“Whatever the motive, my friend appreciated it. I just wanted to tell you. He can’t. He’s still undercover. Not,” he added wryly, “in Jersey.”
Tony chuckled. “Well, he’s welcome. But I didn’t have noble motives or anything. It was just good business.”
“They say you paint,” Banks said to Merrie.
She smiled at him. “It’s just a hobby, but I love it.”
“I’d love to see some of your work,” Banks added.
Ren slid his hand over hers at the table. “We’d love to show it to you,” he said, making sure Banks knew he was with Merrie.
Banks got the idea at once and grinned. “Sure, I’d love that,” he replied.
Ren went with Merrie, who was still weak, to see the studio where she worked, on the back of the house. Her canvases lined the walls.
Banks whistled. “This isn’t a hobby,” he argued. “It’s a full-fledged career. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Thanks,” Merrie said softly.
He shook his head. “You see right into people, don’t you?” he asked absently. He was looking at a painting she’d done long ago of Mandy.
She smiled. “It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“More blessing than curse,” Banks replied. He glanced from her to Ren and grinned. “The good ones always get snapped up right away,” he added.
Merrie flushed. Ren pulled her close and kissed her hair. “Yes,” he said warmly. “They always do.”
*
SHE WORKED ON Tony’s portrait for the next few days. It was slow going, because she had to take frequent breaks. But it was going well. Tomorrow she’d add the details she’d decided on, and let Tony see it for the first time.
She and Ren were still sharing a bed at night, with the door wide-open, to the amusement of the rest of the household.
Late one night, he recited a poem to her, his deep voice thrilling in the soft darkness, lit only by a night-light.
“...and still the darkness ebbs about your bed. Quiet, and strange, and loving—kind, you sleep. And holy joy about the earth is shed. And holiness upon the deep.” Ren finished the poem.
“Oh, that’s lovely,” Sari said from the door.
“It’s Rupert Brooke,” Ren called, laughing. “You recited one of his poems to me back home,” he reminded Merrie. “He was one of my favorite poets in college. He was killed in World War I. This is from a poem called ‘The Charm’ that he wrote.”
“I wish my husband would read poetry to me, but I don’t think he even knows a poem,” Sari teased.
“I do so know a poem!” Paul protested, joining her. Both were in pajamas. Paul grinned down at her. “Ready? Here goes. ‘There once was a man from Nantucket...!’”
“You peasant!” Sari exclaimed, and hit him. He took off running, laughing, and she took off after him, laughing, too.
Merrie laughed into Ren’s throat, clinging to him. “They’re so happy together,” she murmured sleepily. “It’s good to see them that way. It was a hard few years, for both of them.”
He drew her gently closer. “You and I will give them a run for their money,” he whispered at her ear. “You color my world, Meredith. I’d do anything for you.”
“Anything?” she teased.
“Absolutely.”
“Then recite another poem,” she said softly.
He laughed, then kissed her, tenderly. “Okay. Here goes.” And he found another poem in his memory.
*
TONY GARZA JUST STARED at the portrait at first, both big hands in his pockets, his head cocked to one side, his dark eyes narrowed and quiet on the painting.
Merrie had captured him perfectly in oils. The background was surprising. There was a window behind him, where a garden could just be seen, part of which was covered with trailing vines on delicate stakes. On one of the vines were ripe red tomatoes, so lifelike that the viewer could almost taste them. Tony was perching on a desk. His big hands were beside him, on the edges of the oak desk. His fingernails were immaculate. There was a ruby ring on his little finger. There was a faint scar on the back of one hand, a carved symbol that Merrie hadn’t understood, but she painted it there anyway. There was a chain, like that of a watch fob, at his waist. It was gold. On the end of it she’d painted a Celtic cross—an odd thing she hadn’t understood, either, because she couldn’t picture Tony being religious. On the wall behind Tony’s head was a small black silhouette of a woman’s head in a framed painting. The background of the entire painting was a rich, lush burgundy, with folds like velvet along both sides.
Tony let out a long, long breath. He shook his head.
Merrie just watched him. She knew he loved it.
He turned and looked at her with affectionate dark eyes. “You really do see deep, honey,” he said softly.
“Can you tell me what those things mean?” she asked. “If it isn’t prying too much, I mean.”
His thick eyebrows went up. “You painted it and you don’t know what they mean?”