That night as she lay in her bed, wrapped in Joe's arms, a feeling of complete balance and utter happiness filled her body, mind, and spirit. She thought perhaps she'd found a bit of nirvana on earth, but she did have one question.
"Joe?"
His hand slid down her ribs to her hip. "Hmm."
"When did you know you loved me?"
"Probably last month, but I didn't know it for sure until you walked into the Hillard party last night."
"What took so long?"
He was silent a moment, then said, "After I was shot, I had a lot of time on my hands to think, and I decided it was time to start a family. I got this picture in my head of what my wife should be like. She'd like to cook and make sure I have clean socks."
"That's not really me."
"I know. You're who I wanted before I knew what I really wanted."
"I think I understand. I always thought I'd fall in love with a man who would meditate with me."
"That's definitely not me."
"I know. You're who I wanted before I knew what I really wanted." She pulled back and looked up at him. "Do you still think I'm crazy?"
"What I think," he said and gathered her in his arms, "is that I'm crazy in love with you."
Epilogue
Joe walked into Gabrielle's studio and studied the portrait she was painting of Sam. The subject in question hung upside down from his perch, watching her. The bird on the canvas looked more like a partridge than a parrot, and it had a yellow glow around its head that looked like the sun. He knew it was supposed to be Sam's aura, just as he knew better than to give his opinion.
"Are you sure you don't want to paint me naked instead? I'm willing." Sitting for Gabrielle usually turned into a session of taking those soft little brushes and smearing each other with some non-toxic paint she had. It gave him a whole new appreciation for art.
She smiled as she dipped her brush into a blob of bright yellow. "I have a lot of portraits of your Mr. Happy," she said and pointed toward the stack of canvases against the wall. "I want to paint Sam today."
Damn, he'd been usurped by a bird.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall and watched Gabrielle work. They'd been married for three months, and sometimes he'd catch himself just watching her. His mother had been right about that, he could look at her for the rest of his life, whether she was painting, or making her oils, or sleeping. He especially liked to watch her eyes when he made love to her.
In a week they'd celebrate the day she'd juiced him with a can of hair spray. He really wasn't into celebrating made-up anniversaries, and that was one memory that brought a bigger smile to Gabrielle's lips than his, but he'd celebrate to make her happy.
His gaze lowered to her stomach, and he imagined, if he looked hard enough, that he could see the slight rounding of her belly where his baby grew. They figured she'd conceived the night they'd moved into their new home two months ago. Now that had been a celebration.
Sam let out a squawk, then flew from the perch to Joe's shoulder. He puffed out his chest and rocked from one foot to the other.
"You've got to ask yourself one question. Do you feel lucky? Well, do ya-punk?"
Joe gazed at his wife, in her white shirt splattered with paint. Everything he'd ever wanted or would ever need was in this room. He had a beautiful wife he loved so much that it brought an ache to his chest, a baby growing safe and secure in her womb, and a very naughty bird. What more could a guy ask for?
"Yes I do," he said. "I'm one lucky punk."
RACHEL GIBSON
