Free Hillary Kanter - Dead Men Are Easy To Love by Hillary Kanter

was time for me to go, Vincent felt I should stay until the storm was over. There were things I wanted to ask, but I feared I would be overstepping my boundaries. I decided to chance it anyway.
    “Do you get along well with your brother, Theo?”
    “Oh yes, I do. Very well. He believes in me, and is so helpful. But I’m afraid I will throw him into poverty, if we don’t sell a painting soon. I’ve already given him most of my pieces, in exchange for paints, canvases, and money for food. Some days I only have a crust of bread and a cup of coffee. The painting supplies are more important to me than food.”
    I was appalled. His passion and his talent moved me, and it was hard to fathom his lack of success. I wished I could tell him how famous his paintings would be one day, but he would think I had gone crazy if I told him I was paying a visit from the future. Yes, that would be one good way to ruin a relationship.
    I had learned from my dating life, and from my shrink, that one should never give away too much in the first few weeks of dating—that you are in therapy, have drug addictions, are missing a body part, or just got out of jail. And this would be far too much information.
    When he asked about my life or New York, I remained vague as a politician and shifted the conversation back to him—which was not difficult. What subject would artists rather talk about than themselves, right?
    By five in the evening, the rain had softened but still not stopped. I made a decision to go buy food and make dinner for him. The poor soul had possibly not eaten for days, and it triggered something nurturing in me, the need to do something about it.
    “Please don’t go, Ariel. This weather is too poor.”
    “I’m going to buy us something to eat, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
    “Then at least let me give you some money. I think I may have a franc still, in my drawer. Let me find it.”
    “No, Vincent. I won’t let you pay.”
    Arriving at the neighborhood market a few blocks away, I realized it was so small—even by New York City standards—that one could barely turn around inside. No such thing as Lean Cuisine or a frozen-foods section. All items were stored in straw baskets.
    I purchased fresh fruit, bread, cheese, wine, butter, and some meat for a stew. I’ve heard the best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but I just hoped—with my poor cooking skills—I would not give him food poisoning.
    As I returned, the storm worsened again, and I saw Vincent waiting anxiously at the window. He threw open the door, glanced from the basket of food to the hair plastered to my cheeks and forehead, then wrapped me in his arms and kissed me.
    It was a deep kiss, a long kiss. And it caught me off guard.
    A shiver of excitement ran through my body.
    “Darling,” he exclaimed, misinterpreting my response, “you will catch your death of cold. We must get you out of those wet clothes.”
    From his bureau, he retrieved a long shirt and some dry socks for my feet. He left the room while I changed.
    I wondered where things were going between me and Vincent. Should I even allow myself to get more involved? I was confused. My head and my heart were doing battle with one another. On one hand, I wanted to get more intimate with him, and on the other, I thought it might be best if I played it safe and returned to the inn after dinner.
    I came out, prepared the stew, and set the table with the rest of the food. He opened the bottle of wine and poured us both a glass.
    “Mmm. It’s been a long time since I had a good burgundy,” he said. “And it’s been months since I had a good dinner like this.”
    I smiled, glad I could do something meaningful for him.
    He ate in a hurry, as if it were his last meal—or maybe the first real one he’d had in a long time. We were well into that bottle, and judging by his loosening tongue, the alcohol had gone to his head. Probably mine as well. He eased over to my chair and hugged