Page 88 of A Thousand Painted Hours

“Studio!” I called, and continued to pull the fastenings from a large painting I’d done during our time in Cairo.

His step on the stair told me he was in good spirits, and he came into the room with an amiable expression. “Well, you’ve been quite busy!”

“I want to store them with Nina. In case.”

“Wise.” He was well dressed, his fair hair brushed back from his forehead. I smelled cologne and wondered where he’d been. Wandering over to the table, he touched the top painting, and moved it slightly.

“I’d rather you didn’t,” I said.

“Hmm.” He ignored me, moving another to look below. “I’ve been exploring the possibility of moving Betty. It appears there might be a berth for her near Guildford. Out of the way.”

I plucked a nail from the wood and placed it on the table. “Thank you. It does not appear she’ll be working again.”

“I’m sorry, Elsie. Wretched to lose her, I know.”

I worked on the next nail. “Worse for her.”

He glimpsed the painting I was loosening, and came around to give it a good look. “Cairo,” he said of the flat light and suggested shapes, one of the more experimental sets, which I loved very much, angles and harsh light, and bright accents, more abstract than much of my work. “I never loved these back then, but I see now why you painted them.”

In surprise, I looked at it with him. “You hated these. The whole series.”

“I did.” He inclined his head. “It looks like a memory, the way you see something in bits and pieces.”

“That’s lovely.”

“Do you have more of them?”

“Of course. Only a few ever sold.”

He headed for the closet with its rows of vertical shelving. “Here?”

“I’ll find them.” I set the hammer aside and hurried over, but he’d already entered the space, and there was hardly room for two.

“I’ve never been in here before.” He flipped through a few at his eye level. “Are they organized by time period?”

“Peter, really, it would be so much easier to find them myself.”

He glanced at me, one eyebrow raised. “Are there paintings you don’t want me to see?”

“No.” A lie. “I’m sure you’ve seen them all.”

“I don’t think so.” He tipped one out, Channan by herself. “I do remember this. Poor thing.”

There was nothing scandalous in these paintings. Still, I sensed a growing tension in him as he pulled one after another out, as if he were looking for something in particular. “Ah,” he said, pulling out aportrait of Tanveer at twenty-one or twenty-two, his beard thick and glossy. “Always more of the prince. How many paintings have you done of him? A hundred? A thousand?”

“Peter. There’s nothing to be gained from this.”

“How many have you done of me?”

I met his gaze with apology. “Only the one.” I’d painted him at the Pyramids, one of the only times he’d been reliably happy for any length of time at all. “Would you like another?”

It seemed to pierce him, and he deflated. “No.” He shook his head sadly. “I wanted you to love me.”

I bowed my head. “I know.” I looked up at him. “I am sorry, you know.”

He looked back to the vertical stacks. “Will you find one of the Cairo paintings? I’d like to hang one in my office.”

“Of course.” I backed out of the closet and gave him space to pass me. Our bodies brushed, and he caught my hand.