To Steal a Weeping Widow

Chapter Thirty-Eight: I'll Remember You

"The Love Letter" by Jan Vermeer (c. 1669-1670), stolen 1971, recovered 1971 - value unknown (disputed, but highly valuable)

Chapter Thirty-Eight

I'd always admired an artist's willingness to give their all; to bare on canvas what couldn't be said with lips and tongue. I admired the power of paint, when strokes of a brush could take the role of ink on pages, painstakingly illustrating entire stories readable through shading and hues.

But I'd always admired how much could be said with one single touch, too.

I admired what legacies I could leave with fingertips. What oaths I could swear on lips. What maps I could illustrate with palms on hips. I cherished the stories I could tell with hands on backs, tongues on necks, and fingers in hair. There was so much I couldn't explain in words, but there was plenty I could touch, and so much I could worship. Even the things that couldn't be conveyed with either, unexplainable by both words and touches, were discarded in those moments. They were lost in every kiss, buried in every blush, and drowned in every heartbeat. Tucked away for later, and forgotten with every touch.

When Simon and I had strained the clock as much as we could, and crossed all the lines we dared to cross within the confines of that room, it was time to leave.

Simon left first.

He exited the room with his collar straight, his hair pushed back, and his eyes bright. His lips were red. Beautiful, crimson red, like poppies and anthurium from my aunt's garden. I knew that underneath shell buttons, his chest and throat were red, too. Corruption had never looked as good as it had tonight.

I stayed in the office a few minutes more. I ran my fingers through the tangles in my hair, hurriedly removed any smudges of makeup, and fixed my dress. I fixed Yolanda's desk, too. Things had gotten a little... out of hand. Then, I reached for the metaphorical mask I'd let half-slip with Simon; I pressed it against kiss-burnt skin, welding it back on so I could innocently return to the fray. Except, heaven help me, there was nothing innocent about any of my time at Whitehill. There was nothing innocent about the way I'd marked Simon's time with these inky hands of mine, or altered these halls for him. There was nothing innocent about what we'd done, or what I hoped to do again. No, there was no doubt in my mind.

Something had so irreversibly changed.

Maybe it was the way his hand had clenched around mine, interlocked like ivy when he'd peeked around the door to the hallway. Or the way his hold had slowly given way, fingers trailing my wrist, as if tracing rivulets on a map when he'd finally slipped out. Maybe it was the way he'd looked back, throat bobbing with words unsaid, or the look in his eyes when they'd taken me in again. The way he'd guiltily disappeared, torn from my arms by duty, but wanting to stay.

Maybe, I thought, it was how I saw it all.

How he was swamped by guilt for leaving, for returning to battle, for waging war when he only wanted to surrender to me. How he was flushed and warm to the touch because of us and my hold; his tongue coated with poison from the most vibrant flowers that'd bloomed between us. How beautiful he'd looked, and how he'd glowed whenever his name had left my lips; a different kind of poison for me.

Maybe it was the promise he'd dared to speak, when he'd told me we'd reunite later, after the hard parts were over, and the need for pretending was laid to rest. How he'd given his all to me. How I couldn't get enough, so I'd accepted what was offered and more.

I didn't know.

But there was something taken from Whitehill that night—something only I had. Something I'd never truly expected to give, or lose; something like the Widow. Its loss was dangerous, impactful, and risky. In a way few knew, it was so very right. Yet, it was also different; this loss wasn't coordinated, or planned, or masterful like the Widow's disappearance. It was blindsiding. I'd never expected to give Simon Gastapolous these shards of myself; the pieces of which I'd only just started to collect from their fallen place on the ground.