by Bella Andre
And despite everything—or maybe because of it all—heat flared between them. A blaze even hotter than the one that had ignited at the wedding. At last, she drew back her hand.
The boys speed-walked—it was the closest they could get to not running—to the Correa painting. “See, she’s watching you.” Jorge pointed at the beautiful woman, dressed in black, a black lace mantilla on her head. “While all the other people are listening to the monk.”
“Cool,” Noah said, his voice soft with the awe of a child who was seeing something extraordinary even if he didn’t know why it was so.
As for Gideon, Rosie was surprised by how closely he examined the painting. It wasn’t that he seemed to be a philistine when it came to art—he had definitely appreciated Van Gogh and Degas and Rubens. It was more that this particular painting was connecting with him on a deeper level than anything else in the museum had, even the incredible Monet.
“Every time I look at this painting,” she said, “I swear I see something new. The detail in the faces, the clothes, even the trees around the square—it’s phenomenal.”
He took a step closer, his brow furrowed. “I haven’t seen this painting before. I would have remembered if I had.” It was almost as though he was speaking to himself. “But I swear, it’s familiar to me.”
“Maybe,” she guessed, “you’ve seen other Miguel Fernando Correa paintings? He’s widely collected throughout the world.”
Gideon continued to stare at the painting. “Maybe. Although I’ve never heard his name before today.” At last, he took a step back, gave the painting one final glance, then looked at Noah and Jorge as they admired a Cellini bust of Cosimo I de’ Medici. “There’s so much wonder. So much amazement. In absolutely everything around them.” He said it as though remembering his own long-ago past.
Then he amazed her by giving the smallest of smiles, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly, pulling her heart up with it.
With the boys filled with astonishing images, and Gideon only half stone instead of full stone, they finally made their way back down the Peninsula toward home.
“Uncle Gideon, can we go back to Rosie’s house? She’s gonna have a barbecue with hot dogs and sweet potato fries.”
“Yeah,” Jorge agreed, “Mom makes the best sweet potato fries.” He put his hands together dreamily.
It was overkill. Her son liked her fries, but he wasn’t dreamy about them. He obviously wanted Noah to stay and play.
“We can’t just invite ourselves,” Gideon said to his nephew.
“Of course you’re invited.” She’d bought enough for all of them, hoping that they’d go from the museum to dinner.
“Plus, you have to show us how to play that game, Gid.” Jorge added inducement.
“What game?” Rosie asked.
“Hopscotch.” He glanced at her. “You draw a grid on the sidewalk with chalk.”
“We used to play that.” She thought of all the games she used to play as a kid. Freeze tag and kick the can and hopscotch. Things that didn’t cost money. You didn’t need a video game console, you didn’t need a TV. All you needed to keep yourself entertained was a little ingenuity. “I can get dinner ready while you show them,” she offered. “There’s room for hopscotch out on the patio.” Though tiny, it could still handle a hopscotch grid.
“We have chalk,” Jorge said. “So can you show us, Gid?”
* * *
How was he supposed to say no?
He’d promised Ari he’d take care of Noah. And take care of him Gideon would, by making sure he had the most fun possible for the next two weeks.
“Sure,” he said, forcing his lips into a smile. “Bring out the chalk, Jorge, and we’ll lay some down.”
He hadn’t forgotten his horrifying painting. Nor had he forgotten that Rosie had seen his raw and bleeding insides splatted all over the paper—or that she’d had to take the painting away from him before he could destroy it. But with two little boys to play with, there wasn’t room to ruminate. Not much room, anyway.
On the back patio, he showed them how to draw the hopscotch grid, how to toss the rocks and make the jumps. They teetered and sometimes fell over and always laughed, whether they were standing upright or not. And eventually, Gideon was able to laugh with them.
A while later, they ate grilled hot dogs and sweet potato fries—and yeah, they really were the best—then they hopped the scotch again. Kids were tireless.
Rosie watched them through the kitchen window as she cleaned up and did the dishes. Gideon had offered to help, but she’d told him to play with the boys.
Gideon had worried that after his post-painting outburst, she might think he was too much of a nut job to be around her kid. But she wouldn’t have invited him to dinner if that was the case. Right?
“This is super fun, Gid,” Noah said. “Were you as old as us when you learned?”
“I was. And then I taught your mom how to play when she was six. We didn’t have a lot of money growing up, so we needed games that didn’t cost anything.”
“Not even Legos?”
“We had those, but they weren’t like the Legos you have now. They were just simple blocks in a few colors, and since we got them from the thrift store, lots of pieces were missing. But we had fun with them anyway.”
He’d always taken care of Ari because their mom wasn’t capable. After his dad died when Ari was just a baby, their mother had lost all sense of herself. She’d turned to drugs to manage her grief. Only ten years older than Ari, he’d had no choice but to take care of her since their mom couldn’t. And yet, for as much as he’d been a lifeline for Ari, she’d done the same for him, a shining light with her big smile and quick mind. He’d loved spending time with her. It never felt like babysitting.
“My mom buys stuff at thrift stores too,” Jorge told him. “We like looking through everything for the best deals.”
“Can I come with you sometime?” Noah asked, clearly not realizing his father was so wealthy that he could have bought an entire chain of secondhand stores.
“Sure,” Jorge said, then called out to Rosie. “Are you gonna come play with us, Mom? Otherwise, Gid is probably gonna be too tired to keep playing for much longer.”
She laughed, that sweet musical laugh that reached right up under his ribs. “Perfect timing. I’m all done in here,” she said, then came out to join them.
He should have taken Noah home already. But there was something so comforting, so easy and normal, about playing hopscotch with Rosie and Jorge and Noah until the sun went down and they had to turn on the porch light so they could make out the chalk lines.
Even in the aftermath of what had gone down at the museum this afternoon, Rosie’s easygoing demeanor allowed him to move through the rest of the afternoon and evening without making a big deal of anything, without beating himself up ad nauseum, the way he normally would. And now, his jaw actually ached from so much smiling. Probably because his face wasn’t used to it.
“Okay, you guys,” Rosie finally said, looking pointedly at her watch, “it’s past Jorge’s bedtime.”
“Can Noah sleep over since it’s already so late?” Jorge was ever hopeful.
“Please, Uncle Gideon, can we do a sleepover?” Noah was just as optimistic.
“You don’t have any pajamas,” Gideon pointed out.
Of course, Jorge was quick to offer, “Noah can borrow some of mine.”
Gideon looked at Rosie to see what she thought of an impromptu sleepover.
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “It’s okay with me if it’s okay with you.”
He smiled at Noah. “Okay, you can stay.”
The boys whooped, then raced inside.
“Don’t forget to brush your teeth,” Rosie called, then turned to him. “Noah’s actually got clothes and a few other things here—and since they’re always wanting to spend the night, Jorge’s got stuff at Noah’s house too. I’ve even got twin beds in Jorge’s room.” She barely paused for breath be
fore adding, “I’m sure they’d love it if you tucked them both in. And after that, why don’t you stay for a glass of wine? You know, to rehydrate after all that hopscotch.”
He should say no. He should go. He should do whatever he could to blast clear of Rosie’s sunny, sexy orbit. But what came out of his mouth was, “Okay, thanks. A glass of wine after story time sounds good.”
Chapter Twelve
She left him to tumble the boys into the twin beds in Jorge’s room while she opened the wine. Jorge’s walls were lined with bookshelves housing an astonishing library for a six-year-old. Like Noah, he was a voracious reader. Reading, Legos, and building cities in Noah’s huge sandbox were obviously Jorge’s passions. But especially art.
Just like his beautiful, talented mother.
“Are these all your drawings?” Gideon asked Jorge. The walls were papered with them.
“Yeah,” Jorge said proudly.
“They’re good.” Really good, like something an adult would do.
“Thank you.” The boy beamed with pride.
“You’re both such talented guys,” he said. “You with your amazing Lego creations and sandbox buildings, Noah, and Jorge, with your paintings.”
“Didn’t you like my painting?” Noah asked.
“’Course I did, kiddo. I’m going to hang it on the wall in my office.” Though Gideon was out and about most of the day, he also had an office at Top Notch headquarters, which was peppered with pictures of Ari and Noah. If he happened to stare a little too long and often at the pictures Rosie was in—as one of Ari’s best friends, it was inevitable there should be plenty of Rosie photos—well, no one needed to know about that. Least of all the woman wanting to share a glass of wine with him in the living room. “In fact, I’ll put your painting right next to the Lego spaceship you built me,” he told Noah.
“You can have one of my drawings too, Gideon,” Jorge said, his voice hopeful.
“Wow, thanks. Everyone is going to want to work in my office.” He lowered his voice. “But now let’s get you both to bed.”
He gave them each kisses, pulled the covers up to their chins, then started the what-to-read negotiation.
They considered one of the Horrid Henry books by Francesca Simon, or one of the Boxcar Children books, but in the end Jorge and Noah agreed that the story they most wanted to read was one of the Magic Tree House books by Mary Pope Osborne.
Revolutionary War on Wednesday was set in Colonial times, just as General George Washington was about to lead his army in a sneak attack.
Gideon sat on the edge of Noah’s bed, opened the book, and began to read aloud.
Noah leaned against his side, looking at the pictures. “Look at those funny clothes they’re wearing.”
“That’s how they dressed back then, during the Revolutionary War,” Gideon said.
Of course, Jorge had to scramble out of bed to see so that both boys were huddled on either side of Gideon.
“You were in a war, weren’t you, Uncle Gideon?” Noah gazed up at him with his innocent child’s eyes.
“Yes, I was. In Iraq, in the Middle East.”
“I know where that is,” Jorge said. “We had a really big map in our classroom last year when we were learning all about the continents and stuff.”
As Gideon continued to read aloud, the characters jumped from the magic tree house into the biting cold of a Pennsylvania December.
“Was it cold like that where you were?” Noah wanted to know.
“Nope. It was hot,” he said. “Really hot. And sandy. Dusty. The dirt seemed to get into everything.” He leaned close to say, “Even in your underpants.”
They giggled in unison.
“You get used to it.” He shrugged. “You can get used to anything.” In the end, he’d barely noticed the dust and the dirt. It was only when he came home, when he no longer had to wash the sand out of his clothes and his pores, that he noticed the difference again.
They got back to Annie and Jack in the story as the characters came upon a regiment of patriot soldiers in raggedy clothes, some even without boots on their feet, just rags.
“Did they give you boots, Gid, when you were over there?” Worry laced Jorge’s voice, as if he were afraid Gideon had been marching through hot sand in bare feet.
Gideon suppressed a smile. “Yeah, kiddo, we had boots. We had everything we needed to survive. You’d be amazed what you can fit in a pack. It was heavy, but your pack was your life preserver.” His gear had saved his life more than once.
“Can we see your pack?” Noah asked, excitement in his voice.
“I’d show it to you.” He shook his head. “But I don’t have it anymore.”
“Bummer,” they both said.
He moved them along in the story, to the troops on the banks of the Delaware.
“Did you have to push cannons like they did?” Jorge leaned back to look up at him.
Gideon laughed outright this time. “We had trucks to move artillery. And we had rifles instead of muskets. But we didn’t have to use them a whole lot. Mostly, we were on patrol or tower duty or helping out the villagers. And we had some good times back at base.”
It wasn’t until the words came out of his mouth that he realized what he’d said. Whenever he’d looked back, it had seemed as if every day had been a firefight, every day your life was on the line, every day another IED went off. But maybe his memory had played tricks. Because while he had always been on the edge, and his senses had been heightened—because, hell, everyone over there was armed—the reality was that a lot of the time, nothing had happened.
In fact, for the first time in a really long time, he remembered the pranks he and his buddy Zach had pulled on some of the other guys. He remembered card games and razzing his buddies in the little downtime they were actually given.
The boys and their questions made him think, for the first time in forever, about the good stuff, not just the bad.
He kissed the top of Noah’s head, then Jorge’s, then read about Jack and Annie getting stuck in George Washington’s boat about to cross the Delaware. At last, when their questions stopped, he realized the boys’ eyelids were drooping.
He helped Jorge back into his own bed, kissed him one last time, then leaned over to cover up Noah. It wasn’t until he put the book back on the bookshelf that he noticed Rosie standing in the doorway, a wineglass in each hand.
“You’re a very compelling reader,” she said softly. And then, “You can take these out to the living room while I bestow a few kisses of my own.”
He had to work hard to push away his desperate longing for her to bestow kisses on him as he took both glasses, his fingers grazing hers, their bodies close in the confines of the short hallway, her scent making his knees weak.
The soft murmur of their voices drifted out to the small living room as he set the glasses on the coffee table. He decided to buy the book for his Kindle so he and Noah could keep reading, and it would be available for sleepovers. The story had been good for the boys. And honestly, it had been good for him. He’d never talked about what the war had been like. But answering the boys’ questions had made him rethink his experiences. Maybe that wasn’t so bad.
This morning, before their museum outing, he’d gone straight into the backyard and hadn’t had a chance to see much of the cottage. Now, he noted that the living room walls were covered with Jorge’s drawings, some of them framed, some of them tacked to the plaster.
But Jorge’s paintings weren’t the only ones hanging. Rosie’s were here too.
From what he’d seen on her easel at the museum today, he knew she had artistic ability. But now he realized just how deep her talent truly ran.
She worked in paint, acrylics, oils, a few watercolors. She favored faces and landscapes. There was a series done at a harbor he thought might be near Santa Cruz. There were paintings of Jorge and Noah, Ari and Matt, and their friend Chi. Rosie had also pushed her imagination with renderings of Jorge as a young man and Ari
as an old woman. But it was a painting of a man watching a group of people laughing that really caught Gideon’s eye. Though the viewer couldn’t clearly see the man’s expression, he looked like a man on an island, one who had forgotten how to laugh, how to have fun.
It was almost as though she’d painted him.
Regardless of who Rosie’s subjects were, with every single painting, he could see the way she viewed life. The picture of old Ari wasn’t a depiction of decrepitude, but a woman who’d lived a long, interesting life and who had enjoyed every second of it. Her rendition of Jorge in manhood showed a young man with hope in his heart.
At last, the door to the boys’ room closed, and her footsteps fell in the hall. “I give them ten minutes of whispering and giggling, then they’ll both zonk out.” She plucked a wineglass off the coffee table, the one with the soft wisp of lipstick on the rim, then handed him the other, tapping her glass to his. She nodded toward the living room gallery. “Jorge’s paintings are great, aren’t they?”
“They are.” He was always so careful with his words around her, lest he say more than he intended. Like how much he wanted her. Or how he couldn’t stop thinking about her. But he needed her to know something. “You’ve got a tremendous amount of talent. Why are you an accountant instead of a full-time artist?”
She curled into the end of the sofa. “First, thank you. And second, I like numbers. Working as an accountant is how I can afford the things that Jorge and I both need to live in the Bay Area.”
He had great respect for everything Rosie had achieved—not only was she doing a great job of raising her son, she was also saving for Jorge’s art lessons and a trip to the Louvre. But Gideon already had plenty of money he would be more than happy to use in helping her out. He’d saved his re-up bonuses, he’d invested well, and he hadn’t spent much of anything while he drifted around the country working on jobsites. He’d been saving for Ari, hoping he’d find her one day. Only, by the time he’d found his sister, she hadn’t needed his money anymore. Even the wedding hadn’t put much of a dent in his savings.