“I’m sorry, Sylvia,” he says, not wasting any time. “That night, I was angry that you chose to go with Luke when we had a date.”
“You didn’t own me.”
“No, of course not.” He rubs the back of his neck, his words faltering for a minute, and looks so rueful that my heart clenches. “Well, you might as well know. I was leaving foruniversity in August and I wanted you to know that it didn’t mean we were done.”
My throat is tight. That’s exactly what I thought. That was why I left him at the party that night. I can still hear all those people from high school talking about their university plans, excited about the future, and feel my heart sinking because I wasn’t going anywhere. I didn’t belong with them. I felt like a loser.
The peasant girl who foolishly fell in love with the crown prince.
A pregnant loser who had served her purpose.
Mike frowns. “I was going to propose and I was nervous as hell. I was sure I’d make a mess of it but wanted to do it that night. It was important, I thought, to have things clear between us.”
I stare at him, unable to believe my ears. Mike was going to propose?
“But then Luke was there, and he was flirting with you and you were flirting with him, and it all felt doomed.” He closes his eyes as I stare at him, then holds up his hands before himself. “Like sand sliding through my fingers. Everything I ever wanted, disappearing before my eyes, because you wanted to be with Luke and not me.”
Mike sighs, evidently missing the sound of my jaw hitting the floor. “Luke. Of all people, Sylvia.” His eyes flash. “If it had been anyone else, anyone with a scrap of respect for women, anyone who might have treated you properly, I could have stood back and done the honourable thing. ButLuke.” He meets my gaze and shrugs. “It just seemed unfair. I was so in love and I was sure that things could only go right for us, but then, you chose Luke. I should have been gracious and wished you well, but I was too devastated to make a good choice, and I’m sorry for that. Your decision was never my business and itwasn’t mine to authorize or approve. I was way out of line to say what I did, and I wish I’d found a way to apologize to you sooner.”
He was going to propose. I’m stuck on that confession.
Mike must be interpreting my silence as skepticism because he turns to indicate a parcel I noticed earlier beside his table. It’s on the next table now, a package wrapped up in brown paper and twine, just the way they used to wrap things up at the art supply store in Havelock. That table is for eight and he’s cleared it off to make room for this enormous bundle.
“So, I’ve always thought that injustices or failures, like bank loans, accrue interest over time. Since I’ve owed you this apology for a long time, I had to go big. I hope you like my choices. I had to guess since I haven’t shopped with you in so long.”
I blink and look at him, a butterfly starting to flutter deep inside me. “That is not a bundle of art supplies.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “I don’t remember what’s in it,” he says and he can’t even make that lie sound plausible. “It’s for you, so you’ll have to be the one to look inside.”
Mike steps back, giving me room. I see the bulges in the paper, the shape of the corners, and I know that itisfrom the art supply store. Nobody ever bought me supplies the way Mike did, with such abandon and so many good guesses. I untie the twine slowly, wanting to make the suspense last, but soon enough I’m pulling back the paper, gasping at the contents.
Such generosity. I’m stunned.
There are brushes, so many brushes, sable brushes and hog bristle brushes, all different sizes, and a set with a dozen tubes of fabulous oil paint, the luxe brand that I love but have seldom been able to justify. There’s a huge sketchbook with lovely thick paper, and a pack of pencils in varying hardness, a collectionof charcoal pencils and several packages of conte and pastels. There are canvases, too, five or six of them, stretched and prepared and just waiting for that first stroke of pigment. It’s a huge haul, hundreds of dollars’ worth of stuff, and I feel as if he just let me into Aladdin’s cave.
“Bonus that you couldn’t apologize sooner,” Merrie says, revealing that she’s come over to watch and Mike gives a gruff laugh.
“Better now than in another decade,” he says, eyes twinkling. “It might beggar me then.”
“It’s too much,” I protest. “I’ll pay you for it all.”
“Not a chance.” Mike is not negotiating on this, but I try.
“Half.”
He shakes his head. “It’s an apology, Sylvia.”
“You can’t do this,” I argue.
“He just did,” Merrie says. I throw her a look and she smiles back at me.
Great. She’s taking his side.
“If it makes you feel better, consider it an investment,” Mike says. “When you have your next show, you can repay me with a painting.”
There are a lot of assumptions packed in there.
Nextshow. I’ve never had a single one.
