One where you’re painting your toenails and looking happy? Why would that make you vain?”
“Well, it’s sort of like admiring myself, right?” Flicking a bubble with her finger, she considered the matter. “But I think what I love most about it is remembering how much fun we had while she painted me. I can’t even tell you how many layers of polish I went through. It took me buckets of acetone to get it all off between sessions.”
“You’re not wearing polish on your toes now.”
Startled, she glanced down at the end of the tub and saw that her feet were visible through the thinning layer of bubbles. But her important bits were still covered by a thick foam, so she relaxed back into the water.
“I used to get pedicures before Mom got really sick.” At a local spa, where they soaked your feet in water strewn with flower petals. “When I couldn’t afford that anymore, I’d take a couple hours and set up a sort of home spa and paint my own toenails.” Her smile faded. “Then I ran out of time and energy.”
When she immersed her hand in the water, her arm brushed against the side of her breast, and she remembered everything. Her parents, both gone now. Her bakery, sold. Her house, in which she had almost zero equity because of the burst housing bubble years ago. Her mammogram, concerning enough that the radiologist had contacted her within hours. Her marriage, proposed in the name of convenience and kindness instead of love.
The bath water had cooled while she’d been talking to James.
She was cold again.
With an effort, she tried to smile at him. “Why don’t you grab your toiletries, and I’ll see you in a few minutes? We can fill out the last bits of paperwork and call the insurance company. I want to make certain I’ll be covered the first of next month, in time for my biopsy.”
His brows had drawn together. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. Just getting pruney,” she said, and shooed him out of the bathroom.
Later, they hung her painting. They finished the paperwork. They called the insurance company. They argued about whether he should just pay for the damn biopsy—his words—and get it done tomorrow, instead of next month. It was one of the rare arguments he lost.
After an awkward farewell and brief hug, they retreated to separate bedrooms for their first night as a married couple.
All the while, she attempted to make sure any lingering bubbles of foolishness were well and truly popped. But try as she might, they seemed to keep appearing faster than she could vanquish them.
By the night before her biopsy, she and James had fallen into a comfortable—if occasionally worrisome—routine.
At dawn, he headed out on jobs while she worked at home for Artify Yourself! After lunch, she reported to Bradshaw’s Art Supply for her afternoon shift. Since he left work earlier than she did, he picked up any groceries she’d listed on the notepad by the refrigerator. They usually arrived home around the same time, and then he poured her a glass of wine, grabbed a can of soda for himself, and kept her company while she cooked.
He did the dishes while she took care of bills or watched the Food Network.
Then he joined her on the couch, and her favorite part of the evening began. The scariest part. The part where he sat next to her, put an arm around her shoulders, and cuddled her close.
At first, she’d resisted leaning on him. But gradually, she’d started giving him more of her weight. She’d started resting her head against his chest, where she could hear the steady thump-thump of his huge, generous heart. She’d started slinging one leg over his, and in turn, he’d started resting his cheek against the top of her head and encircling her with both arms.
Oh, it was glorious.
She’d never enjoyed cuddling with other men, not as much as they had. But with James, she wanted to crawl inside him and never emerge.
Especially tonight.
Especially given what would happen in the morning. What she’d find out soon thereafter.
But she needed to stay strong, so she didn’t lean on him. She sat on the armchair instead of the couch after dinner and held her hands very tightly in her lap. So tightly they were vibrating. She was vibrating.
Maybe Bobby Flay was beating someone in a competition involving a secret ingredient or a signature dish. Maybe not. She had no idea, even though her eyes never left the television