The Wood Wife by Terri Windling (the false prince TXT) 📕

themselves. Juan hadn’t been off the mountain in weeks. A night on the town would do them good—and their marriage good as well.

The barrio bar where Fox played tonight used to be one of their favorite haunts, just down the street from the little house they’d rented when they first got to Tucson. The music would be loud, the beer would be cold; she wanted to dance until the place closed down. “What do you think, Bandido?” she asked, attempting a Cajun two-step, the move made awkward by the piles of clothes, books and lumber underfoot. “How do you think I look, old boy?” The dog yawned hugely, rolled over on his back and closed his eyes, ignoring her.

The light was still on in Juan’s studio. She checked her watch. They ought to leave soon. She left the house, whistling Zydeco tunes as she crossed the stable yard. “Juan?” she said, pushing open the door.

He sat on a stool in front of his easel, his dark hair paint-streaked and tousled, sticking up in an endearing way.

“Juan?” she said again, smiling. “It’s eight o’clock. Hello, Mr. del Rio? Anyone home?”

He pulled his eyes away from the canvas with effort, and focused on her. “Dora,” he said, naming her. Looking dazed. “What is it? What’s wrong? What do you want?”

“Nothing’s wrong, love. It’s just getting on time to go to the Hole, or we’ll miss the first set. Are you going to want to clean up first? Mind you, I think the dishevelled-painter look is rather sexy,” she added as she came up behind him and put her arms around his waist. “Eau de Turpentine. My favorite.” She kissed him behind one ear.

He sat stiffly in her embrace, still looking at his work. The canvas had dark shapes blocked out, images slowly emerging from the paint. He moved away from her and took off his glasses, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Oh lord, Dora. Sorry. I forgot.”

She shrugged, wounded, but she gave him a bright smile. “That’s all right. We still have time to get there. Let’s take your jeep, okay?”

He lowered his hands and looked at her. “I’ve just gotten going with this,” he explained, “and I can’t really leave it now. Oil paint dries too damn fast out here in the desert—I need to work while it’s still wet.” He put on his work glasses again. “I’ll tell you what, we’ll go out tomorrow night instead. I promise.”

Dora swallowed. “I’m at the hotel tomorrow night. And it’s tonight that Fox is playing. Juan, we made these plans days ago. We never go out anymore.”

He gave a short, explosive sigh, and paced over to his worktable. He picked up a paint-soaked rag and a clean bristle brush, and he turned to face her. “Dora. Honey,” he said to her with a visible attempt at patience, “I’m in the middle of my work. We can always go out another night but this … this is important to me. And this isn’t going to wait.”

She took a deep breath, and conceded, “Yes, of course. I know your work is important.” And not me, she added silently. Then she winced at the petty sound of that. Disappointment was a stone she swallowed, lodged inside her throat.

“That’s my girl. I knew you’d understand.” He smiled as he stepped back to the canvas, patting her shoulder as he passed. Exactly the way he patted Bandido or the cats. Absently. Dismissing her.

The gesture undid her. “Actually, Juan,” she said more sharply, “I don’t understand. I don’t see why this is more important than a promise you’ve made to your wife.”

He shot her a puzzled look. “Come on, you’re being melodramatic. It’s only one night out, after all. We’ll do it again. We’ll go dancing next weekend.” She stared at him stonily. He sighed again. “Look, I’m right in the middle of things here, so if you really need to argue about this, we’re just going to have to do it later.” He turned decisively back to the canvas, adding rusty color on the left side of it with wide, cross-hatching strokes.

“We need to talk about this, Juan,” she persisted, stepping toward him. “It’s not just tonight. It’s too many nights of broken promises, all adding up. It’s you sleeping on the sofa now. It’s the fact that you won’t even talk to me anymore—goddamn it, put the brushes down and talk to me for once.”

He shook off the hand she had put on his arm. “This is not a good time for a therapy session. I need to capture this image while it’s fresh—and if you keep on like this, I’m going to lose it.” He ran his paint-stained fingers through his hair, looking harried. “Why are you doing this now? Why does this have to be a big deal? We can talk about it later, all right? We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

“No, we won’t,” she said quietly, close to tears. “You won’t want to talk tomorrow either.”

He turned on her then, anger in his eyes. “Don’t play the martyr here, Dora. It’s not attractive. It doesn’t work on me.” Juan stabbed the brush into the paint on the palette. “You married a painter, you want me to be good. You’re always on at me about bringing in more money—so for god’s sake, let me do my job.”

She paled and backed off. “All right,” she said. Her voice was high and tremulous. Exasperation crossed his face.

“Oh for heaven’s sake, don’t start crying now. Why is everything such a drama with you these days? If you wanted a man who worked nine-to-five, you should have married a banker, not me. You know I can’t predict when a painting is going to happen. Why is this such a problem all of a sudden?”

Dora took another steadying breath. She wasn’t going to cry. She wasn’t going to stand there like a fool. “I’m still going out tonight,” she told him. “Even if you’re not coming. I