Page 141 of Winterset
He waggled his brow, moving his scar.
“Oliver.” I laughed. “Please.”
“You could leave it off.”
I frowned. “You know how much I love it.”
“Idoknow, although I still do not understand why.”
“Please?” I smiled.
“You know I cannot deny you when you smile at me like that.” Oliver made a show of sighing and settling back into position on the blanket. Despite his dramatics, though, I knew he loved every second we spent together. Since we’d married, he’d told me more times than I could count, but even if he had not said a single word, the way he looked at me left no room for doubt.
Now that he was finally still, I stared at his handsome face, then at the canvas. I’d painted his portrait many times over the past few months, but every time, I’d come to this part of his face, I’d overthought it.
It was only a small scar—an insignificant speck when compared to the thousands of other brushstrokes on the canvas—but it symbolized our story, and I wanted so badly to paint it perfectly so that he might be able to see himself the way I saw him.
I lowered my brush to the canvas. Ever so slowly, I painted his scar one small stroke at a time.
As soon as it was complete, I stepped back to view the portrait. It wasn’t perfect, but I felt pleased.
“I think ... it is finally finished,” I said.
Oliver smiled. “May I see it?”
“I’m not sure you will like it,” I admitted.
“Ialreadylike it, simply because you painted it, my love. May I?”
“Of course.”
He stood and joined me to view the portrait. His eyes scanned the canvas, taking in every detail. Did he like it? Loathe it? His expression gave nothing away.
“This is how you see me?” he finally asked, meeting my gaze.
I nodded nervously.
“Well ...” His brow flicked up. “It is no wonder why you love me, then. This man you’ve painted isshockinglyhandsome. I’m not sure he looks anything like me.”
It may not have been a perfect rendering, but I was confident it looked like him. “Pray tell, what have I gotten wrong?”
Oliver stroked his chin as if he were an art aficionado. “The color of my nose is off, don’t you think?”
I pretended to study his profile and then his portrait. “Now that you mention it, yes, I believe I do.” I leaned forward, pretending like I was going to paint the canvas, but at the last moment, I turned and painted the tip of Oliver’s actual nose instead. “Now it isexactlythe same shade. Are you satisfied?”
Smiling, he caught my wrist and tugged us down to lay on the blanket. He rolled onto his side, then, hovering over me, lowered his freshly painted nose to nuzzle mine. “NowI am satisfied.”
My laughter matched his, and I could not ever remember being happier.
He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and gently wiped the paint first from my nose and then his own. He stared down at me, histeasing gaze turning tender, and his eyes filled with admiration and affection. “It’s beautiful, Kate. Truly, I am in awe of your talent.”
A surge of joy washed over me, and I nestled closer to him, his strong arms enveloping me.
He wrapped one of my curls around his finger. “I have been thinking.”
“What about?”
He traced the curve of my cheek with a gentle finger. “I’m not sure the name Winterset suits our home. What would you think about renaming it?”
