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I peered out the window and saw Mr Cole.
What on earth is he doing here?
We agreed to keep in touch, but I hadn’t expected to see him again so soon. Pressing the button to let him in, I then went to open my door.
“Well, isn’t this a cosy little spot,” he declared when I welcomed him inside. “You know, Jim and I lived in a place like this when we first got together. I’ve just been hit with a wave of nostalgia.”
“I’m sure your house is far more comfortable than a flat this small,” I said, still curious as to why he was there. “It’s good to see you. Were you in the neighbourhood?”
“No, actually,” he said, patting his coat pocket. “I came to—” His words fell off when he turned and saw Shay’s painting. He stood there, staring at it for almost a full minute. I didn’t know if his silence was a good thing or a bad thing.
“Maggie,” he breathed finally. “Is this you?”
I scratched self-consciously at my wrist. “Uh, yes. Do you like it?”
“It’s stunning. But I thought you didn’t like to be painted or have your picture taken. Wait, is it a self-portrait? Please don’t tell me I’ve had an artist far greater than myself cleaning my house all these years?”
Mr Cole thought Shay’s art was better than his own? I mean, they were both incredibly talented, and yes, I did prefer Shay’s work, but I thought that was simply because I was in love with him. My love painted everything he did with a rosy glow.
“No, no,” I responded quickly. “This is my boyfriend’s work.”
“Ah, yes, I can see it now. Definitely drawn from a lover’s gaze.” My self-consciousness returned because the picture was rather intimate, my naked back on full view.
“Can I ask your boyfriend’s name? I’d love to see more of his work.”
“His name is Shay Riordan, but he doesn’t really share his art. It’s a private creative outlet for him.”
Mr Cole nodded. “Understood. Well, please let him know I’m interested if he ever does decide to share his work. You have my contact details. Tell him to give me a call. Oh, and before I forget the reason I came in the first place.” His hand went into his pocket, removing a small white envelope. I peered at it when he handed it to me.
“I didn’t get a chance to give you this,” he said. I opened it and found about five hundred euros in clean, crisp notes. “Just a little token of mine and Jim’s appreciation for your loyalty over the years.”
“I can’t accept this.”
He waved me away. “Of course, you can. Buy yourself a few outfits for that swanky new office job of yours. Now, might I trouble you for a cup of tea?”
I smiled at him. “Thank you. Now that you mention it, I could do with a new wardrobe.”
“See. It’s all working out. Now, go put that kettle on before I die of thirst.”
I grinned and did as he requested.
Later that evening when Shay showed up after work, I fretted over whether to tell him about Mr Cole’s visit. His art was a sensitive subject, especially because the reason he stopped doing it for so many years was all tied up in his mother’s passing.
I cooked some spaghetti for dinner and only drummed up the nerve to mention Mr Cole after we’d finished eating.
“I had an unexpected visitor today,” I said, drawing Shay’s attention. I proceeded to detail the visit and Mr Cole’s reaction to his art.
Shay was silent for a moment before his attention went to the painting. He stared at it for so long I thought maybe I’d upset him, but then he typed, “I forgot how this felt, but you reminded me.”
“Forgot how what felt?”
“To have my work appreciated, to see it affect others in a positive way. When I was a kid and my parents would take me to an art gallery, I’d see people looking at the images with awe in their eyes. The art let them experience a moment of something higher, almost spiritual. That was when I decided I wanted to be an artist. I wanted to create things that made people feel that same awe, but I lost it somewhere along the way. You’ve given that back to me, Maggie.”
“Well, I’m glad you think that, but anyone would be able to appreciate the brilliance of your work, Shay. I’m not special.”
“I disagree.”
I smiled at that and began collecting the plates to bring to the sink. “Does this mean you’ll consider calling Mr Cole?”
“Maybe,” he typed, stopping me when he caught my wrist and pulled me onto his lap.
I squealed. “What are you doing?”
Showing you how special you are, he signed before his lips captured mine, and I forgot all about the dirty dishes, allowing him to do just that.
