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Pushing up on my elbows, I peer around the darkened room, Devlyn nowhere to be found. I inch up to a sitting position, scoot to the edge of the mattress and let the cool air chill my heated skin. Easing off the bed, I peel my top over my head and toss it in the hamper before grabbing a dry shirt.
I tiptoe out of the room, the house alight with the rising sun coming in through the windows on the back of the house. Wandering down the hall, I listen for any indication as to where Devlyn might be. But I hear nothing. No clanking utensils in pans or food sizzling on the stove. No muted sounds from the television. Nothing.
Just as I consider climbing the stairs to his studio, I stop between the kitchen and living room.
In my periphery, I spy Devlyn out back on the patio. A canvas on his easel, paint palette on one hand while a brush rests in the other and paints in varying shades of pink and red on the canvas.
As if he might hear me, I tiptoe toward the sliding glass doors and loiter just out of view. But not far enough that I can’t watch him while he works.
In seconds, I realize the painting on the easel is the nude of me he started before my belly was so round. The full canvas isn’t visible from my vantage point, but I see the length of my legs and curve of my hip. Scattered in the image are various flowers and a winding length of green vines. Looking at the canvas, Iknowthe image is me. But from an outsider’s perspective, someone who isn’t familiar with me or us, no one would know who the woman is in the flowers.
The sun slowly rises in the eastern sky, but the pergola covering the patio keeps some of the sunbeams out of Devlyn’s line of sight. Leaning on the frame, I watch him a little longer. Absorb the serenity he bleeds as he puts paint on the canvas. Breathe deeper as I watch the muscles of his back flex as he paints a new likeness of his favorite person—his words, not mine. Rub my swollen belly as I stare at the man I love.
My stomach grumbles and I decide to leave Devlyn to his solitude while I make us breakfast.
The buzzer for the turkey bacon sounds as Devlyn pads into the kitchen and leans against the counter. Sliding on a hot mitt, I open the oven and take out the pan, setting it on a trivet.
“I would’ve made breakfast had I known you were up,” he says as I add shredded cheese to scrambled eggs on the stovetop.
Setting the package next to him, I stir the cheesy eggs and turn off the burner.
“Didn’t want to disturb you.” My lips curve up slightly. “You looked so peaceful and in your element.”
He fetches plates as I start toasting slices of bread. “Still too hot to be outside after the early hours. I try not to wake you when I’m up at dark thirty.”
Plates piled high with cheesy eggs, turkey bacon, fresh fruit and toast, Devlyn carries them to the dining room. I park myself in the chair as he wanders back to the kitchen.
“Tea, water, juice, chocolate milk?”
On the last one, the baby gives me a swift kick to the lungs. I gasp, then settle my breath. “Junior wants chocolate milk,” I say on a laugh.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yep. Soon as you said it, they kicked.”
“Chocolate milk it is.”
The first several bites go by in relative silence. After I down half the glass of chocolaty goodness, I point my fork over my shoulder. “How’s the painting coming along?”
Devlyn finishes his bite. “Almost done.” He pushes around a slice of watermelon with his fork. “Maybe a few more sessions on the stool.”
Next week, I officially start maternity leave from Petal and Vine. Although I am not due for another month, minimum, standing and walking all day is becoming more difficult and uncomfortable. It isn’t that Ican’tdo it. More like it exhausts me to be on my feet more than an hour.
Weeks ago, Elizabeth made me sit down every so often.“I’ve been there, sweetheart. You will thank me later for the stool,” she’d said.And she was right, of course. Parking my butt on the stool helped some with the swelling, but so did walking. If I was arranging flowers, my instructions were to be on that stool.
And I definitely didn’t want to be in trouble with Momma Davies.
Working less hours had been a big adjustment. So was learning to give up my independence. Not that I gave it up fully. Some tasks I still manage on my own just fine. But driving and setting up the nursery are not on the “Shelly is allowed to do these alone” list.
With me home full time soon, part of me feels as if I am stealing Devlyn’s time from him.
For years, he was used to his solitude. He was used to climbing those stairs and getting lost for hours or days in his art. And now, it feels as if I rob him of it all.
“Why don’t you spend more time on it today,” I suggest as he eats his last bite of toast.
Cocking his head to the side, he narrows his eyes. “Thought we were finishing up the nursery today. Or trying to, at least. I need to put the final touches on the mural.”
I swallow down the last of my chocolate milk. “But if you want to paint more of something else, you can. I can unbox the diapers then fold the washed baby clothes and put them away.”
