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Chapter Seventeen
Emerson
Idon’t surf first thing in the morning. I can’t tear myself away from Daphne.
I said too much last night. Admitted too much. Crossed a bridge too early, but here we are. I can’t keep my hands off her. The hours she spent with her family were enough to make me certain that being apart isn’t tenable. I can’t do it.
There will be more conversations, I’m sure. Negotiations. I’ll have to let her see the extent of my weakness.
Later.
I wake up aching for her. It’s impossible to keep my hands to myself.
I paint words into her skin with my fingertips. My mouth. She’s warm and sleepy and here. This is the closest I’ve been to anyone. No distance between us. Only breath and skin and I love you I love you I love you never leave me again, please don’t ever leave me again.
So much for my self-control. So much for the noble, impossible desire to give her up.
I knew as soon as the headlights of the SUV reached the gate last night that I had reached my limit. Leaving her, watching her leave—it’s done. I felt exactly the way I did when I saw her on the street in that gray coat, walking toward that gallery without a care in the world.
Compelled.
Obsessed.
For the three hours she was gone, I stayed in the foyer. Over and over, I made plans. I’d go into the office and respond to emails and invitations. I’d go into the kitchen and eat. I’d go into the living room and watch something, anything, on TV. I’d surf.
I couldn’t do it.
The only option that felt available was opening the door and walking until I found her. That probably wouldn’t have played well at the Morelli family dinner.
It gave me quite a bit of time to think.
Daphne goes from the bed to the studio on shaky legs later in the morning. A new piece. Something’s on her mind. This time, she pays special attention to the interplay of light on water. While she paints, she tells me about the dinner I missed. Her brother at the table. Her mother’s wine-glass shield. Her father at his office window.
I’m indescribably proud of her.
My little painter’s confidence at the canvas is growing. She was magnificent before, but now, in my house, she’s pushing herself. Because, of course, she’s pushing herself in her life, too. I see the light from her father’s office shining in the waves. Abstract. Protected from prying eyes. A casual observer would never know.
I know. I get to know this about her. About all of them.
The last, lingering doubt melts into something like acceptance. She’s chosen to land here. Who am I to force her out?
A weak winter sun is low in the sky when Daphne finishes. Stretches her arms above her head. Gasps.
“Emerson, you should have said something. It’s going to be too dark to surf.”
“I’ll surf tomorrow.”
“No. You surf every day. We’ll just hurry.”
Hummingbird.
She’s so happy, zipping my wetsuit. Tired from being on her feet all day, sorting out her feelings on canvas, but happy. Her eyes sparkle. Daphne can’t stop smiling when I fuss over her snow pants and jackets and pull her hood up tight over her hat.
At the mudroom door, I lean down and kiss her. “I really can surf tomorrow.”
“I’ll draw you and the sunset,” she insists. “I want to.”
We walk to the shore together. Daylight’s fading fast, a bitter edge on the wind. Cold as hell, we’ll be back inside soon. Daphne’s studio lights are on upstairs. The windows frame the space where I danced with her. It looks inviting, the way I hoped it would when I first brought her here.
