Page 52 of Eternal Surrender

“I have a problem with timing, apparently.” I marveled how I’d almost forgotten why I was here, becoming so engrossed in this man’s life and impending death.

“You remind me of one of my old professors,” he said.

“You studied at Cambridge?”

“Law.” His frown deepened. “That was a good guess.”

“Your accent.”

“I’m Welsh.”

“With a hint of Cambridge.”

“Really?”

“Family tradition?”

He studied me. “My father met my mother there. What do you do?”

“What does it matter now?”

He peered down the side of the tower. “I tried to explain to my father that I found no passion in law.”

“He wanted the best for you.”

“Much to my father’s embarrassment, I left.” He pulled his lips into a frown. “We were never that close.” He raised his chin. “Instead of following his dream, I followed mine.”

“Good for you.” Though the irony of that statement now sounded ridiculous. Trying to save the moment and somewhat intrigued, I asked, “What did you do?”

“Why?”

I gave a shrug. “Talking is helping me right now.”

He hesitated and then said, “I joined the National Ballet.”

“As a dancer?”

“Yes, as a dancer.” His head snapped my way. “What about you? What do you do?”

“Art,” I said it softly.

“You’re an artist?”

I thought about how best to answer; the question forcing the deception out like lava, erupting a scolding truth that yes, some part of me had once been hopelessly in love with art. I kept silent, hoping the attention would fall back on him.

He was still waiting for an answer.

“Life’s complicated,” I said eventually.

“Where did you study?”

“It’s not necessarily where, but from whom.”

Renoir leaning over my shoulder, holding a paintbrush and smudging the paint delicately on the canvas, masterfully merging the grey to reveal a cloud moving over the horizon as though he’d revealed it and not painted it before my eyes.

The stranger’s feet were dangerously close to the edge.

“What happened to your leg?” I asked.