Prescription For Seduction. Darlene Scalera
up the painting again.
“Do you have any more?”
She stopped. “Any more?”
“Paintings.”
“Why?”
He smiled. It was the smile the others talked about—the smile they said could save lives.
“I’d like to see some more.”
She looked at the strong shapes, textures, the powerful mix of primary tones on the rectangle in his hands. It was a hobby, something she did when her quiet world got too quiet and the perfect balance, careful symmetry of her arrangements made her shake. She would bring out her canvases, her darkest, richest colors, and brushes so soft to the touch she had to close her eyes and rub them across her lids.
She hadn’t been allowed to paint as a child. Crayons were okay; paints were too messy for parents used to a serene, orderly household. No being loud, running, banging, acting like a baby, being silly. Not only did that type of behavior disrupt the household, but Eden could get hurt. Her mother, having longed for her for so long, had been especially overprotective, spying potential dangers everywhere. By the time Eden went to school, her natural timidness had become a deeply ingrained shyness. Uneasy around people, strange places, unfamiliar experiences, she created her own imaginary world. There she was safe.
Eventually the extreme fearfulness and shyness had shifted into a content quietness, a dignified reserve. The world she had once only envisioned in her head was now real. Flowers always bloomed, people always smiled, nothing evil or hurtful was allowed. And the quiet that had been born in her and entrenched by experience was tolerated, welcome even, and only occasionally painful.
It was then, when longing became pain, that she locked her apartment door and went to her paints. Brush in hand, she became someone else—someone wild, loud, spontaneous, shocking. She painted, and she was free.
She’d never shown the paintings to anyone.
Holding the canvas, Brady waited for her answer. The lights in his dark-brown hair were as strong as the deepest color in her painting.
She set the tray on the cedar chest. “Just a moment.”
She went into her bedroom and kneeled by the canopy bed with the Battenburg lace duvet and the Victorian doll propped against the pillows. She lifted the bedskirt and saw the canvases lying there in the dark. She pulled them out. Some were smaller than others; all were passionate and intense. The work of a woman possessed, Eden thought, sitting back on her haunches, once more hesitating.
“I like that one. That one, too.”
She started, not having heard Brady come in. She looked over her shoulder and saw him leaning against the doorjamb.
“May I?” He looked not at her but the paintings.
She stood, brushed off her creased pants. Brady, not waiting for her answer, came and stood next to her. Together they looked at the colors and contrasts and textures and shapes spread out across the floor like a madwoman’s quilt. She felt him beside her more keenly than if she were in his embrace.
He picked up a smaller one and brushed off the dust that clung to its thick edges. “Why do you hide them under your bed?”
She didn’t meet his eyes. “They’re only a hobby.”
They both knew they were much more than that.
He turned the canvas over. “You don’t sign them?”
He was too near. She was too exposed. She looked away from the brilliant colors and found his eyes on her. “The tea’s getting cold.”
He smiled. “Yes, the tea.” His fingertip followed a ridge in the painting where the color had been applied thick and fast. He laid it next to the others. “Thank you for showing them to me.”
“You’re welcome.” The words were stiff; her voice a schoolmarm’s. “Shall we go have our tea?”
“Can I help you put them away?”
“No.” The answer was firm. “I’ll do it later.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. He looked at her but didn’t ask again.
She followed him into the living room, turning off the bedroom light, leaving the paintings in darkness.
She sat on the hard seat of the rocking chair, leaning forward to pass Brady his tea. He took the mug from her hand, his fingers meeting the tips of hers. A current moved up her arm from his touch. She pulled her hand away. Stop being silly, she told herself.
She straightened in the wood seat, balancing her mug on her thigh. She tried a tiny smile, added some small talk. “Anna Kelsey and Molly came in today.”
“Oh.” He leaned against the back of the sofa, resting his elbow on the upholstered arm, his mug held in his wide hand. He shifted toward her, stretching one leg diagonally across the couch so that his foot dangled. His other arm extended and stretched along the sofa’s back.
“They came in to choose the decorations for Jenna’s baby shower—a floral arrangement for the buffet table, some favors, balloons, that kind of thing.”
He nodded. She was boring him. “Anna mentioned she ran into you the other night outside the shop.”
He smiled, but the tiredness she’d seen earlier in his face deepened. “She was walking Martha home to Worthington House.”
“She said Martha gave you a hard time.”
He nodded again. “She’s trying to scare up another couple ready for a wedding present. The Quilting Circle must need a new project.” He leaned forward to set his tea on the chest, then sat back, stretching his arms over his head. “I told her the Spencer family has already done their share for a few years.” He settled into the couch. “I should’ve never sat down.”
He straightened, pressing his palms against the seat cushions. He shook his head apologetically, his eyes heavy-lidded. “I’ve got to go, Eden, before I fall asleep right here.”
“Of course.” She jumped up from the chair. “Let me just wrap up some cookies for you to take home.” She put the basket on the tea tray and carried it into the kitchen.
She opened a cupboard and took out another tin like the one Brady had returned this evening.
“You can warm them in the microwave and they’ll taste like they just came out of the oven.” She piled the cookies in the tin and pushed down the lid as she walked into the living room. “I gave you all the cookies I had in case you have to share.”
She heard a snore. “Brady?”
He had settled into the sofa, his leg propped up, his arm outstretched. His head had fallen back, his mouth parted.
“Brady?”
He snored again.
She should wake him. But as she was about to touch his shoulder, he snored. She snatched her hand away.
“Brady?” Her whisper was urgent.
He shifted onto his side and brought both legs up on the cushions. The side of his face pressed against the needlepoint pillow propped against the sofa’s arm.
She really should wake him. Her hand reached out again to lightly tap his shoulder. He shifted once more, only to burrow his body deeper into the cushions.
Eden retreated to the rocking chair. She rocked, watching him. His body was too long to stretch out fully and so was tucked, the knees bent, the arms folded across his chest. His snores were rhythmic now, a deep, full bass that sounded of authority even as he slept. His mouth had opened but was not slack. None of the strong lines, the flat planes of his face had softened. She rocked back and forth and wondered if this solid, self-reliant man ever rested.
His body turned again as if searching for comfort.