Page 134 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“You met her, the night at Nina’s. Trudy. Just a girl, only twenty years old.”

A clutch of warning moved through my middle, but I brushed it away as a memory of another time. I touched his shoulder. “It’s awful. I’m so sorry.”

From upstairs, I heard a cry. “That’s Mother. I have to check on her.” At the door, I added, “Will you come up and sit with us? She likely won’t know you’re there, but you can bring your plate up.”

He raised his head. “Of course.”

Mother was restless, clearly in pain. I tried to give her some water, but she couldn’t take it. I wasn’t sure she was with us in any way, but Peter held her hand and told her a story about a childhood game he lost. She fell into a deep stupor after a time, and we left her, a lamp at her side.

“Would you like to play cards?” I asked. “I have some Ovaltine.”

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. “That sounds lovely, Elsie. Yes, please.”

As I boiled the milk, he said, “She hasn’t long, has she?”

It gave me a sharp pain through my ribs. “No. I don’t think so.” I thought about the revelations she’d spilled, and wondered if I should ask him if he’d known, and then chose not to. What difference did it make? None of it mattered now, and as I’d said to Tanveer, I hadn’t left India for her sake.

“Will you leave me then?”

“What?” I looked over my shoulder. “I’m going to stay with Nina, which you already knew. It will be safer.”

He nodded. “I can see it would be lonely here, by yourself.”

“Yes.” I sliced the cheese ration for the week into small squares and arranged them on a plate. “I miss Betty terribly. Any news of her?”

“She was moved to Oxford, but I haven’t heard anything else.”

We sat down with our malty drinks, and I passed the cards across the table.

“Do you suppose we’ll ever have a true marriage again, Elsie?”

Again that wash of warning edged around my gut, my elbows. Why this concern when he was clearly grieving the loss of his mistress? It was too much like the nights in Cairo.

Lightly, I said, “It’s as true as many others, I reckon.”

“Don’t you ever want more?” His eyes were red as he looked hard at me. “We could start again, you know.”

I thought of my mother upstairs sleeping, of the moon rising, of the winds in Cairo that drove the British mad. “Considering all we’ve endured, our good friendship is a treasure, wouldn’t you think? How many are miserable? We are not.”

He sighed. “Youare not.” He calmly placed his cards in the middle of the table. “I believe I need a drink.”

“Peter,” I began, but he was gone. For a moment, I sat at the table with its two filled cups of Ovaltine, and the stack of cards. My intuition prickled, running up and down the back of my arms in warning. Should I collect my things in case he showed more signs of instability? But I could not leave my mother. A stab of fear and fury twisted in my chest.

And the sirens began to sound.

Channan’s Gift

1926

Talwarpur, India

—68—

A servant came to my chambers in the late afternoon. The day had cooled considerably, with heavy clouds moving in, promising thunderstorms and monsoon rains before dark. I wrapped a shawl around my shoulders as I did the only thing I could do, which was paint. I could not paint what I wished to paint, which was Tanveer’s beautiful hands, or his freshly washed hair and his bare shoulders that morning on the balcony, a memory I had put out of my mind until now.

I could not paint those things for, as it was, I could barely hold the emotion surging through my body, pouring through veins and joints. I could see it, heat and light just below my skin. A door had been flung open in my mind, and from the dark room where I’d stuffed all my feelings came an outpouring of memory and longing and wishes, hope and fear. So much fear, rooted in our history. Leaving him now, even our renewed friendship, would be wrenching.

If we walked through the door Channan had flung open, what then?