Wednesday, February 15, 1:30 PM. Brewer.
Yesterday was Valentine’s Day. Amy did it up super special. She and I dressed up like we were going on a date. She had to help me with my buttons. She came down in a beautiful black dress—a symphony of curves, and maternity, of course—with her hair done up and her makeup on. Claire had helped her do her nails.
It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her like that. I can forget that she is a piece of art, a brushstroke flowing down the canvas, perhaps truly the most beautiful creature remaining on earth.
The two of us went outside by way of the garage. We walked slowly together, chatting, around the side of the house to reach the front door. We knocked and waited. She even had her little sequined purse.
Garrett greeted us in a fine white shirt and cummerbund, dish towel on his arm, hair slicked over like a French maître d’. He took a stab at a French accent, which was funny more than convincing, welcoming us in and taking Amy’s coat.
She had organized the kids to turn the entryway and dining room into a fine French restaurant. There were candles and garlands and our nicest plates laid out. They’d thrown exotic drapes over our usual ones. Trevor was playing Debussy on the piano. Later Garrett played guitar while Claire sang “Moon River” for us—not exactly French, I suppose, but pretty.
Garrett seated us, then disappeared into the kitchen to oversee the cooking. Claire came out and introduced herself as our waitress. She too was in a white shirt and black slacks with a white apron over them, holding a notebook and pencil and looking very professional. She filled our glasses, then took our orders. I asked for the chicken cordon bleu but was told they were fresh out. “Have any escargot?” “Gross, Dad.”
We ended up having the quail that we shot a couple weeks ago, and it was actually superb. There was French onion soup and fruit salad, green beans and little potatoes. Amy had done much of the cooking but the kids finished it well. She enlists one or two of them to help her with dinner most nights, and they’ve learned a lot. They’re little chefs now. Trevor helped with the waitering, keeping our water filled and clearing dishes. We could see he felt very serious about his job, very grown-up.
After clearing the plates, they left us alone to talk.
Amy asked how I was feeling. I said I felt great. A little tired, but great. She pressed her lips together in a way that told me she wasn’t buying it. But I really did feel good. “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “I’m not finished yet. There are still a lot of ways this could go.”
She nodded in silence. Then: “I love you, Brewer.”
I took her hands across the table. “I know, and I’m thankful. I appreciate you coming to me, that day we talked beside the river, and giving me a second chance to love you better.”
She shook her head and closed her eyes, breathing in slowly. “Second chances,” she said. “I’m the one who’s thankful.” She tried to look at me but couldn’t open her eyes for a moment.
I asked, “How do you feel it’s been going since then?”
“It’s been wonderful,” she replied, still looking down. “We’re starting to do the things, experience the marriage I always dreamed of. Although…” She looked at me again, and her golden eyes dazzled me, as they always do. “If we had reached this point before, I’m not sure I would have appreciated it.”
I nodded. “It took us a long time to get here.” I twisted her wedding ring idly. “Do you ever regret marrying me?”
“No,” she answered firmly. “Never. Not even when… Sometimes I’ve been confused. But I always wanted to be yours.”
I squeezed her hands. We sat in silence a moment.
I asked, “What are you looking forward to?”
She tilted her head, looking puzzled and a little playful. “You mean, tonight? Or…?”
“Tonight. Tomorrow. In the months to come.”
Her expression changed. She looked hard at me, and shook her head slowly for several seconds. I had no idea what she was about to say.
“I look forward to you surviving,” she said. “Or else, nothing at all.”
My heart sank. I bowed my head. Her knuckles were white against mine.
“I can’t be your whole future, Amy,” I replied at last. “I’m not big enough to hang all your hopes on. You’ll have to dream bigger.”
She sighed. “Dreams are easy for you, Brewer. They’re not so easy for me. I have to make do with plain old reality.”
We sat together in silence a long while.
I was staring at the fancy drapes they had put up for the evening—staring, but not really seeing them. Amy rose from her chair, cradling her belly—I stood to help but she waved me back—then went to the window and tugged the drapes to the floor. She drew aside the usual curtains so we could see out into the nighttime. Then she rounded to my side of the table and placed herself on my lap. We saw ourselves reflected in the glass against the darkness, lit only by the flickering candles on the table.
At some point I called for “garçon” and asked him to bring us the check. When he arrived I whispered in his ear, invoking a surprise of my own. He left the room and whispered instructions to Claire and Trevor. Amy, still on my lap, could see we were up to something. She looked almost nervous.
In a few minutes they came back carrying several large, flat objects wrapped up in bedsheets. Amy’s hands went to her mouth. Her face showed signs of horror and delight, love and guilt. She had already guessed what was coming.
They were the paintings from the Kimbell. While Claire and Trevor trotted them out and held them up, Garrett unveiled and announced them. We had found out their names from a book.
Abstraction by Piet Mondrian
Portrait of May Sartoris by Frederic Leighton
Man in a Blue Smock by Paul Cézanne
Portrait of Don Pedro de Barberana by Diego Velázquez
The Cheat with the Ace of Clubs by Georges de La Tour
Glaucus and Scylla by J. M. W. Turner
Nude Combing Her Hair by Pablo Picasso
We told her how we had gone back over and salvaged this selection. The roof at the museum was not faring well and water was already leaking in. It smelled damp. We didn’t steal: we rescued. We would go back soon and salvage more. For now, these were our gift to her. They were her paintings.
She was overwhelmed, and shed tears of happiness and grief.