Page 86 of There Are No Saints

“I’m sorry.”

It startles her as much as me.

She turns and faces me, dropping my hand.

“What do you mean?”

“I just . . . I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head slowly, lips parted, eyebrows raised.

“You surprise me, Cole.”

I’m surprised, too.

Surprised at the sound of my name on her lips. How it rings like a bell, clear and true.

She stands on tiptoe, stretching up to kiss me. Soft and slow.

Warmer than the rising sun between us.

* * *

24

Mara

Ihave to work late at Zam Zam tonight.

I know I’ll be exhausted. I’ve been putting in long hours at the studio, sucked into my latest painting.

Cole comes to see it in the early afternoon.

The painting is steeped in deeply shadowed tones of charcoal, merlot, and garnet. The figure is monstrous with its gleaming bat-like wings and thick, scaly, muscular tail. But his face is beautiful—a dark angel, fallen from grace.

Cole stands in front of the canvas for a long time, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Well?” I say, when I can’t stand it anymore. “What do you think?”

“The chiaroscuro is masterful,” he says. “It reminds me of Caravaggio.”

“Judith Beheading Holofernesis one of my favorite paintings,” I say, trying to hide how pleased I am at his compliment.

“I preferDavid with the Head of Goliath,” he says.

“You know that’s a self-portrait, don’t you?” I tell him. “Caravaggio used his own face as the model for Goliath’s severed head.”

“Yes. And his lover was the model for David.”

“Maybe they were fighting at the time,” I laugh.

Cole looks at me with that dark, steady gaze. “Or he knew that love is inherently dangerous.”

I mix white and a fractional portion of black on my palette. “Do you really think that?”

“All emotions are dangerous. Especially when they involve other people.”

I dip my brush in the fresh paint, not looking at him. My heart is already beating fast, and it’s impossible to look at Cole’s face and form a coherent sentence at the same time.

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