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I can see in Blake’s facial expression that he is trying to understand what I’m saying. He isn’t simply dismissing me. Dale used to dismiss me, and what I had to say all the time.
Suddenly, it seems a lifetime ago that Dale had been my partner. And I cannot recall what I ever saw in the man to make me even want to be with him.
“And so when people read, they interpret what I’ve written in their own way. It doesn’t have anything to do with what my inspiration and experiences are during the time I am writing it.”
Blake seems to chew over my words.
“I still don’t see what’s your problem with the painting. Don’t people also interpret what they see?”
I laugh and point at myself in the nude, my heart tightening up as my eyes meet my naked curves again.
“Blake…it’s too personal. It’s intimate,” I repeat for what feels like the hundredth time. “I don’t want everyone to see the true me. You caught a glimpse of that, and you’ve captured it…isn’t that enough?”
We both say nothing for a few minutes. I can hear the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.
Eventually it is Blake who breaks the silence first.
“What are you trying to say, Kat…?”
He has closed the distance between us and I snuggle into his arms.
“I don’t want you to put me on display. By ‘me’, I mean the painting.”
After I utter the last few words, I nuzzle my face into his chest. He smells so delicious. Will he be angry?
I can feel his lips on the top of my head. He is kissing me.
“If you don’t want me to display your beauty to the world, so be it.”
I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Promise?”
Now he pulls my face toward his.
“Promise.” He whispers before his lips meet mine.
Chapter 21
Katherine
As expected, the Old Pearl has a queue out the front door. If it wasn’t for the fact that I knew one of the owners, Nicole, I would be right outside with about other fifty or so patrons wanting to have lunch here.
In a matter of weeks, it has become the restaurant in town to be seen at. The food is amazing.
I check my watch. Five minutes late. Robin was rarely late. She better have a good excuse. I don’t like to impose on others and I know a table is being kept for us.
To distract myself, I focus on the artwork near the entrance.
Instantly I compare it to Blake’s work.
Whoever this artist was, he or she was not a patch on my Blake.
Oh dear, now I am already thinking of him as mine. He is not mine.Repeat after me, Katherine, I think to myself,he isn’t yours.
I decide the blues look too artificial. No ocean is that blue. It’s neither pale nor dark. And then there’s the boat. There’s something wrong with the boat. I think it’s out of proportion. Maybe the artist was still learning, a relative of one of the employees.
Someone elbows me in the ribs and I check my watch again. Seven minutes late. Robin better have a good excuse.
