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“I’m so sorry you found me here unexpectedly,” he said. “Papi badgered me into it.”
“It’s fine, honestly.”
He turned at that, raising a suspicious eyebrow. “Really?”
I shrugged, like it didn’t matter either way and then sighed. Seems I now had a thing for cute men in pink Marigolds. “Of course it’s okay. More than, actually.”
“More than? You mean… you…”
“Yeah. I missed you. And I was cross with you. And I’m over it.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“And I used to collect old coins. Don’t judge me.”
He snorted and faced the sink again, dipping a plate into the soapy bowl, giving it a brisk wipe and then a rinse under the cold tap before stacking it in the drainer. Then he picked up another. The sleeves of his impeccable linen shirt were folded back above the right angles of his elbows, the bottom of the shirt tucked tidily into a belted pair of smart jeans. Honestly? He could stand at my sink washing up all day and I’d never grow tired of watching.
“I said, it was more than fine,” I repeated.
“I know.” He swore under his breath in English. “I’m just… is that it? Are… are we…?”
“Putain, I hope so,” I finished for him. A roar went up from the TV next door. “I’m game if you are.”
The plate thunked into the bowl at the same time as I stood and only a fraction of a second before Charles stepped away from the sink and another cheer went up from the replay on the telly. We met somewhere in the middle. I found a wet rubber glove and, a finger at a time, began tugging it off. His steady gaze met mine.
“Is it that simple?”
Did he really need to ask? Was my besottedness not written all over my face? “It’s the simplest thing there is.”
“I’m no prize, Florian.” His forehead wrinkled in a frown I wanted to kiss away. “Whereas you, you could have anyone. You’re young and free.”
I laughed at that and reached for the other soapy glove. “Hardly. I’m handcuffed to this old cottage and a salt flat and an eighty-three-year-old toddler who disappears every day to talk to his dead wife. And, as you have recently discovered, have exceedingly dull hobbies.”
“I’ve started talking to my dead mother.”
Landing with a wet slap, the second glove joined the first on the floor. “So what? I talk to an otter. But you need to know I won’t leave Papi, not for anyone. He’s never going to be put in a home. No matter how bad his dementia becomes. Me and him, we come as a package.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he replied. “My mental illness is part of my package. That will never leave me.”
“Then we’re a match made in heaven, non?”
I crushed him against me, and he hung on. Not kissing, just me hugging him with a hug that had been clawing its way out since the moment I’d heard his footsteps and his voice behind me in the gallery at Ars. He swayed, as if his legs couldn’t hold him anymore, but no way was he letting go.
“Why did you leave it so long, Charles? Before coming back to me?”
“Because I needed to be at my very best for you. I wanted you to see me like this so that you would forget how you’d… you’d seen me before.”
“I’ll take you all ways, mon chéri, you know that. Sick or well. I promise. You will always be beautiful to me.”
“Thank you.”
So polite. So Charles. He made a muffled noise, caught between a sob and a sigh of blessed relief, hiding his dark head in my neck. I buried my nose in his hair. Damp arms clung to my middle as we embraced, unmoving, until the water in the sink had gone cold and the football match switched to the half-time adverts.
When we pulled apart, two slate grey eyes above a shy smile held me hostage. All mine. The whole package. As beautiful and fragile as the evening shimmer of fleur de sel ghosting across my muddy pond. Gently, I slid my hand along his jaw.
“Hi,” I said. “Nice to meet you. I’m silver.”
A sweet chuckle escaped his throat. “Hi, silver. I’m green. It’s wonderful to meet you, too.”
