“Deanna…?” He didn’t want to ask, but suddenly he had to. There was too much in her eyes. “Are you unhappy?”

She looked at him squarely and wanted to say yes. But she was afraid. She would lose him; he would leave her, and then what? She didn’t want to lose Marc. She wanted more of him.

“Are you unhappy?” He repeated the question and looked pained to realize what the answer was. She didn’t have to say the words. Suddenly it was clear. Even to him.

“Sometimes I am. And sometimes not. Much of the time I don’t give it much thought. I miss… I miss the old days though, when we first met, when we were very young.” Her voice was very small as she said it.

“We’ve grown up, Deanna, you can’t change that.” He leaned toward her and touched her chin with his hand, as though perhaps he might kiss her. But the hand fell away, as did the thought. “You were such a charming child.” He smiled at the memory of what he had felt. “I hated your father for leaving you in that mess.”

“So did I. But that was just the way he was. I’ve made peace with all that.”

“Have you?” She nodded. “Are you quite sure?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“Because I sometimes think you still resent him. I think that’s why you continue to paint. Just to prove to yourself that you can still do something on your own, if you ever have to.” He looked at her more closely then, his forehead wrinkling into a frown. “You won’t ever have to, you know. I’ll never leave you in the condition that your father did.”

“I’m not worried about that. And you’re wrong. I paint because I love it, because it’s a part of me.” He had never wanted to believe that, that her artwork was part of her soul.

He didn’t answer for a time but lay looking up at the ceiling, turning things around in his mind. “Are you terribly cross that I’m going away for the summer?”

“I told you, I’m not. I’ll simply paint, relax, read, see some of my friends.”