Page 138 of A Thousand Painted Hours

His hand moved on my back. “Channan has asked about you a thousand times. I think she might have found some of your letters from when we were young, before I came to London.”

“She is not what I expected.”

“I know.”

A ripple of worry coursed over my heart. “I worry that my relationship with her will change.”

He smiled. “Have you known her to say a thing she did not mean?”

I could answer honestly. “No.”

“There is more than one way to live in the world,” he said. “We war when we insist it should be this or that, when I tell you how to live, or love, or worship. If we make it so that each being is able to choose, the trouble disappears.” He snapped his fingers in the air. “Like Nina and Jonathan.”

“Hmm. Yes. As it would have been for Rocky and me if he’d lived.” I sighed. “I will always miss him. What a lively character.”

“You were a bit blind about him, but I agree that he was a cheerful soul. A prat, but cheerful about it.” He paused. “It would have saved you a great deal of trouble if you’d been able to marry him.”

I nodded, thinking of the loss of Herewich and the extremity of financial trouble that had led to marrying Peter. A bolt of pain shot up my spine.

“What was that?”

“Memory,” I said. “Nothing.”

His thumb moved over my collarbone. “You were so exhausted when you arrived. Did Peter hurt you?”

“What does it matter now?” I said lightly. “Here I am. He’s a broken man and deserves pity, which I only know because I nursed you through your injuries.”

His eyes rested on my face. Then he nodded. “We all have things we cannot bear to say.”

I kissed him. “Thank you.” I pulled the thin blanket over our bodies and settled into the curve of his shoulder. “Will you tell me a story? In Urdu.”

And he did, weaving a tale of clever gods and men who outsmarted them, though I do not think either of us made it to the end.

—70—

September 1926

Taos, New Mexico

Dear Elsie,

Please reply to my letters. I know you are angry with Peter, and now with me, but I cannot bear not to know how you are. Please write. Peter has written many times, and I do not know what to tell him. I have not said that I know where you are, but I’m sure he knows. Perhaps you could at least write to him. He’s been moved to Kabul at his own request, where he says there is no drinking.

My husband has been poorly this summer. At first we thought it was only the heat (it is very hot in New Mexico at times) but I fear now it might be something worse.

Love,

Mother

October 1926

Dear Elsie,

I will not give up writing to you. I am sure you read my letters even if you do not respond. I beg of you, please forgive me, and let’s heal this breach. I feel quite alone without my connection to you, and have we not always shared in each other’s lives?

I have been ill with the Indian summer, a recurrence of malaria that surprised me.

My husband is rallying. They think it was a stomach ulcer, and after a few weeks of avoiding the very spicy food he loves, it seems to be healing. I wish you would come visit. The two of you could talk about art all day and night, and we are friends with an entire coterie of artistic people. I have become quite the bohemian.