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She groaned and let her arms flop to the floor on either side of her. “Ugh, fine.”
I rubbed my hands together as a shot of excitement coursed through me. “Let’s do it. Pull out your fancy book. I want to see sketches.”
Before the boys were born, Marigold took those types of sketchbooks everywhere. If she saw a light fixture that inspired her at dinner, she’d pull a book out of thin air and zone out. It was one of the things I liked most back then. Watching her sketch or paint was like peeking into her soul. At the same time, I had been a little jealous. Her art was a tangible piece of her, yet that creativity lived only in her mind. It was one facet of her I couldn’t hold on to and claim as mine.
It was heartbreaking how quickly that changed.
She may have rolled her eyes at my command, but she wasted no time opening the tote bag behind her and pulling out a leather-bound notebook. The floral design on the front was familiar, and it was held closed with a worn-out rubber band stretched around it.
I hummed, covertly trying to sneak a peek at her previous work as she flipped to a fresh page.
“Okay, so we’re thinking…what? Giant animals spitting water?” With a flick of her wrist, she got to work, her pencil scratching against the paper audibly as she made visual strokes. The notebook was facing away from me, so I couldn’t see what she was working on. That didn’t stop me from using my imagination, though.
“Yeah, like a hippo fountain kind of thing.”
The corner of her mouth hitched, then her tongue poked out like it used to when she was engrossed in her work. The furrowed brow full of determination came next.
Was she focusing so acutely because she wanted to finish up and hightail it out of here? Or was she actually excited about the project? Did she sketch the way she used to? I hadn’t seen her carry a sketchbook in years, but then again, our interactions were extremely limited.
Sure enough, a few pencil strokes later, Marigold turned the sketchbook toward me, and I realized I’d been staring at her mouth the entire time she worked.
Drawn up from thin air sat an elegant hippo statue with long lashes. She wore a tutu and stood on one foot, lips pursed, spitting water.
As if the woman hadn’t just created pure magic in front of me, she dove into an explanation of the drawing. “She could face this way, toward the tee. The object is to get your ball through her legs. See?”
She used her pencil as a pointer as she dissected the drawing for me. “We could use plywood for the base. You can cut it out, and I can outline and paint it, then we can piece it all together on the grass the day before. Oh, and maybe we could add another—”
She didn’t finish her sentence. Instead, she turned back to her sketchbook and got lost in her work. I watched, entranced, as she let her ideas play out in front of her. She mumbled to herself and added more details. Each time she’d think of something new, she’d suck in an excited breath and beam at her work. A piece of hair that had escaped her long braid hung over one eye, getting caught in her ChapStick. My hand itched to brush it out of the way, tuck it behind her ear, and pull her jaw toward me. I had to fight the overwhelming instinct with every molecule of my being. Otherwise, I’d no doubt lose a hand.
I could control my hands, but my eyes were a whole other story. I surveyed her, starting with the crown of her head, where her soft waves were escaping her loose braid. Then I made my way to her jaw, marveling at the way it flexed as she drew. Flushed cheeks and full lips caught my attention next.
As I’d been years ago, I was in awe of the way she focused solely on the paper in front of her. My heart stuttered at the sight of the tiny beauty mark above the corner of her mouth. For years, I’d patently avoided looking at it. Now, I gave in to the constant urge, watching as she chewed on her bottom lip and blinked down at her work.
The low-cut tank top caught my attention next. That part of her had also been strictly off limits to my eyes for years. I’d forgotten how smooth the skin of her chest looked. The sage green of her shirt complemented the spring tan she was already developing. The denim shorts were another item of clothing I was sure she’d owned for years and years. They were worn in all the right places and fit her curves perfectly.
Through my perusal, I fought back the guilt eating at me. She wasn’t my wife anymore. I didn’t have the right to look at her this way. Even if I’d spent years doing exactly this, unabashedly at that. Back then, she’d liked it. No, she’d loved it.
Back when we loved each other. Because even if it felt like those days were nothing more than a dream, our love had been real, and it had been stronger than most. I was certain my love had been. And there was no way hers hadn’t. The way her smile widened when I’d walked into the room was evidence of it. Or how her eyes would shoot straight for me, how she was filled with pure joy when we were together. She’d light up an entire building with her smile. A smile so wide it touched her eyes. Eyes that would turn all soft and feminine under my attention.
She carried sunshine with her everywhere she went, and she shined it on everyone in her proximity. Now, though, she kept it to herself, only letting it out on rare occasions for select people she trusted most. I was not one of those people. And I missed that sunshine. It made the days go by quicker. It made my heart lighter and my mind clearer.
The corner of my lips lifted involuntarily as I watched her finish up her drawing. She looked up like she’d finally noticed my scrutiny and quickly dipped her chin, realizing I’d been zeroed in on her tank top.
She furrowed her brow and scrunched her nose. “Ugh. What are you staring at? Are you even paying attention?” Her tone was pure annoyance, whispered so low it was as though she’d forgotten we were alone.
Eesh. Yeah, I hadn’t figured out the trick to eliciting that sunshine. Sometime after we got married, it receded. Little by little, it dampened, like a lit candle deprived of oxygen.
The most frustrating part was that she was only this way with me. She was all smiles for my siblings and their spouses. Heck, she had weekly lunch with all the women in my family and still came to every family dinner. My mom called the woman an angel every time her name was brought up. I wouldn’t be surprised if Marigold was listed before me in my mother’s will.
For everyone else, she dished out smiles and sunshine like it was her full-time job. I, instead, got her mouthy side. Her attitude.
She used to laugh at my jokes. Now, she threw them back at me harder than I ever had. Though if she realized how much I liked our back and forth, the way she fought me, she’d probably stop that too.
“You look really good today.” Every day. All the time. Annoyingly so.
Yeah. I had been checking her out. And since she’d caught me, it was easier to be honest about it and move on. There was no way she’d believe an excuse like I thought I saw something on your cleavage. She knew me better than that. She knew me better than anyone. Even if we’d become strangers.
She rolled her eyes, of course, but a hint of color spread up her neck and across her cheeks. She stared at the wall just above my shoulder like she couldn’t meet my eyes.
