December 5, 1908
“Do you think a person can have more than one soul mate in this lifetime?” Hannah Galtero’s questioning words are not immediately responded to. In her mind she adds, Because somehow I believe I’ve managed to have two at one time.
The artist painting her portrait turns his piercing stare from his canvas to focus on Hannah. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I was just reading a book the other day and—”
“What’s the book’s title?” Cal Glassell is standing across the small loft studio, beside his easel. “Maybe I’ve heard about it.”
It doesn’t have a title, she thinks. It’s my diary. She invents a name for the imaginary novel. “It’s called Love Lifts Us Up.”
“Catchy title. Maybe I should carry it in my store downstairs.”
“You should. Anyway, the story’s about a married woman.” Hannah pauses and allows her words to linger.
“Let me guess. She’s drawn to another man.”
“That’s what she says she feels…in the book.” Hannah inhales a jagged breath and fidgets on her cushioned backless chair.
“Don’t move! Please. I’ve just about captured your eyes, and the sunlight is absolutely perfect. It’s kissing you. Like you’re sun-kissed. Get it?”
She grins. “Yes, like Sunkist. How clever of you.” Hannah resumes her previous position. “I feel like I’m playing statue with the kids out in the yard.”
Hannah leans forward on the edge of the table, her elbow behind a basket of oranges and a few sprigs of greenery and orange blossoms. She makes sure the small gathering of leaves and blossoms in her hair is still in place. Hannah pats the tidy bun atop of her head and runs her fingertips down the few face-framing curls that cascade along her temple.
She sparks the conversation. “Are we going to have another staring contest? I bet you blink first this time.”
“It’s not a contest. I’m the one who’s working and I don’t lose. Sometimes I just fail to…win.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll change the subject. Maybe the lady in the book is just confused.”
“Yes, confused.” His words now have a fogginess to them, like he’s not fully committed to the conversation and instead focused more on his canvas. Hannah recognizes that tone of voice. That distance. Her father’s voice was like that. Her husband’s voice is often that way. Even when their children are present.
Why do the men I care for make me feel so dismissed? Not with what they say. But how they say it.
He studies her, his intense gaze darting from her face to his easel. Back and forth until finally his brush makes contact with the canvas for a brief moment.
Hannah studies the shafts of sunlight beaming through the studio’s windows. She notices bits of dust floating like dandelion seeds on a restless breath. She considers how the same air carries the fragrance from the bowl of oranges and their tree’s blossoms. Then there’s the pungent scent of oil paint and turpentine.
Hannah longs for a wispy whiff of her long-lost independence.
She focuses on his eyes. And stays there.
I’ve never stared at—or been stared at by—someone for as many hours as Cal has stared at me in this studio. How many sessions have we had? Seven? Eight? Time moves so slowly here. And yet it always goes too fast. Just him and me and paint and sunbeams. “When will I get to see the painting?”
“When I’m done. When it’s done.”
“Have you painted the basket of oranges and the background? Or are you still working on me?”
“Usually, I only have the subject sit while I paint his or her face. But with you, I want to get every detail just right…for your husband and his business. Because of that, I’ve been working on the background while you’re here. With me.”
“Rows of citrus trees in the orchard?”
“Absolutely, and snow-capped mountains and blue sky. But that’s all I’m going to tell you. You’ll just have to wait and see it later.”
“I just hope it stands out from all of the other newspaper ads and crate labels and posters on the sides of barns.”
“Oh, it will.” His voice turns slow and silky again. “I promise you, it will.”
I could listen to that voice for hours.
He continues to study her from beside the canvas. He doesn’t sketch or paint for a long moment…a moment that makes her heart beat faster. She keeps her gaze fixed on his, hardly daring to breathe. She hopes this is a moment when she’ll finally experience passion.
His eyes shine.
Those eyes sing a song to her soul that she fights to resist. He must have feelings for me. No man could look at woman like this and not be moved.
She blinks slowly. Down, then up. But I’m married. Even if he’s too much of a gentleman to put words to his feelings. I’m already tied to another.
Cal steps away from the easel, one hand raised as he approaches her.
Hannah restrains herself and offers only the sheerest of expressions. If he sees how I’m really feeling, everything changes. It would be the end of everything I know and the start of something new. Something wonderfully new.
She fights to keep a mask of indifference in place. This is wrong. So wrong. Don’t show him. Hold fast. Oh, this all feels wicked. Her thoughts swirl.
I can’t act on it. I won’t.
In the quiet center of her storm of emotions, she thinks, But I want to.