The evening started out totally wrong, and Ford knew it was all his fault. What was he doing pressing all the floor buttons and making out with Greer in the elevator? He needed to have a productive evening of painting, not one in which he spent all his time either imagining making love to her or initiating foreplay.
But she was so delicious.
And so right for you, a forbidden, ridiculous voice in his head said.
He managed to pull himself together when they got to the studio and he saw a missed call on his phone from Anne. He knew what that was about. She was checking up on him. She’d ask questions: How far along was he with the sketches for the portrait? Would he make it in time for the showing? He’d need to figure in the stretch it took to ship the canvas over the ocean, too, and get it to the site as well.
And then worse, he saw a text from Teddy: Feeling good, considering I’m eating for three.
* * *
Dear God, it was nearly impossible to imagine Teddy pregnant. She had a big heart beneath her tough exterior, but she simply wasn’t interested in revealing it very often, even to him. She found it a show of weakness. Even so, he’d been her biggest fan. Along with her stubborn reticence came a fierce independence he’d found refreshing. And when she did show her softer side, she’d been irresistible—at least to the old Ford.
New Ford—post-wedding disaster—recognized that he’d fallen for her out of sheer ego on his part. She was gorgeous, chased after by many men, and he was the privileged one she’d decided to open up to. They made a beautiful couple. The English tabloids thought so, as well as their friends.
But never again would he get involved with someone because he felt flattered by all the attention. The stupidity of it, the shallowness.…
He was embarrassed to have been reeled in so easily. But the hard lesson he’d learned had brought him to a new place. He was more humble now. Looking back, he saw that in a way he’d been as careless with women’s hearts as Teddy had been with his. He’d never wanted to love anyone. Not really. He’d only wanted to play when he wasn’t busy painting, with people who mattered little to him.
No more. When he wasn’t painting these days, he wanted to think. To count off his blessings each day. To be with people who loved him for who he was—a painter on a lifelong journey—and whom he loved back.
Now that Teddy was pregnant, he had to wonder if she’d need to open up more. The babies would require demonstrations of love, wouldn’t they? Could she manage to be emotionally available to them?
“What is it?” Greer asked, her arms around his waist from behind.
He shook his head. “Teddy. She’s texting me about her appetite.”
“Oh,” said Greer, and dropped her arms.
He sighed. “She’s eating for three, but she feels pretty good.”
“I’m glad. It would be much worse on you if she were having complications.”
“Yes,” he said, striving to sound upbeat.
They both knew it was time to get to work. She undressed behind the screen, walked to the chaise lounge in her black robe, as he’d instructed her to the first day, and dropped the robe.
He swallowed, but his throat was dry. Her face was serene when she sat—like a princess, he thought. She swung up her legs and leaned back on the cushion.
Her strength, her sensuality, her beauty hit him hard. Could he get everything he saw in her in the portrait? He would do his best, but …
He didn’t think he’d be able to.
A feeling of failure assailed him. Sometimes his talent felt like a bucket of water with a hole in the bottom, carried in the desert. Such buckets were useless, weren’t they? They didn’t do what they were supposed to. You knew at the beginning, too, that there were no lasting alternatives—fingers in the hole would have to come out at some point—and yet who in their right mind would put down that bucket of water in the glare and heat of the sun?
Was it worse prolonging the time to the inevitable thirst and dehydration? Or better to get the suffering over with sooner?
He was desperate. He wasn’t in charge … the bucket was. The damned bucket with a hole in it ran his life. And that fact ate at him. It made him furious.
“You okay?” Greer asked.
“No,” he said. “Not really.”
She sat up a little higher. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It has nothing to do with you.” He couldn’t help that his voice was clipped. “It’s me, feeling sorry for myself.”
“Can you tell me more?”
And so he did. He told her about the bucket. About the hole. About how he wasn’t able to achieve his vision completely—on any project he did—and it made him crazy.
She stared at the wall for a moment, then looked back at him. “Throw the bucket away,” she said.
“But that’s just as bad. In fact, it means I’ve given up.” He jabbed at the painting with his brush.
“No, it doesn’t.”
“How so?” He stopped painting. He didn’t feel like hearing anyone else’s well-meaning attempt to comfort him. He was ready to pounce on whatever she said and be bitter. He’d have to try very hard not to do so. It would be rude of him, and she didn’t deserve rudeness.
“Well,” she said, one of her hands resting lightly on her breast, “you throw away the bucket and cut into a cactus for water. They’re like sponges inside. Slake your thirst there.”
“Right,” he said. Accompanied by a very short laugh.
She waved a hand at him. “Pooh on you. You’re not willing to listen, are you?”
“Yes, I am,” he said, feeling stubborn. “But I don’t feel like dealing in metaphors anymore. You’re suggesting that I come at this from a whole new angle, but that’s much easier said than done. Finding a cactus in the desert is easy to do in a made-up story. Finding one in my life is much harder.”
“But not impossible,” she said.
“Thank you for caring,” he said, “but it’s time to move on.”
“I have one more suggestion, and then I’ll shut up about it.”
“You don’t need to shut up about it,” he said. “I do. Examining your talent level is one of those unsolvable things that all artists grapple with, I suppose, and I should just get on with it—with my painting.” And he did. He added a few brushstrokes. And he felt fine about them.
Fine.
It was such a lackluster word.
“So go ahead, tell me your suggestion,” he said, realizing he’d been talking too much to let her.
“Okay,” she said. “Drink, and drink, and drink before you go into the desert. Drink from life. Then you won’t need the bucket or the cactus. The magic is already inside you. It’s a part of you. Not something you have to carry around or look for. That’s your problem. You’re trying too hard to find it.”
He had to smile. She was onto something. He most definitely tended to try too hard, and she was the first person who had ever come close to understanding him. Anne, even though she was a fellow artist, had never related to his frustration with himself. Her creative muse was always at her beck and call. He’d never once heard her doubt that the universe was supporting her, and she could write reams and reams of stories that pleased her no end with little to no suffering for her art involved.
“Thank you,” he said to Greer. “You’ve made a good point.”
She sent him a pert smile. “You’re welcome.”
She had intuition coupled with a well-grounded intelligence, a compelling combination that spoke to him. He wanted a companion like that, he realized then. Someone he could express his doubts to. Someone he could bounce ideas off. Someone he could respect and learn from.
He hadn’t realized how much of a student of life he still was … until meeting Greer. He’d thought he’d known it all, hadn’t he? And then Teddy’s betrayal had happened, and here he was, raw and new. Starting over, really.
But it felt okay to do so with Greer. She was a comfort, a friend.
They kept working, and he felt more at peace. If he simply forged ahead and didn’t think too hard about it, his painting was definitely good. It was painstaking work, but it would be something worthwhile if he simply stopped thinking so hard and painted, one stroke at a time.
And then for no reason at all—nothing had changed; a loud jet had flown overhead, a phone rang down the corridor—something shifted. It became easier. He was in a moment of flow, one of those inexplicable times when everything was in sync: his brain, his heart, his brush.
He had to run with it, try not to breathe and ruin the spell. Greer watched him without saying anything. Could she tell something was different? Better? She didn’t let on if so.
Look. Paint. Look again, this time at the curve of her cheek. Next time the tapering of her nose. Paint. Dab. Create.
It was the rhythm of the artist in flow, as natural, it felt, as breathing, as the tide going in and out, the moon rising and falling, or making love to Greer the night before beneath the transom. When he was in it, he didn’t know why he wasn’t always there.
Because it felt so right.
In fact, he finally caught the pose he wanted to use in the portrait. It was a great feeling. As he was painting the outline of it, he could feel that it was the one. Adrenaline surged. His breathing became shallow but even.
There was something different about her … was it tied into the fact that they’d fooled around the night before? Or had some good conversations? She was more at ease with him now. She was also more alluring than ever, and lively. Wittier than ever. Warmer than ever. All the good things that showed up in body language and facial expression were there in her.
The most interesting thing was, the closer he got to the essence of her, the more there was to know about her.
So it was severely frustrating when about ten minutes into that marvelous state of inspired productivity, he received a call from Gus. Their dishwasher had overflowed while everyone was out of the apartment. The kitchen and living room in the flat were filled with water. Luckily, the dishwasher had ended its cycle. But the damage was done.
Hopefully, the water hadn’t leaked through the ceiling. So far they hadn’t heard from the downstairs neighbor, which was a good sign.
He’d gone from flow to overflow. The irony wasn’t lost upon him.
Greer got it, too.
“It’s too bad we have to leave,” she said. “You were different these last few minutes. I can’t explain, but I felt lighter on the couch. As if you and I were connected by something else. We were along for the ride, but we weren’t in charge. It was relaxing and exciting all at once.”
He paused in putting away his paints. She’d floored him with her acute awareness. He didn’t know what to say, other than, “I was making progress. Yes.”
Which sounded lame. But he didn’t want to think too hard about how much he was beginning to like her. Actually, it went beyond like to something deeper. He craved her. Craved being with her. And that scared him.
But luckily, he had other things to think about. Greer dressed quickly, and they left the studio together. She took his bike; he rode her Vespa. He got there first, of course.
When she arrived, she stayed long enough to help get every towel in the house out and soak up what they could. And she found them the name of a water damage company. Then she left at his behest. There was literally nothing she could do, and there was no place to sit. He had to stay there and wait for the water damage company to show. He told Gus he could go out. He didn’t mind. He was in a fantastic mood, despite the dishwasher issue.
Things had gone well at the studio that night.
But when Greer left his apartment, some of his excitement about the portrait left him. Cleaning up the water with her, he’d had to grab towels from his bathroom, and on the way, he’d seen the box in his room with Teddy’s teddy in it. He’d been gripped once more with a sense that he didn’t run his life. It ran him.
He felt trapped.
But it was his own fault. He couldn’t blame his ex-fiancée for the fact that he might soon be a dad. He’d taken that chance every time he’d slept with her. It was a sobering thought, that because he’d been willing to gamble, he might have a huge responsibility—two, in fact—for the next eighteen years, and really, for the rest of his life. Because one didn’t stop being a father, no matter how old the child. He knew that from watching his dad, who was still very worried about Rupert, and Rupert was thirty-five.
He waited until the next morning to tell Anne about Teddy. It was time. The floor in the kitchen was still damp. They had a giant fan blowing on it, thanks to the water restoration company. Drake and Gus woke up early to go sailing, and he made them eggs and toast to send them off.
“What’s this?” Drake said, looking at his egg.
“It’s an egg,” said Ford.
“In the shell,” Gus muttered.
Ford had gone to Williams-Sonoma on King Street and of course had picked up a box of egg cups, a few plates, glasses, and some silverware as soon as he’d moved in.
“You two plonkers need to learn to eat an egg properly.” Ford sliced off the top of each egg, put a pat of butter on their tops, a little sprinkle of salt and pepper, and handed the boys a spoon. “Now eat.” He threw a few pieces of toast like Frisbees in their general direction. They caught them and kept chewing. Apparently, the soft-boiled eggs were to their liking. “Dip the toast in the yolk, and then go about your day knowing you’ve been well fed.”
“Ta,” Gus said sarcastically.
Ford whipped him with a dishcloth on the ear.
“Ow.” Gus grabbed his earlobe.
Drake laughed, then took a gulp from his mug and spit it out. “What is this shit? It isn’t coffee!”
“Strong black tea, boys,” said Ford. “Strong black tea. Nothing better for a hangover.”
It was Gus’s turn to laugh. “I dig tea,” he said, and took a gentle sip from his. “Damn, my head hurts.”
Ah, if only their little girlfriends could see them now.
“I’ll make gentlemen out of you two yet,” Ford said, right as Drake grabbed Gus’s free arm and twisted it backward. Gus put his tea down and screamed bloody murder, which was Ford’s cue to escape.
He went outside and called Anne on his mobile. Told her about Teddy.
“Good God,” said Anne. “I’ll go visit her. Tell me what you want me to say.”
“I have no idea,” he admitted.
“This is frightening,” Anne said, “considering how ill she used you. Yet exciting, too, to think that my baby brother could be a father soon—to twins, no less.”
“Exciting for you, maybe,” he said. “Terrifying for me.”
“Look,” said Anne. “The terrifying part is only that if you’re the father, you won’t know the particulars of your arrangement with her for a good while. You’ll be in limbo, while your baby is crying, pooping, laughing, and growing in Teddy’s house. Darling, it’s incumbent upon you to prepare as if they are indeed yours. You’ll want to be fully involved if they are, from the get-go. Contact the family barrister immediately and let her know what’s going on.”
“I don’t want Mum and Dad to know. They’ve already got Rupert to worry about.”
Anne sighed. “Give them credit, will you? This is hardly terrible news. You’ll not only survive but you’ll thrive being a dad, and they’ll love being grandparents. And if it turns out you’re not the father, you’ll at least have had the comfort of their support until you know. Because they will support you, no matter what.”
“Right,” he said.
There was a long pause. He felt very emotional. And alone. “Bollocks,” he said. It was all he could get out. It was a plea of sorts, he knew, one he could indulge in with his only sister.
She gave a little hiccup of a cry. “Oh, my sweet brother, I know. Life has thrown you a giant curveball. And you’re feeling alone. But you’re not. You’ve got us.”
“I know. And I’m grateful.”
“We both knew someday you’d be a father with Teddy as your wife. So … she’s not going to be. That’s fine. And here you are, perhaps reaching fatherhood just a little bit sooner than we thought you would. But it’s all right. It’s better than all right. It’s bloody marvelous if you really look at it.”
“My life feels on hold until I know.”
“You have to keep living.”
“But I can’t make any decisions. Not until I know.”
“Why should anything change? You can be a father from whatever position in life you choose. You don’t stop being you just because you might have made a baby. Or two. Your needs matter, as well. Were you contemplating any big decisions when you got this news?”
He sighed. “No. But I met someone. I like her.”
“Oh.” Anne didn’t say anything more.
“It’s not like that. We’re not even in a relationship. I mean, we are—an arranged one.…”
“What in God’s name?” Anne exclaimed.
He told her about their temporary engagement that all of Charleston knew about and supported.
“So it’s that girl … the same one you stalked because she’s perfect?”
“Yes.”
“She’ll pose for you if you act as her fiancé?”
“Right. Although she didn’t ask me to go that far. I volunteered when I realized she would never win a wedding gown without a partner.”
“You asked her to marry you? Onstage?”
“Uh, yes. I did.”
“Good of you,” is all Anne said.
“You’re being awfully calm about this. It makes me nervous.”
“Oh, don’t be nervous,” Anne said. “I simply know that if I press, or become excited that you say you really like someone, you might not tell me as much as you are. And I love hearing every juicy detail, especially something as dramatic as a public proposal! I’m a romance writer, darling. We love stories like this, although in my historicals the baron would have outright married her, consummated the marriage—maybe gotten her pregnant—then disappeared on the Continent for years, fighting Napoleon, while she languished at the castle back home.” She gave a short laugh. “Of course, I don’t want to know everything in your story.”
“And I won’t tell you everything,” he said.
“Are you making progress with the portrait?”
“Somewhat. But she’s awfully busy.”
“You’ll do it,” Anne said. “Not only will you finish it, but it will be your best work yet.”
“Always rooting for me, aren’t you? Do me a favor. Let’s not pretend I’m really good—yet.”
“Way to think. I love you for the artist you can be.”
“Thank you for misquoting Jerry Maguire so well.”
“Shut up, little brother.”
“I feel better now. We’re fighting.”
They were both laughing when he hung up. He always felt much better after talking to Anne. He could and he would get the portrait done, and he wouldn’t agitate over whether it was his best work or not. He was coming to the conclusion that analyzing himself and his art didn’t get him any closer to becoming better.
In that spirit, he ran five miles, came home and did his daily hundred push-ups, and ate his own soft-boiled egg in an egg cup. Two, as a matter of fact, with dry toast and a mug of tea. His spirit felt revived from the tea alone. His parents had instilled in him that he was of strong constitution and character, and that fact consoled him. He damned well would keep calm and carry on.
Greer called him about ten A.M. to ask about the water damage and if all was well.
“We’re drying out,” he said. “Thanks for lending assistance. And your Vespa.”
“My pleasure,” she said. “I’m getting a little behind on the preparation for the bake-off. Any chance you could come help? The girls are taking over for me at the office today so I can tackle this.”
“Of course.”
“Meet me at Macy’s garden shed.” She gave him directions.
When he got there, he laughed. She wore a pair of cut-off denim shorts, a man’s V-neck white T-shirt, and Reeboks that looked as if they’d seen better days. She already had pink paint on her nose, and she was holding an electric screwdriver.
“You look like a pin-up girl on a hardware calendar,” he said. “A very competent one, of course.”
“I’m an ace with tools,” she said. “Watch out.”
She explained to him what she was up to.
“You got all this just this morning?” he said, looking around the shed at her supplies.
“Sure.” She shrugged.
“But you don’t have a car. How’d you get them here?”
“A friend took me in his pickup truck.” She sifted through a toolbox, looking for something. “Pete.”
Pete, Ford thought, and couldn’t believe he felt slightly jealous. But no way would he ask about him. He had no right, no claim on her.
“What a glorious day,” he said instead. “I can see the edge of the harbor from here. It’s shockingly blue.”
They took a minute to look at it together, and then they got to work. They had a great time. A fat cat named Oscar came and joined them, and a while later, two kids from next door, who were suitably impressed.
“We’re getting our mommy to take us to your cake party tonight,” said the older one. She must have been five.
“I’m coming, too,” croaked the younger one, like a frog. He couldn’t have been more than three.
“Good,” said Greer. She crouched down and hugged them both. “I’ll see you there.”
An hour after the kids left, things got a little hot and heavy when they took a break for lunch in Macy’s kitchen. Greer wasn’t hungry.
“Too much adrenaline,” she said.
He got her against the kitchen counter, and they kissed until the only option was either getting completely naked and risking Macy walking in or going back to work.
They went back to work. They had four hours to go before the bake-off.
The rest of the afternoon flew by. Not once did they talk about Teddy and Ford’s possible looming job as parent. And Greer didn’t talk about anything deep, either. They kept it low-key, and he liked that. He needed that.
“You’re coming with me,” Greer was saying. “Absolutely no one can leave Charleston without walking across the Ravenel Bridge. And then afterward, we’ll go to the gospel brunch at Hall’s Chophouse. My treat.”
He grinned. It felt so good to be able to relax with someone. Really relax. He didn’t even remember the last time he’d felt this good being with someone. He wanted to tell her, but he didn’t know how. And it probably wasn’t a great idea.
“Sounds good,” he said, “but you’ll have to let me return the favor in London. We’ll ride the Eye, then walk across Westminster Bridge and go to afternoon tea at the Library Lounge. Great views of Parliament.”
She looked at him for a second, and he saw a glint of sadness, or regret, or something. Whatever it was, it stole a bit of the spark from her. “Okay,” she said in a politely cheerful voice, but things felt less upbeat after that.
It couldn’t be that she was wishing he’d stay in Charleston.
But why couldn’t it? He was wishing the same thing. He wasn’t one to beat around the bush. He put down his paintbrush, went over to her, and took her gently by the upper shoulders. “I don’t want to go back to London,” he said. “You’re a lot of fun. It’s been too long since I’ve had this much fun.”
A smile formed on her lips immediately. “I was thinking the same thing.”
He kissed her until she dropped her wet paintbrush on her sneaker.
Things got better again.
They had an hour to go and were on a last-minute run to a discount store that had everything in the world in it that you might need for your home: HomeGoods. Greer was buying some things for the bake-off table. “You’re sure the doughnut shop is holding up their end of the deal?” he asked her.
“Yes, they are,” she said. “They’re fantastic. And super-excited.” She tossed him a wry look. “Don’t be disappointed if we don’t win. This is a real long shot. But even if we don’t, I had fun, and I’m proud of us for giving it our all. You and me. And Oscar. He oversaw everything.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Ford said, and grinned at the memory of Oscar’s tail tirelessly waving while the cat watched them work in the shed.
“If I can get at least second place at the bake-off and then knock the next competition out of the park, I can still win the whole shebang,” she said.
“I have full faith you will,” he said.
“We have one huge advantage in the bake-off.”
“What?”
“Out of all the blindfolded partners in the taste test, you’re more likely to know which sample cake is mine,” she said. “Especially as I made sure we didn’t get cake doughnuts. We got the original light, airy, classic ones.”
“I never thought of that.” He liked how strategically she was approaching this challenge. “At least we have that going for us. We also have your charm. Don’t forget that.”
“And your pecs,” she said, looking at him over some reading glasses she’d donned to read price tags. “They might bring in some votes.”
“You American girls are cheeky,” he said.
“And you love it,” she said back, and kissed him.
He loved everything about her. When she turned back to her shopping, he realized how close he was coming to another disaster.