Page 89 of Maid in Heaven

Not fluid, like a typical blended painting, but something more precise with hard lines and edges.

Will listened to the doctor ask Starla a myriad of questions, lost in thought, drawn to the painting on the otherwise bare wall. “Doctor, is that art new?”

“Huh?” Dr. Harken turned his head from the chart notes to follow his eyeline. “Oh! Yes, that was a donation from a lady here in town who paints ‘em. I think they’re those paint-by-numbers. You believe that? There’s one in each of the exam rooms.”

Will walked closer to the painting and viewed the signature at the bottom. Though the last name was a flurry of swirls, the first name was clear…

Ava.

Being this close to something Ava had spent so much time on made his heart ache. Each delicate shape of paint was met with the focus and precision of a surgeon, every boundary respected.

When she gave him that business plan, he pushed her away. And why?

For believing in him?

Even without sex, the intimacy was there, in the lines of her smile, in the feel of her body sleeping against his the night her ex had resurfaced.

He’d had lots of sex over the years, but never anything as intimate as that night with her. Just sleeping. Just holding her to his chest, legs intertwined. Until then, he hadn’t known his life with Starla was missing anything important.

Now, he was painfully aware.

Starla hissed as Harken’s age-spotted hand removed her port.

“You did great, sweetheart. You’re getting to be an old pro at this.” The doctor smiled.

“These had better bebigstickers.” Starla grimaced.

“I just got some new ones in. You’ll get the first pick.”

“Alright, time for the new one, okay? Remember: deep breaths. Focus on wiggling your toes.”

“Okay.” Starla craned her neck toward the painting. “I like it, too.”

“Yeah?” Will snickered, returning his eyes to the image once more.

Starla nodded and exhaled as the doctor skilfully installed the new device. Will grabbed Starla’s small hand and kissed the top of her head.

Moments later, Will walked out of the doctor’s office. “You sure you don’t want me to carry it?”

“I got it, Dad. I have muscles. I can carry it.”

“Yes,” he chuckled, “you do have muscles.”

Starla waddled to the car with the framed paint-by-number in her outstretched arms. He opened the back door and helped her lift it ontothe floorboard in front of the bench seat. “Why did you buy this?”

“I liked it.” He smiled. “I’m a fan of the artist.”

“Now he doesn’t have anything on his wall in there.”

“Honey, for what we have paid him through the years for your diabetes stuff, he can afford something else to put on that wall.” Will closed the door and made his way to the front. “Where do you think we should hang it?”

“At the house,” she said looking down at the pug and ballerina stickerson her coat as she madeher way to the passenger side.

“No-duh, smart-aleck. I meant,wherein the house?”

She tiptoed to get the door open and struggled her way up into the seat like she was climbing a steep rock face. Will knew better than to try to help her. She always refused, insisting she wanted to get in on her own. “How about where that dumbCast-a-blancaposter is in the living room?”

“Blasphemy!” Will’s jaw hung open for a moment, appalled. “You know what? Forthat, you’re grounded.”

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