You're Still The One

by Janet Dailey

  “All right, I don’t.”

  Her mouth dropped open. She hadn’t actually expected him to admit it, and certainly not with such aplomb. “I thought you wanted me to be happy.”

  “I do. Just not with Mr. Chocolate.”

  “Will you stop calling him that?”

  “Maybe you can become a taster for the family business. Sample all the new products, or work on the quality control end.”

  “It is impossible to talk to you,” Kitty declared angrily.

  “But you love chocolate.”

  “As a treat, yes. But I certainly have no desire to make it my life’s work.” In disgust, she turned back toward the fire. “Why am I even talking to you?”

  “Because you know I’ll listen.”

  Kitty was forced to concede that was true. Sebastian didn’t necessarily agree with her all the time, but he always listened. Which made it easy for her to return to the heart of the problem.

  “I really do love Marcel.” Yet saying the words only made her situation seem more confusing.

  “As Tina would say, ‘What’s love got to do with it?’ ” Sebastian countered.

  “It should have everything to do with it,” Kitty stated forcefully.

  “Maybe.” But he was clearly unconvinced.

  In some disconnected way, his reply raised another question. “Tell me something,” she began, eyeing him intently. “A minute ago, you admitted you didn’t want me to marry Marcel, but you never said why.”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “I wouldn’t have asked otherwise.”

  “Okay.” He nodded in acceptance. “It’s very simple, really. I don’t want to go through the trouble of finding another dealer to represent my paintings.”

  “That is the most selfish thing I have ever heard,” Kitty huffed. “And you claim you want me to be happy.”

  “I do,” Sebastian replied easily, giving no indication that he considered it to be contradictory.

  “You want me to be happy so long as it isn’t at your expense,” she retorted in annoyance. “You certainly wouldn’t have any trouble finding someone reputable to represent you. As successful as you’ve become, they’ll be standing in line to take my place.”

  “But I don’t want the hassle of all the meetings that go along with deciding which one to pick, not to mention the strangeness of working with someone new. We’ve been together too long, and I don’t have any desire to change horses. Besides, you know me—I’d be just as happy selling my paintings on a street corner. That’s how we met, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “I hadn’t.”

  The memory of that day was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. As an art major and ardent fan of works by Georgia O’Keeffe, she had come to Santa Fe during spring break to view the O’Keeffe paintings on display at a local museum. She had also planned to make a side trip to O’Keeffe’s former home and studio about an hour northwest of Santa Fe.

  Late one sunny morning as she walked along a street, she had spotted a half-dozen paintings propped against the side of an adobe wall, with more standing in a plastic crate. Idly curious, she had stopped to look. Mixed in with some still-life works that showed good technique but trite subject matter were a series of New Mexican landscapes and Santa Fe streetscapes that completely captivated her.

  There had been, however, no sign of the artist. Each painting had a price tag attached to it, with none selling for above fifty dollars.

  A hand-lettered sign with a directional arrow had instructed buyers to deposit their money in a metal cash box with a slit in its lid that was chained and padlocked to a lamppost. To her utter astonishment, Kitty had realized that this fool of an artist was selling his paintings on the honor system.

  At that moment, a middle-aged couple had strolled by, paused to look at the paintings, assumed Kitty was the artist, and begun asking her questions. To this day she still couldn’t say why she hadn’t disabused them from that notion, but she hadn’t.

  Before they left, she had managed to sell them one of the Santa Fe street scenes. Buoyed by that success, Kitty had lingered. By late afternoon, she had sold a total of eight paintings, including one of the dull still lifes to a woman who bought it because the colors in it matched her living room.

  Concerned that the cash box contained over four hundred dollars and curious about the artist who had signed the paintings as S. Cole, Kitty had waited, certain that S. Cole would show up sooner or later.

  But she certainly hadn’t expected him to be the tall, blond hunk of a man who had ultimately shown up. By then she had already fallen in love with his paintings. It had been an easy step from there to fall in love with him.

  “Why?”

  Lost in her memory of that day, Kitty didn’t follow his question. “Why what?”

  “Why did you want to know my reasons for not wanting you to marry Mr. Chocolate?”

  “Just curious.” She shrugged, finding it hard to return to the present. “I thought it might be something personal. I should have known it would be business.”

  “Would it have made any difference?”

  “What?”

  “If my reason were personal.”

  “Of course not. I’ll do what I want to do regardless,” Kitty asserted.

  “You always do.”

  Something in his tone made her bristle. “And what’s wrong with that?”

  Sebastian took a step back in mock retreat, an eyebrow shooting up. “My, we are testy. I thought you might have cooled down a little.”

  “I have,” Kitty snapped, then caught herself. “Almost, anyway.” A kind of despair swept over her again. “How do I make such a mess of things?”

  “You simply have a natural talent for it, I guess.” His smile took any sting from his words. “I have an idea.”

  “What?” Kitty was leery of any idea coming from him.

  “Since I don’t have any champagne to offer you, how about some hot cocoa?”

  Kitty smiled in bemusement. “Hot chocolate, the ultimate comfort drink. Why not?”

  She trailed along behind him as Sebastian headed for the small galley kitchen tucked in a corner of the studio. “Which kind do you want?” Sebastian asked over his shoulder. “The instant kind that comes in a packet or the real McCoy?”

  “I should ask for the real thing, but I’ll settle for the instant,” she replied, not really caring.

  “That’s not like you.” He opened a cupboard door and took a tin of cocoa off the shelf.

  “What isn’t?” She wandered over to the French doors that opened off the kitchen onto the rear courtyard.

  “Settling for second best. Your motto has always been ‘first class or forget it.’ ”

  “I suppose.” Beyond the door’s glass panes, Kitty could see her spacious adobe home, its earth-colored walls subtly lit by strategically placed landscape lights around the courtyard. “I really should go home, just in case Marcel calls.” She released a heavy and troubled sigh. “But what would I say to him?”

  “I suppose it would be too much to hope that you might say ‘Get lost, Mr. Chocolate,’ ” he said amid the rattle of the utensil drawer opening and the clank of a metal pan on the stove top.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Kitty grumbled.

  “More than you know,” Sebastian replied. “Would you get me the jug of milk from the fridge? I need to keep stirring this.”

  As she stepped to the refrigerator, she noticed him standing at the stove, stirring something in a pan with a wooden spoon. “What are you doing?” She frowned curiously.

  “Making cocoa—from scratch.”

  She stood there with the refrigerator door open, staring at him in amazement. “I didn’t know you knew how.”

  “It can’t be that hard. The directions are right on the can.” He nodded to it, then glanced her way. “The milk,” he said in a prompting voice.

  Reminded of her task, Kitty took the plastic container of milk from the refri
gerator and carried it to the small counter space next to the stove. “Bachelorhood has clearly made you domestic.”

  “Think so, hmm?” he murmured idly.

  “I’ve certainly never known you to cook before.”

  “Making hot chocolate doesn’t count as cooking. Which reminds me, did you know that chocolate was strictly a drink when it was first introduced?”

  “Quite honestly, I didn’t. I’m not sure I even care.” Kitty watched as he stirred the bubbling syruplike mixture in the pan.

  “As a connoisseur of chocolate, you should,” Sebastian informed her. “Columbus was actually the first to bring it back from the New World. Nobody liked his version of it, though.”

  “Really,” she murmured, intrigued that he should know that.

  “Yes, really. It seems the Aztec were the first to grind cocoa beans and use the powder to make a drink. They mixed it with chilies, cinnamon, and cloves, and cornmeal—the four Cs, I call it.”

  “It doesn’t sound very appetizing.”

  “I don’t think it was. The word ‘chocolate’ is derived from the Aztec word ‘xocolatl,’ which literally translates to ‘bitter water.’ ”

  “It sounds worse than bitter.” The mere thought of the combination was enough for Kitty to make a face.

  “It was drunk by the Aztec, supposedly out of golden goblets, and only by men. They considered it to be an aphrodisiac.” He poured out some milk and added it to the dark syrupy mixture. “Naturally cocoa beans became highly prized and were eventually used as currency. In fact, ten beans could buy the company of a lady for the evening.” Sebastian wagged his eyebrows in mock lechery.

  “How do you know all this?” Kitty marveled.

  “I’ve been boning up.”

  “Why?”

  “To impress you, of course. You’re the chocolate maven.”

  “Hardly.” Kitty scoffed at the notion. “I simply like it.”

  “A lot,” he added, while continuing to stir the mixture, waiting for it to heat. “For your information, Cortez was the one who added sugar and vanilla to the brew, finally making it palatable. But it was years, not until the mid-eighteen hundreds, that a solid form of chocolate was marketed—by the Cadbury company, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You are an absolute mine of knowledge,” Kitty teased half seriously.

  “Impressed?”

  “Very.”

  “Wait until you taste my hot cocoa.” Using a wooden spoon, Sebastian let a few drops fall on the inside of his wrist, then gasped. “Ouch, that’s hot.”

  “I think it might be ready,” Kitty suggested dryly, then shouldered him out of the way. “You’d better let me pour before you accidentally burn your fingers and can’t paint.”

  “See what I mean?” he said. “Who else would worry about me like that?”

  “I’m sure you’ll find someone.” After transferring the two mugs to the sink, Kitty filled them with steaming chocolate from the pan. She passed one to Sebastian, then took a tentative sip from the other.

  Sebastian watched her. “What do you think?”

  “It’s delicious, but much too hot to drink.”

  “While it’s cooling, do you want to take a look at my latest? I finished it about an hour ago.”

  Kitty was quick to take him up on his offer. “I’d love to.”

  Sebastian was notorious for not allowing anyone to see a painting while it was in progress. It had nearly driven her crazy while they were married. Over the years, she had learned never to venture into his work space without a specific invitation, or risk his wrath. In that way, and that way only, he fit the description of a temperamental artist, complete with tantrums.

  Moving into the heart of the studio, Sebastian crossed directly to an easel and turned it to show her the painting propped on it. She breathed in sharply at this first glimpse of a streetscape. At the same time she inhaled the familiar smells of oil paints and thinner.

  The painting was an intriguing depiction of all that was Santa Fe: A stretch of adobe wall with its strange blend of pink and ochre tones set the scene. Placed slightly off center was an old wooden door painted a Southwestern teal green. A niche by the door was done in Spanish-influenced tiles. Next to the front stoop was a geranium in full flower growing out of a large pot, decorated with Pueblo Indian designs. Propped against the stoop was an old skull from a cow. Most striking of all was the dappled shade on the wall.

  “It’s stunning,” she murmured. “The sense of depth you managed to convey is amazing, simply by showing a few paloverde leaves in the upper corner and letting the intricate shadow pattern on the adobe show the rest of the tree. It’s almost eerie, the three-dimensional effect you’ve achieved. How on earth did you do it?”

  “It wasn’t that difficult. I simply kept the leaves in the foreground in sharp focus and fuzzed the edges of everything else to create the illusion of depth.”

  “However you achieved it, it worked,” Kitty declared. “But the painting itself addresses so completely the blending of cultures in Santa Fe. You have the influence of Spain in the tiles, the Mexican adobe, and the Pueblo pottery. And the cow skull is a personification of the Old West. As for the geranium, you couldn’t have chosen a better flower to denote all things American—and even Old World. And I don’t think there’s a color more closely associated with the new South-west than that sun-faded shade of teal green. But I like best your reference to the desert with the depiction of the paloverde tree. It’s so much more original than the usual prickly pear or saguaro cactus.”

  “Most people won’t recognize it. It’ll be just another leafy tree to them.” Sebastian’s voice held a faint trace of irritation.

  “That’s their loss. There will be plenty of others who will appreciate it.” If necessary, it would be a detail she would point out to them. “Have you titled it yet?”

  “I’ve been mulling over a couple different ones—either ‘A Place in the Shade’, or ‘In the Shade of Santa Fe.’ What do you think?”

  Kitty considered the choices. “Both would work, but I like the last one best, because everything in the painting shows shades of Santa Fe.”

  “I don’t know. It almost sounds too commercial to me,” Sebastian replied.

  Kitty shook her head. “I don’t think so. After all, it is Santa Fe you’ve painted. And wonderfully, too.”

  “I guess that means you like it.” His sideways glance was warmly teasing.

  “Like it?” The verb choice was much too tame for her. “I absolutely love it.”

  It was completely natural to slide an arm around his waist, a gesture that fell somewhere between a congratulatory hug and a shared joy in his accomplishment. His own reaction seemed equally natural when he hooked an arm around her to rest his hand on her waist.

  “Thanks.” He dipped his head toward hers.

  A split second later, his mouth moved onto hers with tunneling warmth. Kitty was surprised by how right it felt and how easy it was to kiss him back.

  The kiss itself lasted a little longer than the span of a heartbeat before he lifted his head an inch, his moist breath mingling with hers.

  “You taste of chocolate,” he murmured.

  “So do you,” she whispered back, her pulse unexpectedly racing a little.

  She wanted to blame it on her delight with the new painting. But something told her the cause was something a bit more intimate, rooted somewhere in the physical attraction that still existed between them.

  Chapter Four

  “I have an idea.” His half-lidded gaze traveled over her face in a visual caress.

  “What’s that?” Kitty knew she should pull away, create some space between them, but she was strangely reluctant to end this moment.

  “Let’s go sit on the sofa and see how the painting looks from there.”

  It was an old routine they had once shared that Kitty found as easy to slip into as an old shoe, one that offered comfort and a perfect fit.

  “All right.”
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br />   With arms linking each other at the waist, they moved together toward the sofa. Then Sebastian pulled away with an ambiguous, “Go ahead. I’ll be right there.”

  “Where are you going?” She frowned curiously when he circled around the sofa and headed toward the front door.

  “To set the mood. There are too many lights on.” He flipped off all the switches in the main area except one to a directional lamp aimed directly at the completed canvas.

  “Perfect,” Kitty announced in approval, then lowered herself onto the sofa’s plush cushions, careful not to spill her cocoa.

  “It is, isn’t it?”

  Before joining her, Sebastian crossed to the kiva and added another chunk of wood to the dying fire. With the poker, he stirred it to life until the golden glow from the new flames reached the sofa.

  He retrieved his mug of cocoa from the side table, took a quick drink from it, then made his way to the sofa and folded his long frame to sit down next to her, draping one arm along the sofa back behind her head.

  “Better drink your cocoa,” he advised. “It’s just the right temperature now.”

  Obediently, Kitty took a sip. “Mmm, it does taste good.”

  “Not bad at all, even if I do say so myself,” he agreed after sipping his own.

  “You know, if anything, the painting actually looks better from a distance,” she remarked after studying it for a minute. “It seems to increase the illusion of depth.”

  “It does, doesn’t it?”

  Some wayward impulse prompted Kitty to lift her cup in a toasting fashion. “To another stunning work by S. Cole.” She clunked her mug against his and drank down a full swallow. “Good job.”

  “Thank you.”

  She settled deeper against the cushions, conscious of the brush of his thigh against hers, but oddly comfortable with the contact. “I’m glad you didn’t have any champagne. Hot chocolate is much better.” She idly swirled the last half inch of it in her cup. “The taste is somehow soothing.”

  “That’s due to a chemical called theobromine that occurs naturally in cocoa. It’s an antidepressant that lifts the spirits.”