To Love and to Cherish by Patricia Gaffney

Where did you study?”
    “Nowhere you’ve heard of, I’m sure. I’d had no formal training, no training at all, so none of the better schools would have me. I lived in Paris for three years, two in Amsterdam. I almost starved to death. I’m not exaggerating,” he said, laughing. “It was touch and go more than once.”
    She nodded as if she understood that, too. “And then?”
    “Then . . . my mother passed away. I came home, and for the first time I saw my father falter. It was shattering to me. I’d run away at least partly to escape their power over me, and now one was gone and the other seemed helpless with despair. I felt like a child, but I was being called upon to be the strong one, to take control.”
    He paused, and took a sip of the drink he hadn’t touched until now. She was looking at him with veiled surprise and fascination, and also as if she was getting a great deal more than she’d bargained for when she asked her simple question. But it didn’t occur to him to hold back or to tell her anything except the truth, as well as he knew it.
    “My father’s health began to fail,” he resumed. “I was his right hand. With my mother gone, I became the one he confided in, and that was a revelation.” He smiled deprecatingly. “Maybe—a Revelation. From God, I mean, of my calling. I saw my likeness to my father for the first time, not just our differences. With nothing between us but love and gentleness, not resentment or immature embarrassment or superiority, I could let myself share his enthusiasms and—rejoice in our blood tie. And the things he told me then, in this new spirit of freedom and openness, were suddenly so meaningful, they couldn’t be ignored.”
    He leaned toward her. “Sometimes I wonder now if my vulnerability, the—the tenderness in my heart during that fragile time before he died, might’ve tricked me, trapped me into an unwise choice. And other times, I see it as the direct intercession of the Holy Spirit. I wonder if I’ll ever know which is the truth.”
    She didn’t speak. She had her lightly fisted hand over her mouth, so he had nothing to gauge her reaction by except her eyes. Silver-green in the lamplight, they stared back at him owlishly, a trifle worriedly. At least she wasn’t laughing at him.
    Now he was the one who felt restless. He set his glass down and stood up. “You might be asking yourself where God is in all of that—my motives and so forth. I’m not sure myself, but most of the time I have faith that he’s in there somewhere.”
    More silence.
    “Well, I guess I’ve finished answering the question.” She nodded slowly. He locked his hands behind his back and asked her straight out, “What are you thinking?”
    “I was thinking,” she said, and stopped. She looked into the middle distance, frowning a little, choosing her words. “I was thinking that you and I have something in common.” She smiled at his expression, appreciating his amazement. Of all the things she could have said, that was the one he was least expecting. It struck him then that his obvious skepticism was a not-very-subtle affront. But before he could form an apology, she said, “You see, I wanted to be an artist, too. And like you, I found I had no talent for it. It was . . . one of the tragedies of my youth.” She said “tragedies” with a little laugh, mocking herself, but he didn’t smile. He moved closer, drawn to the sadness in her that he could see clearly for once, all the mystery gone. She lifted her head, meeting his gaze levelly. Something passed between them. Then her fine brows drew together and she said with quick temper, “Don’t you
dare
feel sorry for me.”
    “Never.”
    She searched his face. She must have found what she wanted, because she looked down, a little embarrassed. “I beg your pardon. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
    “You didn’t.”
    “Yes, I did.”
    “All right.”
    She smiled, on safe ground again behind her shield