Claire sighed. “I’m not your responsibility, Caleb.”
“I never said you were,” he said quietly.
“No. Not with words. But with your actions,” she said. “My mother would have me wed. My brother would keep me close under his wing to shelter me. You”—she gestured to him—“insist on escorting me here or there.” The entire world thought a woman incapable of leading her own life. “I’m not some child to be passed off to your friend. I can find my own way.”
With that, she made to take her leave once again.
“You’re right. I should have made mention of Wade being the one to accompany you. But I don’t want to fight, Claire. This isn’t why I came here,” he said entreatingly, dragging a hand through his hair.
She sharpened her gaze upon the ravaged planes of his face, more emotion contained within those exquisitely harsh angles than she’d ever before seen. “Then why did you come?”
“Because I wanted to paint with you,” he said unexpectedly, knocking her back briefly on her heels.
“Paint with me?” she repeated dumbly. Of anything he might have said, that hadn’t been what she’d expected.
“I wanted to… offer that.” He grimaced. A schoolboy’s blush filled his cheeks with color, so endearingly sweet and warm. “I’ve never much understood why you or anyone would want lessons from me. I just know you wanted them, and I rebuffed you in the past in the rudest way.”
Once again, the warmth fled. That was what this was truly about, then. “Because you pity me.”
“No,” he said solemnly. “Because I like being with you. Because despite what you might believe, I do care about you.”
As much as he was able. He didn’t need to speak those words. They were implicit within. But God help her for being greedy, she wanted more of him.
“I have to go, though, Claire.” He palmed her cheek briefly, in the shortest of caresses, before drawing his hand back. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I want to paint with you once before I leave. So will you please come with me?”
Claire stood there, at war with herself.
Everything within her screamed no to what Caleb suggested. To spend any more time with him was folly. Nay, beyond folly. And sharing in this, as he suggested, would put her further along that path of danger she’d already ventured down. For spending a single moment more with Caleb threatened to imperil her heart, all the more.
She needed to protect what was left of it, as best as she was able. She needed to have some emotional distance so that when the physical distance grew between them, she’d be able to breathe and live without wanting to crumple into a heap of a thousand regrets at what she’d never have.
His brows lowered. “Will you join me, Claire?” With that, he held out his fingers.
She glanced down at those outstretched digits, long and powerful, the paint upon them a beautiful mural of blues and greens and yellows left by whatever artwork he’d last seen to.
Claire wavered, that part of her fighting desperately for self-preservation weakening.
Doing this now—joining him—would bring their relationship full circle in a way that would bring… closure. Perhaps that’s what he sought? Perhaps it was what they both needed. And yet, as she placed her fingers in his and followed him to the ballroom, she knew the truth. She wanted whatever crumbs of affection and closeness she might steal.
Loving him as hopelessly and desperately as she did, there would be no recovering from the loss of Caleb Gray.
“You ever paint on the walls?”
His question came so unexpectedly, a matter-of-fact query that juxtaposed the powerful thoughts swirling in Claire’s head, that it took a moment to register.
“What?” she blurted.
“Walls,” he repeated, and lifting his opposite hand, he mimicked brushstrokes.
And if this wasn’t the crux of all her woes where Caleb Gray was concerned, she thought drolly. She was here, pining over him and mourning their parting tomorrow, and he was already on to their art lesson.
“Caleb, you know my mother. Do you think she’d have allowed me to paint on her walls?”
“I know you, and I know that wouldn’t stop you.”
“No,” she allowed. He spoke of knowing her, and he did. “You are right.” Somehow, the kindred connection she’d forged with this man had grown and magnified over this short time. Only, it hadn’t really been a short time in which they’d known each other. They’d known each other for several years now, and each knew the other’s obstinate, strong spirit.
Caleb brought them to a stop, and she peered into the expansive room with wood parquetry flooring. Of course, the ballroom. It was where he’d taught Poppy.
“But they are not my mother’s walls,” she said softly. “They are Poppy’s.”
“She’d let you—”
“It’s not that she wouldn’t let me. It’s that they are hers. They are hers to create upon.” And Claire? Claire was even further away from a life of her own now than when she’d started out on this journey.
“Then come on, sweetheart.” Caleb gently tugged her forward. “You can have mine.”
You can have mine.
As in, on this night, she could avail herself to this room, and it was the greatest of gifts, but she proved shamefully selfish for wanting there to be a greater permanency to that offer.
They stopped beside a worktable. At some point, before he’d joined her and Wade for the evening meal, he’d created a vast array of oil paints.
“Now,” he began, shrugging out of his jacket. “You asked for lessons.” Caleb tossed the wool garment aside, and it sailed to the floor in a soft little heap.
From the moment she’d discovered Caleb’s connections to Poppy, this was precisely what Claire had been longing for, instruction from one of the most renowned artists, and now here she stood before him, about to receive just that, and all she could focus on was the way the muscles in his arms bulged and strained. And the hint of dark curls that peeked from the top of his shirt. Claire’s mouth went dry.
“There’s one lesson”—he lifted an index finger—“just one that matters above all others. Do you know what that is?”
It took a moment to pinpoint that he’d put a question her way. Claire jerked her focus up to his face. “No,” she blurted. “I’ve… no idea.” What had he been saying? Or asking? Perhaps he’d been putting a query to her? Something about lessons. Or she thought it had been. Everything was all mixed up.
With a brush clenched between his teeth and a small bowl of blue paint in his right hand, Caleb glided toward her, so close when he stopped that she felt the heat that poured from his frame, a warmth so intense it fanned her. Claire dampened her lips.
“Follow me,” he said around that brush.
Anywhere. She would have followed him anywhere in this moment, in any moment. Breathless, she allowed Caleb to lead her by the hand deeper into a ballroom that had already been largely transformed into an artist’s paradise.
The moment they reached the center back wall, he released her fingertips.
A quick rush of… emptiness came with the loss of his touch.