Dove's Way (37 page)

She looked back at him, and he held out his arm. Needing no other invitation, she raced to him and he curled her into his embrace.

He kissed her soundly, his lips lingering on hers, his tongue seeking entrance. She gave herself over to him, seeking just as he sought. A gasp shuddered through her when his hand slid lower and cupped her hips. He leaned back against the table, spreading his legs, pulling her to his hard desire.

“I want you,” he whispered against her skin.

He kissed her deeply, groaning into her mouth. She clung to him, seeking his warmth.

But as suddenly as the kiss began, he stopped it.

“What is it?” she asked, pulling him close once again.

He smiled ruefully, then pressed his lips to her forehead. “As much as I would like to take you here and now, I need to give you time. I suspect you are sore this morning.”

Finnea blushed at the truth of his words.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered reverently. “What would I have done had you not gotten on that train?”

He hugged her to him so fiercely. She cherished the feeling. Cherished everything he made her feel.

They stood that way as the sun rose, the sky changing from a deep, rich purple, to muted shades of red and orange. That was when he set her back, holding her by the shoulders, and looked into her eyes. Just looked until she grew nervous.

“What is it, Matthew?”

“I’m going to have that show.”

“What?” she gasped.

“A showing of my work. I know I can do it now. I’m ready. In fact, I am ready as I never was before.”

“How do you know?”

Very slowly, he turned her around, his hands never leaving her, until she faced the canvas he had been working on.

At the sight, her breath caught and she froze.

Matthew wrapped his strong arms around her shoulders, pulling her back against his chest. “You’ve given me back my life, Finnea Hawthorne. First my daughter. Now my painting.”

Emotion made it impossible for her to speak. Tears spilled down her cheeks.

His lips brushed against her hair. “I can’t give you back your daughter, but I can give you her memory on canvas.”

And he had. The painting was perfectly wrought, not in minute detail, as his earlier work, but with an intensity and acuity that brought the child to life on canvas. The painting was both Finnea when she was young, and her daughter just before she died. The memory that had been fading, captured on canvas for eternity.

With trembling fingers, she reached out and nearly touched the drying lines of her daughter’s face, gliding just over the surface, much as she had touched the lines of her own in the mirror, looking, seeking. And finally finding. Her place. Her daughter.

“I love you, Finnea. I love you with all my heart.”

She turned and saw the tears that streaked her husband’s face. Her heart swelling so much it hurt, she wrapped her arms around this man. “I love you,” she whispered, her voice barely a rasp. “How can I ever thank you?”

“You already have, in ways that I am only now beginning to grasp. By loving me, by holding me, and by never leaving me again.”

Chapter Twenty-four

Their love wrapped around them. Matthew spent his days painting and his nights making love to Finnea, then painting again until the sun came up. Only once did he leave the house without telling her, and that was to meet with Grayson in his downtown law office. Matthew had two matters he wanted his brother to look into. One thing needed saving, and another needed to be stopped once and for all. The farm and the annulment.

At home, Janji became a part of the family, teaching Mary about Africa, playing chess with Quincy. He also set out to learn everything he could about Boston.

Finnea took care of the arrangements for the show. Matthew had told her he would do it all, but she had insisted that she and Mary would make a project of finding just the right gallery for his work. After only a week of Finnea displaying the painting of Isabel, every reputable dealer in Boston wanted the show. None of them knew that the painting wasn’t of Finnea as a child. But Finnea didn’t want anyone to know otherwise.

“Why?” Matthew had asked her one night as she lay naked in his arms.

“Because I don’t want to share. Call me selfish, but I want Isabel cherished, not dismissed and forgotten by people who never knew her.”

She kissed the bare skin of his chest, rolling closer. “So I let them think what they want. And they want to think that the painting is of me.” She looked up at him. “Is that so wrong?”

“No,” he said, his voice rough as he pulled her on top of him, nudging her thighs apart.

He guided himself, then teased at her opening before sliding in, deep and full. She moved on him, and words were forgotten.

It was much the same every night. Long nights of love. Mornings with Finnea finding him gone, the new day filled with more artwork that took her breath away.

He painted her. He painted Mary. He painted everything that was in his mind, relishing the fact that he was painting again. He painted with a freedom that he had never experienced before. He had lost his talent once already and had survived. If it all went away again, he would still have himself. And that freed him. What he lost in detail, he made up for in a sense of depth he had never understood or expressed.

Two weeks before the show was scheduled, invitations went out. It was a week before the opening, after the paintings were hung in the downtown gallery renowned for the caliber of its artists, that critics were invited to preview the work. Then Finnea held her breath until the day of the event, when the reviews were supposed to run. Matthew only chuckled as if he didn’t care one way or the other when she raced for the newspaper that morning. But his smile turned to satisfaction when she read aloud the words that described a quality and compassion that even jaded critics couldn’t discount.

It was to be the night of all nights in Boston. Everyone who was anyone had been invited or had found a way to be at the show. And even Matthew’s father, his mother had told him, planned to attend.

“He will see my work,” Matthew said. “And he will see proof that I’m no longer an embarrassment to my family. That I can still be respected even after the scandal,” he added with a kiss to Finnea’s forehead. “With your help, my father will be proud.”

Finnea hoped for her husband’s sake that he was right.

The Matthew Hawthorne family dressed with care for the grand occasion. It had rained earlier, washing the city of daytime soot and grime, leaving a perfect crystal-clear sky dotted with thousands of stars.

Carriages pulled up to the gallery’s canopied entrance. Gas lamps burned high, golden light spilling across the long red carpet that had been rolled out for the occasion. Liveried footmen stood at attention, helping the guests step down from black-enameled landaus and gold-trimmed barouches, everyone eager to get a glimpse of the wealthy Hawthorne and his art.

For days beforehand, Finnea had worried that people would flock to the gathering simply to gawk at Matthew and his face—this man they had called a monster. But once the guests were there, it was the paintings that they noticed.

Men and women alike marveled at the work. The colors that shimmered with life, the forms that awed.

Finnea looked across the room at her husband, joy filling her heart over the fact that the night was proving a huge success.

Mary sat on the stairway, looking like a fairy-tale princess, talking to her uncle, who sat beside her. Janji received nearly as much attention as the paintings, the guests thinking him an African king in his fine robes.

Dr. Sanderling was there, after graciously accepting Matthew’s large donation for the Ethan Sanderling Clinic. Matthew had been adamant that the medical establishment be named after the doctor.

Emmaline Hawthorne mingled with the crowd, and Finnea could see the look of a proud mother as the older woman glanced from the paintings to her son. Even the Winslets were there. Nester and Penelope. Hannah reigning. And her mother, looking perfect and lovely.

Everything was going well, except that Bradford Hawthorne had yet to arrive. Would he stay away? Finnea wondered. Would he do that to his son?

She was on the verge of concluding the man would do just that, when the front door pushed open and Bradford entered.

Finnea saw Emmaline’s quick and discreet prayer of thanks. Then she saw the joy that flashed over Matthew’s face. It was that sight more than any other that made Finnea’s heart begin to pound. She couldn’t have said why. But like Emmaline, Finnea sent up a quick prayer, though hers had to do with Bradford Hawthorne not letting his son down. She might not like the man, but she wanted his approval for her husband.

He greeted and talked to the guests, his smile wide, his voice booming. He was a powerful man, and he seemed to be accepting of his son.

Thankfully her heart began to ease when the guests began to file out, leaving just family. It was only then, she realized, that Bradford started to move from painting to painting. Of her, of Mary. Of the three brothers. Emmaline was depicted. As was Bradford himself, a stunning work that showed the man with power and dignity.

But it was the canvases of Matthew, portrayed in a series of paintings that showed the progress of who Matthew had been and who he had become, which stopped Bradford. It was a depiction that could not fail to move any parent when taking in the sight of their child.

Bradford stood there, staring, and Finnea could see that Matthew was waiting, his pride etched on his face.

Bradford turned, and the room grew hushed. The father looked at his middle son, his favorite for so many years.

“Is this supposed to be art?” Bradford asked.

Emmaline gasped. Grayson abruptly stood from his place beside Mary, his eyes narrowing angrily.

Matthew grew very still, his eyes locked with his father’s. To the casual eye, he looked no different than a few seconds before. But Finnea knew the truth.

Rage and fury consumed her, rage for her husband’s sake, fury at the man who callously tossed love away as if it had no worth. Before anyone could speak, Finnea strode forward, her elegant gown swishing around her ankles like a storm-tossed sea.

“How dare you say such a thing,” she snapped at the all-powerful Hawthorne patriarch.

The man raised a graying brow, his countenance set in steely lines that had intimidated some of the most powerful men in the world. But Finnea wasn’t intimidated. She was furious.

“You call yourself a father?” she spat. “You don’t deserve the love of my husband. He is good and kind, and a far better person than you will ever be.”

Suddenly it was too much, and tears began to stream down her cheeks. “He has honor and courage, where you are shallow and selfish. You are horrid, Bradford Hawthorne. And I hate you for hurting the man I love.”

Her words reverberated against the high ceilings and tiled floors, trailing off until everyone who remained watched and waited.

“Don’t cry, Finn.”

She turned and found Matthew at her side. He stood there, strong and resolute, an odd smile pulling at his lips when she expected devastation.

“But,” she began, before he cut her off.

“No buts. It doesn’t matter.”

“How can you say that?” she cried.

“Because it’s true, though I only just realized it.” He framed her face with his hands as if they were alone in the room. “You said not long ago that you didn’t belong here. You don’t, Finn.”

Her brows furrowed and she was afraid she couldn’t breathe. What did he mean? Did he think that if she were out of his life his father would accept him?

“You don’t belong here, Finnea,” he repeated, “and neither do I.”

A collective gasp echoed through the cavernous room. Finnea was stunned, her mind trying to understand. But through the confusion, Finnea heard nearly soundless tears. Matthew must have heard them, too, because they both turned to find Mary standing to the side of the room, her face crumpling. She looked scared, afraid that her world was about to collapse yet again.

Finnea didn’t know what to do, what to think. What was Matthew trying to say?

But then he extended his broad, strong hand to his daughter. “And Mary doesn’t belong here either.”

After a soundless, startled moment, the child raced across the wooden floor, running into her father’s waiting arms. They stood clasped together, the three of them.

“We are a family,” Matthew said softly, “and we belong together. But we don’t belong here.”

PART FOUR

Suns that set may rise again …

Ben Jonson

Chapter Twenty-five

A cloud of steam burst from the train’s engine stack as it crept out of Matadi. Excitement pinked Mary’s cheeks as she hung her elbows over the metal sides of the open-air car. Her baby-fine hair caught in the wind as the train gathered momentum and sped away from the arid, boulder-strewn port town and headed into the jungle.

Finnea sat ramrod-straight, her fingers curled around the edge of the narrow wood-planked bench. Suddenly the train jarred, sending panic slicing through her veins. She stared straight ahead, her pulse racing.

“It’s just a bump, Finn. You’re okay.”

Matthew pulled her close, gently taking her hands and twining her fingers with his. He kissed each knuckle as the train’s motion settled out.

“You’re going to make it home.”

She eased at the sound of his voice, and when she looked up at him, she felt a wealth of emotion for this man. And she realized she was no longer afraid.

They were headed for the rubber plantation deep in the Congo. Janji had departed on a trade steamer a week before them, and would be there now waiting.

On the day they left Boston, Finnea stood with Matthew and Mary in front of Dove’s Way. Their families were there, Grayson and even Lucas, standing shoulder to shoulder, each giving his brother an abrupt, fierce hug.

Emmaline cried quietly as Matthew pressed a kiss to her forehead. “One day we will return,” he said gently. “But for now this is what we need to do.”