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.“Don’t send me away,” he said simply.“Please.We’ve barely had a chance to get to know one another.” He looked so sweetly earnest, his expression as open as a small boy’s pleading for a new toy or some candy.Anne relented, unable to stop the small smile forming on her lips.What after all was the harm?Again words seemed to tumble into her brain—Some tea would be lovely.Yes.A nice cup of hot tea—she had a new tangerine herbal she’d been planning to try.Anne loved teas of all sorts and had a whole cabinet full of different varieties.And Brits loved their tea, didn’t they?They walked back to her place, not touching, but closer than the walk out.When they arrived at her brownstone, Anne hesitated.“Listen, the place is a mess—I wasn’t expecting anyone.”“Please don’t worry.I like a place that’s lived in.I can’t abide those pristine houses with every item in its place, no book spine cracked, no sign of life.One wants a home, not a museum.” Well, it was lived in, all right.At least she’d cleaned up some of the clutter and dusted earlier.No way she would have let him upstairs if she hadn’t.As she opened the door and gestured him inside, Paul said, “What a beautiful old place.These brownstones remind me of London in the last century.The fine woodwork, the beveled molding, the attention to detail and the solid workmanship.” Anne puffed with pride.He hadn’t seemed to notice the piles of old papers and books crammed into the overfilled shelves or the fact the sofa needed reupholstering.“What’s this?” Paul walked over to a small oil painting on the wall.He gazed at it appraisingly for a moment.“The way the light falls makes one feel one is there, just at dawn.Who did it?” He was admiring a small landscape that depicted a hayfield, newly plowed, its grass neatly bundled into large rolls.It was a simple scene, one of Anne’s favorites.Blushing but hugely pleased, she admitted, “I did actually.I paint.Well.I used to paint.Before…” She turned away.When had she stopped living? When had she let everything she held dear fall away from her? Was it the moment he’d died? It wasn’t quite that simple, she realized.It had been slipping away, bit by bit, as he had fallen more and more ill.Would Greg have wanted that? Had he expected her to stop living because he was no longer in the world?“You have real talent, Anne.I hope you’ll paint again.Where was this taken from? Upstate New York?”“Yes, actually,” she answered, glad to be distracted from her thoughts.“The Hudson Valley.We were driving along on our way to see friends and the scene just struck me as so idyllic.I don’t know why but I love those hay rolls.They make me happy for some reason.”“Well, you’ve captured the beauty of the place and your love for your subject.” Paul’s tone was sincere.He turned from the painting to Anne, bestowing one of those dazzling smiles on her.How could she have thought he was a murderer? The man liked her art! He couldn’t be all bad.She grinned back at him and said in an overdone British accent, “Shall we have a spot o’ tea then?”Paul laughed and answered, “We shall indeed.”As he sat at the table, Anne bustled around the kitchen, pouring water into the kettle, putting out a pot of sugar cubes, some lemon and a pitcher of cream.The tiny pitcher was shaped like a small cow, its spout the cow’s open mouth, faded black spots painted on its china body, the tail curled over into a handle.Paul picked it up.“Wherever did you get this? It’s delightful.”Anne smiled, realizing as she did she hadn’t smiled and grinned as much in a year as she had in these past few minutes.“That was my grandmother’s.I always loved it as a child and she actually left it to me in her will.I was really touched she’d remembered I liked it.”They smiled at one another until Anne felt the heat of another blush coming upon her.Turning away she asked, “What sort of tea do you prefer? I’ve got a whole cabinet full.“Earl Grey?”“You bet.I’ve even got one of those cute little tea houses to steep it in.”“A true tea connoisseur—you would be at home in an English country kitchen.” Anne smiled again—her cheeks were practically aching.She realized with a guilty start she’d barely thought about Greg since Paul had walked into her house.What was wrong with her?They sipped their tea in silence, Anne now lost in a funk of guilt and confusion.She could almost feel Greg’s presence, as if his spirit were drifting sadly through the room, his emaciated, jaundiced face a mask of reproach.Paul was quiet, his dark eyes upon her when she looked up.This wasn’t going to work.She just wasn’t ready.“I’m sorry,” she finally said in a low voice, “I can’t—”Paul put his hand over hers and Anne suddenly found her mouth dry, her tongue thick.She couldn’t seem to speak.She’d been about to tell him he had to go.She wasn’t ready to go out—or even sit in—with another man.She might never be ready.Something inside her had been ripped out, tattered possibly beyond repair.She tried to swallow and say the words, but she could only stare helplessly at Paul.“Anne.Everything is fine.Everything is as it should be.” His voice was soothing, almost hypnotic.For a moment she wasn’t sure if he’d spoken aloud or somehow entered her head.But that was ridiculous
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