In the morning, I would pack a picnic lunch in a basket I’d located in the pantry. Evan brought it up with him to the overlook at one o’clock or so, and we’d share it, looking out on the mountains and sparkling lake. He was always interested in my work. I reveled in his praise. Again and again, I experienced that wonder at being seen by him, valued. Cherished.
I was so in love, it was almost an exquisite ache, so difficult to describe. Always present.
One morning, I heard a knock down the kitchen passage that led to the driveway.
“Anna? Would you mind answering it? It’s the groceries,” Evan called from the distance.
He was working. I hadn’t discovered his office on that first day, but had since. It was a woody, book-lined room on the same level as the kitchen. There was a pair of mahogany French doors that he often left wide open to the terrace, the sunlight, and the cool lake breeze.
r /> The office had a definite masculine aura. I’d entered it only a few times, to bring him the morning mail. So in my head, I thought of it as the Male Room. I felt a little like an interloper, crossing that threshold. It wasn’t Evan’s fault. He was always kind to me when I knocked, but I could tell he was distracted by his work.
The bank acquisition was moving along, according to Evan, with only expected, minor bumps in the road so far. He was video conferencing or on the phone with his colleagues almost every time I tiptoed into the room. I felt a little guilty that the daily functions of being the owner and president of a private fund were such a mystery to me, especially when he seemed so interested and knowledgeable about my painting. But he insisted it was boring work, and usually deflected my questions about it.
Increasingly, I longed for that elusive study where I was not invited. Not the room, of course, but the man in it, the part of himself that existed in that space with whom I couldn’t quite connect.
Among the many treasures of that morning’s grocery delivery were peaches, golden and ripe. We ate them with relish that afternoon during our picnic on the overlook.
“Is this what I signed up for, then?” I asked him after I’d wiped juice off my chin. “We just live here in paradise, day after day. A maid service comes on Saturday, the groceries on Thursdays… everything provided like I was a princess in a tower?”
Evan smiled as he chewed his peach and swallowed.
“Are you complaining?”
“’Course not. I’m ridiculously happy. But I do feel a little… useless.” I saw his slight scowl as he bit into his peach again with straight, white teeth. “Not useless, exactly,” I clarified, thinking. “More like a boat without a rudder.”
“Adrift in paradise?”
“Something like that.”
“You have your painting.”
“I know. And it’s going so well. I’m amazed.”
“I told you that you’d be inspired here,” he said, tossing the peach pit aside and briskly wiping his hands with a napkin. “At the rate you’re going, you’ll have enough for a showing by the end of the summer. I’ll contact Lauren whenever you say the word.”
Lauren was the gallery owner he knew in South Lake Tahoe. He’d told me that he’d arrange a meeting with her whenever I was ready. Everything I could ever need, everything I could dream of, supplied to me on a silver platter.
“You really do spoil me,” I said.
“Only because I like to so much. I’m a selfish man.”
I heard the husky warmth in his voice. His mouth was there when I turned my face to him. He tasted like peaches. He cupped my face with one hand, drawing me closer. Our kiss deepened. Evan came down over me on the spread blanket, his hunger seemingly as great as mine. I worked my hand between our pressing bodies, finding a button on his shirt.
He covered my busy hand with his.
“No, Anna. Not now.”
“Why not?” I whispered urgently. “There’s no one around—“
He didn’t reply. I saw him glance in the direction of the house, his light eyes gleaming in his dark face. His expression was hard. Unreadable.
“I have an important phone call at two fifteen. I should get back,” he said, sitting up and brushing a pine needle off his jeans. He tossed some silverware in the basket in preparation to leave and glanced back at me. His face gave slightly.
“I’ll make it up to you tonight?”
“There’s nothing to make up for,” I muttered, sitting up and brushing my hair out of my face. In a quick movement, he caught a tendril. I went still, watching as he ran the strands through his fingers.
“I’m neglecting you, aren’t I? You’re getting bored.”