Daydream (Maple Hills, #3)(90)
I take in what he’s saying, and it seems so different from our first date when we talked about my idea. “What happened to not valuing romantic love above the other types?”
“What happened to complicated is exciting?” He squeezes my leg playfully. “Does she really have to marry someone else?”
“I haven’t written it yet, but yeah. That’s the plan.”
“I’m going to keep asking.” He tsks. “I still have faith in my imaginary man. He’s going to pull it out of the bag and win her.”
The traffic picks up and we revert back to our normal comfortable silence. I realize where we’re going when Henry takes a familiar exit, and I’m immediately glad I found my other flat shoe. I’ve always intended to visit the Byrd & Bolton art gallery, but I haven’t had anyone to go with.
Henry climbs out of the car, immediately walking to my side and opening the door for me. He holds out his hand. “You’ve really got this gentleman thing down,” I tease.
“It’s the suit.” He threads his fingers through mine like he did earlier. “Makes me act up.”
He produces two tickets when we reach the entrance and scans us through the barrier. “I’ve always wanted to come here,” I admit. “Thank you for bringing me.”
“I’ve been wanting to bring you for a while. I was just hoping I’d have something special to show you here.”
I let him guide me through the first floor; his hand grips my waist to gently tug me out of the path of someone staring at a pamphlet as they walk toward us. His finger runs down the length of my forearm. “You have goose bumps. Are you cold?”
“The AC is a little high,” I flat-out lie. Lying might be bad, but so is admitting that my body does weird, uncontrollable things in his presence. “It’s my fault for wearing this dress.”
“The dress is perfect, and you look perfect in it,” he says, shrugging off his suit jacket. Before I have time to object, he places it over my shoulders. “I don’t want you to be cold.”
“Thank you,” I say, but it comes out as more of a whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
“I don’t know.”
Henry gives me a funny look and retakes my hand. “It’s supposed to be around this corner.”
We pass signs for a local up-and-comers exhibition on display through December. He stops in front of a large painting.
It could be a photograph, it’s so intricately detailed. The women are sitting together at a table outside; light blue sea and small white buildings are their backdrop. Their intertwined hands rest on the table between wineglasses, and their faces are turned toward each other. The woman on the left has pale white skin and dark blond hair, cut to a length that just skims her collarbone. Her blue-and-white collared shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and I can just about make out the Y and H initials hanging from a delicate chain around her neck.
I’m captivated by how the artist has shown her laughing; I feel like I’m intruding on a private moment.
The other woman has rich brown skin and long reddish-brown hair braided down to her chest, where it turns into perfectly identical curls. Her bone structure feels familiar, like I’ve met her before. The part of her outfit I can see is the softest shade of buttercup yellow, but the thing I can’t take my eyes off of is her smile.
It’s mesmerizing, and even as someone with no knowledge of art, I can tell the time and care that’s gone into this piece. Someone who loves these women painted this; I’m sure of it.
Beneath the name of the painting is a much smaller rectangular plaque with black letters sitting on a white background.
Two Women in Love Henry Turner
“You painted this?” I’m trying not to let the shock show on my face, since it feels like I spend a lot of time with my mouth hanging open around this man. “Henry, it’s stunning. Are they your moms?”
He nods. “I’m glad you like it. Okay, we can go now,” he says, placing his hand on my waist.
“Wait!” I whisper, twisting to face him. “You’re showing me your art, Henry.”
“Why are you telling me like I didn’t organize this?”
“Because this is monumental for me. You don’t like people looking at your work and you’re voluntarily showing me work that isn’t of me or on me. Can you understand how special that makes me feel?”
“You are special, Halle,” he says, leaning forward to kiss my forehead.
“Please tell me about the painting, Henry. When did you do it? It must have taken hours. Where is it?”
“I did it during summer break. Russ was working at a summer camp; Nate, JJ, and Joe all moved away; Robbie was with Lola and visiting his parents. I had a lot of free time. It was on their anniversary vacation to Greece last year. They borrowed my camera for the trip, and I found it when I was looking for something else. They look so happy in the photo. I decided I wanted to paint it.”
“What do they think of it?”
“Wow, you’re asking a lot of questions tonight. They haven’t seen it yet. I forgot to tell them I’d submitted it. They both have some vacation time for Christmas, so I’ll ask if they want to see it one of those days I’m home.”
“They’re going to want to see it, Henry. They’re definitely going to want to. I’m so proud of you, and I’m so honored that you’ve shared it with me. Do you want me to take your picture with it or something? This is so special. I feel like we need to commemorate it somehow.”