“Hmm.”
I lead her into the kitchen. “It’s twenty-five-hundred square feet with three bedrooms and a rooftop. I come here for a change of scenery—more since Jasper moved in.”
“Who watches Cherry when you’re gone?”
“Dog walker, one of Herman’s relatives.”
“Is that who kept her while you were in Virginia?”
I stop, my hands twitching as I wrestle with a bald-faced lie or ...
“I didn’t go. I stayed home instead.” I glance away from her.
“You were alone over Christmas?”
“Don’t feel bad for me. I could have gone to see Ronan and his family, but ...” I pause, frowning. “It would have felt like an intrusion on their family time. He’s got a kid now.”
She watches me. “I get it. I’ve spent plenty of holidays with no one. Whether you’re rich or poor, it’s hard.”
I set down two different types of ice cream, and she squeals and picks chocolate. I dish out a large portion in one bowl, spray whipped cream over it, grab two spoons, and lead her to the couch. She takes a mouthful and groans.
She talks around a glob of ice cream. “I remember you saying you didn’t ever eat in the bed, but the couch is okay?”
“Don’t make fun of me because I’m picky. The bed is for sleep and fucking.” Then I tell her about Jasper and his cheese puffs on my couch.
“You’ve really got a sweet tooth,” I say when she asks for more whipped cream.
“I never did much before ...” Her words stop. “Anyway. I love the art you have.” Her eyes trace the room, taking in the pieces I’ve collected. I tend to buy art from every place I visit, and I never know where to put it. The penthouse was decorated by an interior designer, so most of my personal purchases end up at the loft.
After we finish, I give her an old practice shirt, boxers, and a pair of white tube socks. I change into my oldest, most comfortable flannel pants and a T-shirt with holes. We lean back on the fluffy chaise in the den.
She snuggles into my arms, her head fitting under my chin as we talk about our favorite paintings. I tell her mine isThe Starry Night.
“Van Gogh painted it from the view of his room in an asylum in France. It’s dark, but there’s light in the sky.”
“Hope, maybe,” she says. “He came from a religious family, and there’s a church in the painting, as if he’s clinging to God.”
My fingers trail over her shoulders as I recall her compass. I add, “I like to think the stars are there to guide him back home to his brother, Theo. Vincent struggled with mental illness—that no one knew how to treat—religion, poverty, loneliness. He was there for a year, even took over an entire floor as a studio. He painted a hundred and fifty paintings in a year at the asylum.”
“Then, a year after he left, he walked out to the wheat fields he loved to paint and shot himself in the chest. He walked back to the inn and got in his bed, and when his brother arrived, he told him that his sadness would last forever.” She pauses. “Maybe today, he could get help.”
“I like that you know who he is. Most people just know that he’s the guy that cut off his ear.”
She smiles. “And I like that you know who he is.”
I ease her up. “Speaking of art, I still haven’t shown you the surprise. Come on.”
We hold hands as I guide her to my master bedroom. Before I open the door, I say, “This place doesn’t get a maid. Prepare yourself ...”
She sees the unmade bed I slept in a few nights last week and the floating bookshelves, then peers out at the floor-to-ceiling view of the rooftop. Outside is a retro yellow patio set with different-colored chairs, a hot tub, and a small pool that needs cleaning.
She nods. “Quaint. Not what I expected.”
“The surprise is over there.” I nudge my head to the charcoal sketch that hangs over the dresser, and she rushes toward it, nearly tripping over a pile of sneakers.
“It caught my eye years ago at an arts festival.”
She looks from the sketch to me. Tears pool in her eyes.