Free Almost Perfect by Julie Ortolon Page A

partnership, not a life sentence where the woman's identity is ripped away the first day."
    "Fire-breathing Maddy trampled over?" He shook his head. "I can't imagine you ever winding up like that."
    "Looking back, I can't either. In fact, the opposite would have happened, and that wouldn't have been fair to you. Back then, I was too adamant about my independence, to the point of selfishness. The past eight years have taught me that sometimes you have to set yourself aside and put your own dreams on hold. But at least I did it for love, not lack of a backbone like my mom."
    "The last eight years?" Confusion creased his brow.
    She hesitated, not sure how he'd react to this topic. "My husband died of cancer after a long illness."
    "I'm sorry." The honest sorrow in his eyes added weight to the words.
    "I am too." Sympathy always brought the grief welling back to the surface. This time when the tears came, she let them. "I loved him very much, and I miss him every day."
    "Oh God, Maddy—" He looked ready to step around the canoe and come to her.
    "I'm fine. Really." She raised a hand, knowing she would lose all composure if he touched her now. "It's been hard, but it's time for me to get on with my life, get back to the dreams I set aside. Which is why I came here."
    His frown deepened. "To work at a summer camp?"
    "No, to Santa Fe. For my artwork." She smiled sadly. "You know what the big irony of my life is? I married a man who was the polar opposite of my father. Intelligent, successful, self-assured, and one of the kindest, sweetest men I have ever met."
    "He sounds like a geek."
    "He was!" She laughed. "The poor guy actually wore pocket protectors when we first started dating. He was also color blind and had no taste in art, which is how we met. His office manager kept badgering him to decorate. So Nigel—"
    "Nigel?" Joe's brows shot up. "You married a man named Nigel?"
    "I did." She felt her smile spread across her whole face. "He was a tall, lanky stereotype of an accountant, and the day he walked into the gallery where I worked, desperate for art and hilariously clueless, I took one look at him and thought 'Oh, honey, you so need me. For a lot more than picking out your art.'"
    Sadness and envy filled Joe's eyes. "You must have made his life."
    "I—" His words touched her so deep she didn't know what to say. "Thank you. I like to think I did. We were very happy together. The irony, though, is I married him thinking here was a man who will never ask me to ignore my needs to take care of him. And then he got cancer and that's exactly what I had to do."
    "You're saying you stopped painting?"
    "I didn't have the energy or the heart to paint. Not often, anyway."
    "You must have resented him for that."
    "Not at all. No."
    "No?" he demanded. "What do you mean, no?"
    She frowned in confusion at his outraged expression. "There were lots of days when I resented life, but never Nigel. I went through the full range of anger and grief, of railing at God, and finally coming to terms with the unfairness of life and injustice of death."
    "Yeah, I know all about those last two."
    "After serving in the Middle East, I imagine you do."
    He studied her. "So you're telling me you gave up your chance to become an artist for this man and you have no regrets?"
    "Regrets? Now those I have plenty, but marrying Nigel isn't one of them. I think we were meant to have that time together. Nigel helped me grow up, and I think I brought a lot of joy into his short life." She cocked her head, studying the man before her, this grown-up version of the boy she'd loved. "What about you? Regrets?"
    "None I care to dwell on."
    "There's a difference between dwelling on and dealing with. So, the question is"—she took a deep breath—"where do we go from here? Can you and I put the past behind us and be friends?"
    "Maddy…" A humorless laugh escaped. "A five-minute conversation doesn't make fifteen years of anger go away. Especially after learning that you