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Chapter twenty-eight

Unveiling

R ai sat in his motel room tub and glared at his phone, willing the display to change, but no matter how often he refreshed the weather app, it was the same.

No rain today, or tomorrow. Or the next day. No rain predicted for seven days. Not even one cloud on the app, just a column of seven cartoon suns.

It is too soon, he thought fiercely. It had not even been three days since the unfortunate storm which had ruined his plans.

And his plans had been perfect. He had marshaled his arguments, preparing to point out that with the storms over, it was unlikely another tree would fall upon the house, telling the Poppy in his head that her daily phone calls would be enough to keep Jen well.

He had dedicated himself to Poppy’s pleasure even more than before, learning as much as he could about her likes and dislikes, Googling feverishly when they were apart to learn every possible method of romance, seduction, friendship.

He had planted the seeds of self-sacrifice in Jen’s kindly heart, hoping to secretly enlist Jen herself to take his side, her mother’s love prompting her to enthusiastically send Poppy to her own happiness .

But there was not enough time, now. How was he to convince Poppy to leave when her mother had fallen into crisis during a mere hour’s absence?

Jen’s peace of mind was still fragile enough that they spent more time in the main house than in Poppy’s studio, and while Rai could not say he did not enjoy those visits, he also inwardly gnashed his teeth, because all he could think was that he was out of time.

He needed the memory of Jen’s lapse to be dim, so that Poppy could see clearly and understand that his idea was best for all of them. And it was yet too fresh.

If Poppy would simply go with him when he left, everything would be perfect.

His phone vibrated with a notification, and he irritably dismissed it.

Another message from Ofelia. She was as persistent as if she were truly his mother.

He did not wish to do her the dishonor of leaving her “on read” after all of her kindness, but he was not ready to reply to her, and he knew what her messages would say.

It is time to leave.

Leave now.

Go, you rock-brained dunce!

And he could not. So he simply did not read them. Let her think he was too busy making love to Poppy to check his phone. She believed him to be feckless and careless; he could use that to his advantage.

Instead, he rose from his tub, picking his way carefully through the array of humidifiers he had ordered from the convenient river store, past his supply of water bottles to the main room.

The swamp cooler was still in operation, thankfully—that was another warning Ofelia had given, that he would soon lose that small comfort when the motel changed from cooling to heat—and he had found insulating plastic he could install over the windows and drape over the door to ensure as little moisture as possible escaped from the rainforest climate he had created inside.

But he knew he would step from the room into unbearably dry air, that even the use of his beer helmet loaded with water bottles would barely get him safely to Poppy’s house.

And he might still disdain math, but he understood the numbers part of the weather app, as well—that the temperatures were due to rise as the week continued, until they were, as predicted, more than a hundred degrees.

He could continue to exist in this room, he believed, and he could stretch that existence on a single day to survive his visits to Poppy, but he could not do so for the entire week of dryness the weather app predicted.

Not even if the app were slightly mistaken.

It could not be mistaken enough to change his truth .

He could not even laugh about betrayal now. Not when he knew what it said was true.

But Poppy awaited him this morning. And he fiercely told the unopened messages from Ofelia that going to see Poppy was, in a sense, preparing to depart. Ofelia would not expect him to leave without a farewell. The fact that he had no intention of saying goodbye to Poppy was beside the point.

He gathered the things he needed for the day, braced himself, and stepped out into the sun.

His beloved was sure to be with her mother at this time of morning, so when he landed beyond the oleander, he replaced the empty water bottles on his helmet, put a smile on his face that he did not feel, strode up the steps to the porch, and knocked on the front door.

Poppy opened it with a bright smile. “Did you want coffee?” She gestured for him to enter.

He shook his head. He had learned that coffee could dehydrate a man, and he could not afford that. Not anymore. “You said you think it will be done today?” He nodded past her to Jen, who gave him a wan smile and a wave.

Poppy’s own smile dimmed slightly, but she nodded. “It’s really close, just a few details I wanted to add. I might even be able to finish this morning.”

“Excellent.” He turned to Jen again, putting on his most gentle, most persuasive expression. “May I steal your daughter away?”

She laughed indulgently. “Of course you may.” She flapped her hands at them, shooing them out the door.

He knew it was not true permission. But he had asked, and she had said the words, without manipulation or lies.

Bo Bennett had said that he liked to think of sales as the ability to gracefully persuade, not manipulate, a person or persons into a win-win situation.

And Rai had taken those words, like all the motivational quotes he had memorized to support his salesman’s guise, entirely to heart.

They would all win. He knew it. Jen would be happy if Poppy was happy. Rai would be happy if Poppy was by his side. Even Ofelia would be happy, because he would finally be taking her advice and leaving Tucson for good. All he had to do was make sure Poppy was happy.

And he would do it, by all the stars in the sky. He would do it. It was his dream—no, his goal, because he did have a deadline. He had been wondering what his purpose was, what he’d been born to do, and now he had decided. It was just to make Poppy happy .

She had said it when they’d first met, he remembered. The storm has fallen madly in love with me… It’s going to follow me everywhere I go so it can water me.

And he would. He would ensure that she bloomed.

He did not hesitate when they reached the studio, just stripped off his clothes and settled in his proper position on the cushions, his helmet in place with fresh water. And Poppy, ah, Poppy settled right into her painting chair, taking up her brushes with alacrity, though her face was troubled.

It had been troubled much of late. But he would fix that. He let his eyelids drift half shut, regarding her with adoration as she painted. He fell in love with her anew each day, watching her mobile face as she frowned and squinted and grinned at the canvas, changeable as the seasons.

And then, just as he was thinking he would need more water soon, she sat back in her chair, took a deep breath, and set her brushes and palette down. “I think it’s done.”

He did not know what to do at first, but after a moment she rose and gathered his discarded clothes. She held out a hand to help him rise, then gave him the bundle.

“Get dressed,” she said with a wry smile. “It’s weird if you’re both naked.”

He complied, his stomach churning with excitement but also with fear. Finishing the painting was good, but it was also an ending, and though he knew the painting sessions must end, he did not want them to.

Ah, but perhaps she would be willing to paint him again as they traveled. Yes, this would simply be a new beginning.

“Close your eyes,” she said, and he did. Her hands were warm in his, and she pulled him forward, just as he had drawn her into faerie, and he trusted her as she had trusted him and stepped and stepped, until she set her hands to his shoulders and turned him around. “Now open.”

He opened his eyes and looked at the painting. He looked and looked and looked, and he could not say a word.

It resembled him—the human him, at least. Those were his arms and his legs, his proud nose, his lean cheeks, his flowing hair.

Those were his freckles, rendered exactly as he knew them from his reflection.

That was the drapery he had lain upon, rendered in perfect folds and columns.

It was exactly him, exactly as he had lain.

Except it was not.

Poppy was watching him with huge, anxious eyes. He swallowed and tried to think of words. “It is skilfully painted,” he said at last. “It looks very like me. ”

She must have sensed something wrong in his tone, because she flinched, glancing from him to the canvas and back again. “You don’t like it,” she said quietly.

“I do,” he lied. And ah, there he was, lying again. But it was a small lie, a lie to not hurt. The sort of lie a man told to make his woman happy.

But her eyes narrowed. “You don’t,” she said with conviction.

He gestured helplessly. “It looks very like me,” he repeated.

“But?”

“But…but… It does not look like you ,” he blurted against his will.

Her eyes were wide as she glanced at the painting again, and she visibly wilted. Rai cursed inwardly. He was doing it badly. He was hurting her. He was saying the wrong things. But he had to explain what he saw. If he explained, she would understand.

“It is safe,” he said, gesturing to indicate what he meant. “It is safe and…and tame…and it is not you, your spirit, your hands. You are not in the painting.”

“But it is me,” she said. “I painted it. I… I tried to do everything right.”

“It is beautiful,” Rai said quickly. “You have painted beautifully. It is just…safe. I am not safe.”

She was looking only at him now, not the painting at all. “I feel— I felt safe with you.”