Page 66 of Sawyer
“We might have to make a habit of it, then,” she whispered, kissing him fiercely one last time. “I’ll call you when I land. Although Dad is going to keep me hopping. He takes his father-daughter time seriously now.”
“Have a good flight. And a good Christmas.”
It would be too bold to say something liketell your dad hi,wouldn’t it?
“You too!” She was already dashing off. “Enjoy Thea’s wedding. Send pics. Gotta run.”
He could see her scanning the people approaching the end of the line. When he noticed a Zen-like older man, he put his odds on him. Sure enough, Phoebe filed in right behind him and gave a thumbs-up. Laughing, he realized he didn’t want to leave. Maybe he could stay here and watch her as she waited in the line. They weren’t even in the main part of the security check area yet.
When she shooed him with a knowing smile, he waved. A large man collided with him, bruising his arm. Yeah, time to get the hell out of this ant farm.
After a tense exit from the airport, he arrived back to an empty house. While everyone was getting together tomorrow night for Christmas Eve—with Madison joining them late—and then spending the holiday together since the restaurant was closed, everything was business as usual today. Meaning Madison was at Nanine’s, and Kyle was out. The house was empty.
When he reached his studio, he was more than a little despondent. So despondent he opened his phone andbrought up his photos, smiling at snaps he’d taken of her laughing or grinning as well as images of them together. The one with them lying on the floor made his chest tight. God, he loved her. Like he’d never loved anything or anyone. Yes, he loved her as much as painting. But there was no anguish with Phoebe. Only joy.
The philosophers would call it true love. He wasn’t sure Aristotle had it completely right with his famous line:love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.But Sawyer did sense the mystical in a true union. Often when he and Phoebe came together, he felt at one with her.
Where was that oneness now, and who was he without it?
God, Thea would say there he went again. Yeah, maybe he did need a philosophy time-out. Surveying his current work in progress, the ninth painting he hoped to show—a woman resembling Phoebe lying in a bed of flowers in a garden scene reminiscent of Provence—he didn’t feel the urge to paint. Or cheer at the thought that he was getting close to that magical number of thirteen paintings. No, he wanted to sit and curl up with a good book.
Oh wait! The book.
He’d forgotten all about opening it in the stress of leaving the airport and getting to the car. He pulled it out of the inside lining of his coat and traced the neon green wrapping and navy bow.
When he tore the paper back carefully, he felt his heart constrict. The book was his favorite,Le Petit Prince, and when he checked inside, he discovered it was a first edition. He flipped the pages to her inscription, knowing it would be there.
To my own prince—the beautiful Horatio—who loves and sees with the heart.
All my love,
Phoebe
He traced the cursive, smiling because she’d used a rich emerald ink. He’d seen her ink well and fountain pen on her desk and commented on it. She said it was the Brit in her who loved Shakespeare. She adored stuff like that, stationery included.
That was why he’d painted stationery for her, lovingly tracing each page on the special handcrafted paper he’d found from Provence. He’d thought about painting her a cameo for a necklace, but he wasn’t that kind of painter. Enamel. Kiln firing.
There was a knock at the door. Was Kyle back and bringing him takeout? Checking on how miserable he was with Phoebe gone? Okay, any of his friends might be doing that. But when he opened it, he was surprised to see Nanine holding a blue casserole dish with a bread bag hanging from her shoulder. The scent of fresh baguette andboeuf bourguignonreached him. She might as well have presented his heart to him. Did she know?
“I hear you are having takeout delivered to your studio,” she began with the elegant quirk of a white brow. “I came to contribute to nourishing our artist.”
When he gave her a soft smile, she responded in kind before kissing both his cheeks. He stepped back to let her inside. “I haven’t started painting yet. I just got home from dropping Phoebe off at the airport.”
“So I heard from Madison. Of course, I have heard many things about ‘your Phoebe,’ as your roommates now call her. I look forward to meeting her when she returns from the holidays. If you felt you needed my permission, please bring herto Sunday dinner, although something less formal can be arranged if either of you prefer it so.”
He was certain his smile was so warm he could have melted wax to seal the seam of an old-fashioned letter. “I was planning to talk to you about that when things settled down after the holidays.”
“Then consider it discussed. The only matter left is to set a date agreeable for everyone after the New Year.” She turned, her brow knit. “Now…where are your plates and utensils?”
He cringed. “Ah…normally I eat out of the container.”
Her quick nod had his sudden tension easing. “Of course. You are working, and I am sure you have paint…everywhere.”
Her familiar laugh had him joining in. “I’m not very tidy.”
“Neither am I, as a cook.” She set down the bread bag as well as a bag he hadn’t seen behind it. “Bernard used to tease me that I’d opened my own restaurant so I would have underlings to clean up after me. Oh, how he used to joke. Now Carl does. Which assures me that I am the same Nanine. You understand, yes?”
He nodded. “I was just thinking something similar, missing Phoebe. The feeling’s much stronger than I expected. Which had me not wanting to paint, probably for the first time since I met her.”
