Page 118 of The Art of Being Merry
These days, her studio is at the back of our house. The house we bought and live in together. Ironically, with the right person, leaving my parents’ basement was easy. Their new renter seems to be working out, but Mom’s complaints don’t go completely unnoticed.
With four bedrooms, a decent-sized living room, a family room, an oversized kitchen, a finished basement, and an art studio, the house become our sanctuary. We got it cheap because it needs a lot of work, which Clementine does in her spare time. It’s become one of her favorite hobbies, right up there with sex. I’m not complaining about either of them.
My guess is some part of the house will always be a work inprogress, but it suits us fine. Aren’t we all works in progress in some way?
The boys have their own rooms and a huge basement downstairs for Legos, video games, and, more recently, an art space for Jace. He takes after his mother, and though he doesn’t spend all of his time arting, the little guy is impressively talented. Just like my fiancée.
It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve found ourselves without the boys. After the parade, they begged to go with Willa and Beck to spend time with their new cousin. I told my brother if they’re in the way, I’d come get them, but I don’t think it will be a problem. They just want to love on him for an hour before we meet them for dinner at the B and B. This year, nothing’s stopping us from attending, of enjoying Heidi’s beef Wellington I’ve heard so much about from Beck for three years. It’s my turn to enjoy the deliciousness for once.
I find Clementine in the studio, the familiar acrylic smell enticing my senses, body paint cans lined up. Half-finished projects take up most of the space, but she wouldn’t have it any other way. The space is bigger than what she had at the cottage, which is both a blessing and a curse. More room for her to spread out her creations.
“We’ve only got an hour. You sure you want to waste it painting me and not allowing me to love on you?”
“We’ll get to that after the boys are asleep. First, sit. Remove your shirt.” She’s got the stool set out, the same one she uses every time she practices on me. Which isn’t nearly as often as she’d like, but hey. We’re busy. Two kids, two full-time jobs, a house to fix up.
I follow her directions, hardly able to deny her anything.
Each time her creations get better, but that’s not surprising. My girl is remarkably talented. So much so, she’s a monthly contributor to the gallery in Winterberry Junction. No more traveling to North Carolina to showcase her work. She’s found new clients local to here, and her painting business is booming.
Since their parents moved here, there’s nothing left in North Carolina for Clementine. Once the divorce was final, Keith’s barely said boo. Every once in a while, one of the boys will saysomething about “Daddy,” but they’ve long given up hope things will change. I may never warrant them calling me dad, but in every sense of the word, I’m their father. I know it, but more importantly, they know it. Love makes a family, and in ours, we’ve got it in spades.
“It’s going to be small because it’s all we have time for if we want it to dry before dinner. It’s more for later.” She claps her hands. “Let me get to work.”
I’m not allowed to see what she’s painting, but I can’t help stealing glances at her determination.
She smiles when she rubs her hand over my “Clementine” tattoo. I’m itching to get more. Definitely add Jace’s and Atlas’s names somewhere near hers and something related to the holiday. Christmas has always been my favorite holiday, made exponentially better when she came into my life. It’s only been two years, but it already feels like a lifetime, like there wasn’t a time I didn’t know her. In all the best ways.
After not too long, she exclaims, “Finished.” Peeking down, she’s covered the right side of my ribs with the North Pole—a sign and a building. “If I had more time, I’d add a few more details, maybe another building or two, but it’s good for today.”
“It’s perfect,” I claim, and it gives me an idea. “Take a photo.” When she doesn’t move fast enough for my liking, I add, “Please.” Eyeing me suspiciously, she saunters to the table and picks up her phone, aiming it at her artwork.
“Why do you need a photo of it?”
“Because you take photos of all your work.”
“Yeah, but this is for fun.”
“So you say.” She questions me with a quirk of her brow. “I’ve been waiting for an idea to strike for a new tattoo. You’ve given it to me.” I pull her into my arms, cognizant of the wet paint. “Need a picture to give to the artist.”
“It’s not even that great,” she gripes.
“It’s what it represents, Picassa. It was practically our theme for last year. Your light display, the backdrops for the breakfast, your soon-to-be last name. It all fits together, hence why I need the visual representation, the permanent reminder.”
“You do you, Dax.” Her phone alarm blares in the quiet room,disturbing our moment. “Let me get cleaned up so we can have dinner with your siblings. Did you hear Autumn scored an invite this year?”
“Because she had serious FOMO. I can’t blame her. I haven’t eaten the meal yet, but I’ve been salivating for an entire year.”
“Don’t put on a shirt until the last minute. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll be ready.” She pushes onto her tiptoes and pecks my cheek. It’s not nearly long or deep enough, but I’ll get my fill later.
When I get to love on her all night long.
Happy to report, the wait was completely worth it. Heidi’s meal of beef Wellington is Michelin star-worthy. Even Atlas, who’s a picky eater, ate half a slice, a compliment to the chef if ever there was one, though he’s also been waiting a year to try it.
After dinner, we lounge around the living room, full of scrumptious food and the pecan bourbon cake Beck made. Much as I’m jealous of all his talents, I’ll admit it was divine and already let him know to add it to next year’s menu.
Shania’s got her youngest cousin in her lap, Jace and Atlas are occupying Isla while her brother snoozes in Clementine’s arms.
“If we start tonight, our baby will only be a little older than him this time next year,” I murmur next to her ear so only she can hear.
