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Daphne blushes, her eyes lighting. She pushes herself upright, drops a kiss on my cheek, and hops out of bed. It’s cute enough to induce a heart attack. My little painter is light on her feet as she flits to the chair by the window and wraps a throw blanket around her shoulders. Drawers open and close in the studio while she hunts for one of the sketchbooks. A little gasp echoes into the bedroom. “This is one of the nice ones,” she says to herself.
I climb out of bed with a smile on my face. I can’t stop smiling, in fact. Even while I make the bed and pull the covers up tight. Put the pillows back in their places. This is how it could be between us.
If we weren’t running on borrowed time, anyway. If reality would leave us be forever. If her family would let her have this life.
Whatever. Borrowed time is better than none. And I feel too good to discard the feeling so early in the day.
Daphne appears, dressed in winter leggings, tall wool socks, and a base-layer shirt, at my side in the bathroom while I’m brushing my teeth. I have an extra toothbrush in here for her. She wrinkles her nose and laughs every time she sees it. Thinks it’s a little ridiculous that her bathroom is fully stocked, too. But why be inconvenienced if she doesn’t have to be? I care for my most valuable pieces.
I care for her most of all.
Daphne hands her sketchbook and pencil case to me at the top of the stairs. She pulls a soft, warm hoodie over her head, then twists her wrist to look at the stamp near the hem. “Is this your favorite outdoor brand, Emerson?”
“Yes, but I don’t have much experience with their women’s collection. Do you like it?” I ask her as we descend.
“I love it. There’s no tag on the inside.”
“I like that about their things, too. I have my tailor take them out. Better not to have them in the first place.”
“Is this what you’re wearing?”
“Yes.” I show her the stamp on my own wrist. When I’m not running after an escapee, I wear compression shorts and a base layer under my wetsuit for winter surfing.
In the mudroom, I open one of the built-in closets and survey the outerwear. I offer Daphne a pair of slim-fitted snow pants first. She raises her eyebrows at me. “Snow pants?”
“For standing on the beach.”
“These are warm leggings.”
“These go with the leggings.”
She laughs under her breath, but takes them and steps in. A matching coat next. I chose a few coats for her. This one will be good for sketching. It has a looser profile, so it won’t constrict her arms, but it’s still relatively fitted at the waist and rated for temperature sixty degrees below the temperatures on the beach. Daphne slides it over her shoulders with a happy sigh. “I feel like I’m going on some important mission with all this gear.”
“The most important mission. Your art. Come here.”
My little painter steps close and lets me tug a fitted beanie over her head and snug it down over her ears. I add a scarf and arrange it over the zipper so it won’t distract her. I help her into her boots. When I look up from adjusting the closures, she’s grinning at me.
“I can put on my own boots, you know.”
“I do whatever the fuck I like with the pieces in my collection. Including this.”
She blushes, her eyes sparkling, and holds out her hands for me to put on a pair of mittens with finger flaps. Daphne will have full access to her charcoal pencils.
“Now turn around,” I tell her.
“Seriously?”
“Yes.”
She does it, biting her lip, and when she’s facing away from me I pull her hood up. When Daphne completes her circle and I’ve assured myself that she’s warm and covered, I tuck her hair into her hood. She leans her cheek into my hand.
Christ, it’s good.
I get into my wetsuit, grab my board, and we go out.
Snow crunches under our feet on the way across the yard. More snow on the steps in the retaining wall. A bit less on the sand, where there’s more wind and water. I look up and down the beach. There’s no one in sight except for a person walking their dog in the far distance.
No, this is no prison yard. Even in winter it’s a gorgeous stretch of beach. White skims the top of waves, a deep blue-gray in the pearly morning light. It’s my favorite time of day. When everything is new and fresh and quiet. The windswept shore is peaceful. Waves curl up on the sand, leaving their shadows behind. Clouds ripple in the water. Momentary reflections in small pockets, swept away by new swells. The horizon is misty. The sky and the water are close today. Blurring into one another. They won’t stand for boundaries today. They’re too close.
