The Art of Romance (46 page)

Church started in one minute.

He pulled into the parking lot eight minutes later. And right beside him…a white Escape pulled in and lurched to a stop.

Caylor jumped out and met him at the rear of the vehicles. “Well, I know why I’m late—but why are you so late for church?”

He gave her a one-armed hug and kissed her temple in greeting. “Because you sent me an e-mail at two this morning.”

“Oh, I didn’t realize you’d still be up. You didn’t have to look at it right then.” She shifted her purse and Bible to her right arm and hooked her left around his waist. “So you didn’t get any more sleep than I did.”

“Um…a lot less, probably. I made the mistake of opening the attachment. Once I started reading, I couldn’t stop—I’m lucky to be here at all.” He dropped his arm from her shoulders to open the door to the foyer for her.

When he turned to let her go in ahead of him, he noticed her face had gone white. “You…you’ve already read it?”

“I finished it right before I realized I was running late. It’s fantastic. I think it’s the best thing you’ve ever written. But I’m biased—you chose my favorite time period to write about.” He ushered her in.

“I almost didn’t send it to you because of that,” Caylor whispered, moving toward the doors to the sanctuary. “I was afraid of all the faults you’d find with my research.”

He shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything so far. I could probably help you add to the details when it comes to the scenes when Giovanni is painting—it kind of felt like you were shying away from those.”

Caylor smiled, pulling the left side of her bottom lip between her teeth. “I so hoped you’d say that.”

The congregation started singing, so Dylan opened the door to the sanctuary and escorted Caylor in. With everyone standing, it was hard to see where they might find an open seat, but Caylor walked forward with confidence and stepped into the open end of a pew halfway down the right side—directly behind Mrs. Morton, who turned and gave them an exaggerated wink.

Caylor’s eyes crinkled up with amusement. “You realize,” she whispered in his ear, “that by walking in late together, we’re going to be fending off rumors and demands for a shotgun wedding.”

He groaned, and she launched into singing. Dylan held the hymnal in front of him and mouthed the words, not wanting to offend Caylor or Mrs. Morton or anyone else nearby with his tone deafness.

Whether it was his fatigue or the guest speaker’s insistence on breaking down the morning’s scripture word by word in its original Greek or Hebrew or whatever, Dylan’s attention lapsed and his mind wandered back to Renaissance Venice and Giovanni and Isabella. It had been somewhat disconcerting to read the novel, knowing not only that Caylor imagined him as the physical type for Giovanni, but to see some of his own thought processes and ideas and words written down for anyone to read—since she’d just received a contract for this book to be published next year. The strangest thing was knowing that he’d never said many of those things to her; she’d just picked up on them, he guessed.

Some things about Giovanni he could help her improve on—one of which was the reason why he would have fallen in love with Isabella. He didn’t like the fact that Isabella’s beauty was what captured the artist first. Sure, aesthetically he’d have felt something toward her, even physically, if she was as beautiful as Caylor described her—though Caylor described her as having long, raven-black hair. Dylan couldn’t help but picture her with red hair. However, he’d rather see Giovanni fall in love with Isabella for who she was rather than what she looked like. As a portrait artist, Giovanni would have seen a lot of beautiful women. He wanted Giovanni to see Isabella’s character, her kindness and humility, before he started falling in love with her.

He glanced at Caylor. He appreciated the fact that whenever they were out together, she didn’t feel the need to try to sit as close to him as humanly possible. Though she usually sat in the choir loft, putting quite a distance between them, this morning she sat a respectable few inches away from him, her Bible open across her lap, a journal on top of that in which she was taking notes.

Or was she? He looked closer at the page. What had started as an attempt to take notes had turned into what looked like a new story idea—or maybe ideas for editing Giovanni and Isabella’s story. He returned his gaze to the pulpit before she could see him looking, but he had a hard time containing his smile.

As soon as service ended, Caylor’s prediction came true. Mrs. Morton turned around, a gleam of speculation in her eyes. She immediately grabbed Caylor’s left hand then looked up at Dylan with an expression of reprimand.

Caylor pulled her hand free. “No Mrs. Morton. We’re not engaged. And it was just a freak coincidence that we both happened to be running late this morning.” Though serious, Caylor kept her tone pleasant, her expression soft.

“Well, can’t help a body wondering,” Mrs. Morton said.

“We’ve only been dating a couple of months. Don’t you think we should take more time than that?” Caylor tucked her journal back into her purse. Dylan would
love
to have access to that book to see how Caylor’s brain worked.

The old lady cocked her head. “You’re not getting any younger, bless your heart.”

Ah, the old “bless your heart” put-down. Something Dylan had not missed about living in the South. The way older women thought they could get away with saying something insulting to or about someone if they followed it with that phrase.

“And I don’t know how old you are, young man, but if you two want children, you shouldn’t put it off much longer.” Mrs. Morton nodded her head as if he’d said,
No, surely not!
“Yes indeed. Don’t know what you young people wait so long for. Have the children while you’re young, and then you get to enjoy your older years.”

Another senior lady called to Mrs. Morton, and she left them to consider that pronouncement.

Dylan cleared his throat, not certain if Caylor was ready for them to broach the topic of children. She still acted uncertain about any short-or long-term possibilities for their relationship to move beyond casual dating.

She slipped her hand into his as they walked out of the church, almost the last ones to leave after Caylor stopped to apologize to the music minister for being late and missing choir this morning. A contemplative frown etched lines across her forehead.

“What’s wrong?”

“We’ve never talked about children.” Caylor slowed her pace and looked at him, her expression easing. “But before we do, there’s something I need to tell you.”

She related her grandmother’s decision to move in with Perty and Gramps and sell her house to Caylor. However, she seemed to grow concerned as she spoke. “Now, there’s no time line on this. Sassy and I are going to go ahead and meet with her lawyer and begin the paperwork for the house sale, but she doesn’t have to move out anytime soon. I don’t want you to feel like I’m putting any pressure on you to make any long-term decisions about us because of this.”

He wanted to twirl her around and kiss her—truly kiss her, not these little pecks on the cheek or forehead he’d been restricting himself to. “I think that’s great. Because I am ready to start talking about the long-term and where we go from here. Which leads back to the original question. Kids.”

Caylor’s face turned bright red, but her eyes beamed with joy. “I am thirty-five years old.” She slipped her arms around his waist. “And I would like to enjoy some time with just you. But I do want a family, too.”

“You’ve seen my family—my brothers. I love them dearly, but I have to wonder what my mother was thinking, having four. I was thinking…”

“Two,” they both said at the same time.

He kissed her, though kept it chaste, here in the shadow of the church, with a few other congregants still lingering in the parking lot. Pulling her into a quick embrace, he glanced up at the sky and thanked God for giving the guidance and direction he’d prayed for. Because once he’d read the ending of Caylor’s novel this morning, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

At least his mother couldn’t blame him for her loss in the special election. Caylor set the newspaper aside. Yesterday’s election had been a landslide—for her opponent. Being handpicked by the longtime holder of the seat had actually worked against Grace Paxton-Bradley—given that the former senator hadn’t been very well liked when he retired.

Caylor glanced around the sparkling, brand-new kitchen.
Her
kitchen as of yesterday when she’d closed on the house, buying it from Sassy for several thousand under the appraised value—Sassy having added a consideration for all the money Caylor had put into maintenance issues in the house over the past five years.

She’d also talked to the lawyer about what she would need to do in the future if—no, when—she and Dylan married to get the house in both their names. She still needed to read through the documents he’d given her about that.

Sassy had moved fast in the past few weeks, getting everything in order and drawn up—and clearing it with everyone else in the family to make sure no one would object, since it affected inheritances, given that the house could have sold for a lot more money on the open market. But Daddy and Aunt Samantha had both readily agreed to Sassy’s decision.

“Aren’t you going to be late?” Sassy shuffled into the kitchen, carrying a trash bag full of clothes to take to Goodwill.

Caylor glanced at the clock on the back of the stove. “Oops. Yep, I’d better get out of here.” She carried the newspaper out to the recycling bin on the porch and then headed out to campus.

The faculty art show was in the gallery on the main level of Sumner Hall. Each art professor and adjunct was asked to create a new piece representing the subject he or she taught each semester to be exhibited for the students, parents, and public. Dylan had been quite secretive about his piece but had checked at least twice a day for the last several days to make sure Caylor would be there for the exhibit’s opening.

She hoped he’d decided to go with one of his Renaissance-like pieces, not the modern art stuff he’d given to his mom to sell at the auction.

She parked in her usual space behind Davidson and made her way across the quad to Sumner, greeting several other faculty as she entered the building. Though the flyers and announcements all stressed that casual dress was acceptable at this opening, many of the older people moving toward the gallery were dressed as if for a semiformal event. Caylor hadn’t changed from what she’d worn to teach in this morning—black pumps, gray tweed trousers, and a cap-sleeve purple sweater with ribbing from the empire waist to the curve of her hips, giving the illusion she had even more of an hourglass figure than reality.

Dylan stood just outside the main entrance to the gallery, easy to spot in the milling crowd in the hallway. His hands shook when he took hers and leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I’m glad you could make it.”

“Sorry I cut it so close. I meant to be here early, but I sat down and started reading the newspaper and lost track of time.”

Dr. Holtz stepped through the gallery doors and asked for everyone’s attention. “Thank you all so much for coming out tonight. I know I say it every semester, but inside this gallery, you’ll find the best faculty art exhibit we’ve ever boasted here at James Robertson University. I know you didn’t come to hear me talk, so without further ado”—he waved his arm, and two of the art faculty pushed the etched-glass doors open—”I give you the exhibit.”

Instead of taking her straight back to his piece, Dylan stopped to look at all of his fellow adjuncts’, instructors’, and professors’ pieces. Caylor found most of them vaguely interesting, but she wanted to see Dylan’s piece. She could enjoy the rest of these later. Finally, he gave in to her badgering and led her to the back of the gallery.

On a temporary wall hung a huge, framed canvas. From what she’d seen at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Dylan’s painting could have hung in the room with the Italian Renaissance masters and no one would have been able to tell the difference—except the paint wasn’t crackled, and everyone in the scene was clothed.

“Wait—that’s….” She stepped closer to it, studying the woman in the center of the painting.

“That’s you, yes.” Dylan moved behind her, his hands settling on her shoulders. “I never would have been able to pull it off if Sage hadn’t flaked out, forcing you to sit for my class that day.”

She looked to the right of the Renaissance version of herself. “And that’s…Giovanni—you—painting my portrait.” She turned to face him. “But you didn’t read the manuscript until two weeks ago. How did you do this?”

“Believe it or not, I had a vision for this painting shortly after I met you.”

His artwork for her books had always seemed to speak to a telepathy between them. Why should she be surprised that now that they were both making a concerted effort to follow and honor God with their talent, He would lead them to the same story?

With sixteenth-century Venice behind them, except that the central figure had red hair, this painting would be the perfect cover for Giovanni and Isabella’s book. She stood for what seemed like ages, letting her eyes rove inch by inch over the large canvas.