tantrum, another attempt, another failure to regain control.
Defeated, he gave himself up to the inspiration, then, letting the image flow from the brushes as if they had a mind of their own. His usual palette of greens and browns and grays gave way to the inky blackness of night and the shimmering pastels of a woman in moonlight.
Her body took shape before him, as intimately familiar as the skies he usually painted. Without a picture, without her, it was her face that gave him the most trouble, especially the eyes. He cursed himself time and again for not getting them right, then sat back for a moment in dismay.
He knew in his gut why they wouldn’t come to him. It was because he couldn’t bear to look into those eyes and see the pain he’d put there. And that’s what he would have to paint if he completed this now. It was the truth, the reality, and that’s what he always insisted on when he painted, absolute clarity.
Exhausted, he finally put aside the brushes and paints and methodically cleaned up the studio, which seemed to be in more disarray than usual thanks to his impatient pacing and frequent rages of temper.
He went into the house, grabbed a sandwich, then fell into bed and spent a restless night tortured by dreams of Kathleen and his determination to throw away what they were on the brink of having.
He was back in his studio at the crack of dawn, armed with renewed determination, a strong pot of coffee and some toaster pastry that didn’t hold a candle to anything Kathleen had ever baked for him. Rather than satisfying him, that paltry pastry only exacerbated his irritation.
He wasn’t all that surprised when Destiny came wandering in around eight. To his shock, though, she didn’t immediately pester him with questions. She merely came to stand beside him, her gaze locked on the canvas.
“She’s very lovely,” she said at last.
“No denying it,” he said tightly, knowing she was talking about the woman, not the painting.
“Why not just admit that you love her?”
“Because I don’t,” he lied.
Destiny gave him a chiding, disbelieving look. “Oh, please,” she admonished. “You need a real woman in your life, Ben, not a portrait, however magnificent it might turn out to be.”
“Stay out of this,” he told her flatly.
“Too late. I’m in the thick of it. I brought her into your life and now you’re both hurting because of it.”
“I forgive you,” he said. “Eventually Kathleen will, too. Now go away.”
She smiled at that. “Forgiveness doesn’t come that easily to you,” she chided. “Besides, there’s nothing to forgive, is there? Kathleen is the perfect woman for you.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It’s the only thing that matters,” she said fiercely.
He gave Destiny a hard look. “I thought you dragged her out here because of my art. Wasn’t she merely supposed to convince me that I had talent?”
“I think we both know better than that.”
“Well, whatever your intentions, it was a mistake.”
“You keep telling yourself that. Maybe you’ll wind up believing it. Of course, you’ll also be old and alone and bitter.”
“Not so alone,” he muttered, not liking the picture she painted. “I’ll have you.”
“Not forever, darling,” she reminded him matter-of-factly. “And your brothers have their own lives now, their own families. You’ll always be a part of those lives, of course, but you need to be—you deserve to be—the center of someone’s universe. Even more important, you need to make someone the center of yours.”
“Why?” he asked, not even beginning to understand. Loneliness had become a way of life long ago. Even when his whole family had been around, he’d felt alone.
“Because, in the end, love is the only thing any of us has that truly matters.”
“You’ve been courted. You’ve been admired by many a man, but you’ve chosen to live without the love of a man all these years,” he reminded her.
“And that was probably a costly
