him angry, so I quit trying.” Gerald’s lowered his eyes, and failure deflated his posture. “I’m afraid Veronica has exaggerated stories about your marriage with Daniel, and that has him spooked. He said if he suffered through a divorce, then there must have been a reason.”
Marti sat back down in the chair and covered her eyes with her hand. “If he sees me now, don’t you think he’ll recognize me from the photos?”
“No. You’ve changed since then. Your hair’s a little lighter and a good bit shorter. You’re also much thinner than you were during your marriage. And, it’s been months since he saw the pictures. I’m sure he’s forgotten your face by now.”
“What about the accident? If he regains his memory, he’ll remember that as well. You know how angry he was when . . .” Her voice trailed into nothingness.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Marti, if you decide to stay.”
“If he doesn’t remember who I am, how will you explain me being here?”
For the first time since she set foot in the room, a hopeful gleam quivered in Gerald’s eyes. He smiled at her timidly.
“I told you I hired an investigator, Marti. He finally found you last year, and he tells me you’ve become quite popular in the art world. So, I had an idea. I mentioned to Daniel that I hired an artist to paint a portrait of him to hang in the den with all the other family portraits. Painting his portrait will not only give you cover for being here but a perfect reason for spending time with him. The more you’re together, the more it will prod his memory.”
Marti’s thoughts swirled around in her head when she realized what Gerald was asking her to do.
“I can’t.” Her breath came in short gasps. Seeing Daniel every day in such a relaxed setting would be unbearable. Painting a detailed portrait of Daniel’s facial features would be torture. Close and yet so far away. And the intimacy of spending hours in his company would chip away at her newly found self-control.
TWENTY
“I DON’T THINK I CAN do this.” Marti grasped for any excuse that would justify her leaving. “I don’t have my paints or any of my materials.”
Gerald slid off the black leather chair and headed toward the door.
“Come with me, Marti. I have something to show you.”
Marti fearfully trailed him down the hall where he stopped in front of two tall windows laid into the end of the paneled hallway. He motioned to a solid wooden door on the right side of the massive hall. She glanced shakily at the door nestled in the opposite side of the hall and preceded him into the room. When she stepped through the doorway into the corner suite, she jolted to a stop.
There in front of her was a whole artist’s studio—complete with several sizes of canvas, a palette covered with numerous tubes of oil paint, a state-of-the-art studio easel, and the most important thing for any portrait artist—floor to ceiling northern exposure windows. Both bristle and sable brushes poked out the top of a wooden basket hanging off the right side of a large wooden taboret, and a huge selection of artist pastels filled an open wooden box on a bench beside the taboret. A double paper towel holder completed the work station.
She gasped and stood with her mouth open.
“I hope I’ve remembered everything. I had a gallery owner in town order everything you might need. If you can think of anything else, it’s only a phone call away.”
She turned to stare at the short, crafty man. He must have been sure she could be talked into staying. He pointed toward a door at the back of the large room. Through it she saw a bed with a quilted comforter in patterns of blue and maroon, and just as many windows graced the bedroom wall. Double patio doors identical to the ones in the studio led out to the same balcony.
“This will be your suite if you decide to stay. I had it decorated with all your old furnishings.” He shrugged and raised a hand listlessly.
Marti sat back down in the chair and covered her eyes with her hand. “If he sees me now, don’t you think he’ll recognize me from the photos?”
“No. You’ve changed since then. Your hair’s a little lighter and a good bit shorter. You’re also much thinner than you were during your marriage. And, it’s been months since he saw the pictures. I’m sure he’s forgotten your face by now.”
“What about the accident? If he regains his memory, he’ll remember that as well. You know how angry he was when . . .” Her voice trailed into nothingness.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, Marti, if you decide to stay.”
“If he doesn’t remember who I am, how will you explain me being here?”
For the first time since she set foot in the room, a hopeful gleam quivered in Gerald’s eyes. He smiled at her timidly.
“I told you I hired an investigator, Marti. He finally found you last year, and he tells me you’ve become quite popular in the art world. So, I had an idea. I mentioned to Daniel that I hired an artist to paint a portrait of him to hang in the den with all the other family portraits. Painting his portrait will not only give you cover for being here but a perfect reason for spending time with him. The more you’re together, the more it will prod his memory.”
Marti’s thoughts swirled around in her head when she realized what Gerald was asking her to do.
“I can’t.” Her breath came in short gasps. Seeing Daniel every day in such a relaxed setting would be unbearable. Painting a detailed portrait of Daniel’s facial features would be torture. Close and yet so far away. And the intimacy of spending hours in his company would chip away at her newly found self-control.
TWENTY
“I DON’T THINK I CAN do this.” Marti grasped for any excuse that would justify her leaving. “I don’t have my paints or any of my materials.”
Gerald slid off the black leather chair and headed toward the door.
“Come with me, Marti. I have something to show you.”
Marti fearfully trailed him down the hall where he stopped in front of two tall windows laid into the end of the paneled hallway. He motioned to a solid wooden door on the right side of the massive hall. She glanced shakily at the door nestled in the opposite side of the hall and preceded him into the room. When she stepped through the doorway into the corner suite, she jolted to a stop.
There in front of her was a whole artist’s studio—complete with several sizes of canvas, a palette covered with numerous tubes of oil paint, a state-of-the-art studio easel, and the most important thing for any portrait artist—floor to ceiling northern exposure windows. Both bristle and sable brushes poked out the top of a wooden basket hanging off the right side of a large wooden taboret, and a huge selection of artist pastels filled an open wooden box on a bench beside the taboret. A double paper towel holder completed the work station.
She gasped and stood with her mouth open.
“I hope I’ve remembered everything. I had a gallery owner in town order everything you might need. If you can think of anything else, it’s only a phone call away.”
She turned to stare at the short, crafty man. He must have been sure she could be talked into staying. He pointed toward a door at the back of the large room. Through it she saw a bed with a quilted comforter in patterns of blue and maroon, and just as many windows graced the bedroom wall. Double patio doors identical to the ones in the studio led out to the same balcony.
“This will be your suite if you decide to stay. I had it decorated with all your old furnishings.” He shrugged and raised a hand listlessly.
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