Authors: Sydney Allan
But would it be? Was forgiveness that simple?
She had an idea of how to test whether it was. Moments later, Faith stood at the kitchen counter and filled her pallet with dollops of color, anxious to see what would happen. Unpacking, eating, sleeping, they could all wait until later. She had to know.
The familiar, comforting scent of the oils brought back memories of countless hours spent at her easel pouring her soul onto the canvas and changing it from a sterile, lifeless surface to a vibrant entity that breathed and spoke. Her pallet in one hand, her brush in the other, she walked to her easel. The white gesso on the canvas glared at her, taunting her as she reluctantly touched the surface with a fingertip. It was ready for her.
But could she paint again? Had the block finally lifted? Her heart drummed in her chest, and as butterflies danced low in her belly, she dipped her brush into the first color.
What picture called to her now? What images stirred in her mind, plead with her to be released?
She waited, almost afraid to breathe. It had been this way for years. Nothing spoke to her. No colors or shapes or images. Only blank white space. "Please let it stop today. Please," she whispered into the silence.
And then the magic began. In answer to her plea, a swirl of colors formed in her mind. An image flashed brightly as though a floodlight had illuminated it. She lifted her brush, sodden with a pale peach and made the first stroke, and then another, and another, until the form of a face appeared. First an outline, and then the brilliant blue of her eyes. Raphaela?
A thickness of deep black, slashed with blue, haloed her face, and soft shadows carved her cheekbones. Her eyes spoke of wisdom and life and joy, and Faith smiled as she lifted a fine brush to add flecks of gold.
She had done it! Faced her fear, faced her mother. Slain another dragon.
Only one more left.
And that dragon crept closer every day, and Faith's panic rose, despite how busy she was. By the Monday before the opening, she'd produced four new paintings, each one more striking than the last. Her art had a new feel to it, an energy and depth her earlier work hadn't possessed. She couldn't wait to see how it did at the gallery.
More importantly, she couldn't wait to see Garret again. Talking to him every night hadn't been the same. She missed him so much her belly ached. It felt as though a piece of her was missing, and she wouldn't be right until it was back in place. She needed to talk to him. No matter what happened at the opening, she knew her future had to include him.
The morning of the opening, Faith's hands shook and her stomach lurched and churned. She dressed and swallowed bottles of antacid to ease the pain, the whole time wishing Garret was there with her. After a trip to the bathroom to empty her stomach, she lifted her shaking hand to her forehead and stared at her pale reflection in the mirror. "I can't do this."
But no sooner were the words out of her mouth than she was silently chastising herself. This was what she'd waited decades for. She couldn't back down now, couldn't let her fears hinder her again. She drew in several slow, steady breaths, which returned the color to her cheeks and lips, then reapplied her make up, slid into her winter coat and took the ancient freight elevator to the ground floor.
As soon as she stepped outside, she saw the crowd of cars turning into the gallery's drive at the end of the street. Hordes of people milled about outside, and a line of limousines carried more up the u-shaped drive and dropped them at the three-story, brick building's front door.
Here she was, the star of the show, stomping through the slush as she lumbered down the sidewalk, wearing a plain black coat buttoned against the cold air. Underneath, she wore a simple knee-length dress--no glittery diamonds to catch the light of the cast iron street lamps and silver full moon, and no one at her side as she approached the building. When a woman, buried in a full-length sable coat, eyed her with suspicion, clearly thinking she didn't belong, Faith wanted to turn tail and run. This wasn't her world, this strange land of culture, politics, and power.
Her world was back in Kent, with a psychiatrist and a little girl. She searched the staring faces of the crowd as she walked up to the front door. Where was Garret? They'd talked last night. He'd promised to be at the front door, waiting for her. Had something gone wrong?
"Looking for me?" he asked behind her, the sound of his voice sending heat up her back, and her heart into her throat.
She spun around and threw herself into his open arms. The warmth of his body and love seeped through the chill that had enveloped her the past six weeks, and she fought the urge to cry.
When she didn't speak, he said, "Glad to see you still remember who I am."
"How could I forget? You're all I've thought about for the past six weeks." She looked up, her gaze meeting his.
His lips trembled as he smiled. "And you're all I've thought about, too." He leaned down and kissed her softly, a simple brush of his mouth against hers. Then he studied her face. "Are you okay?"
She nodded. " I’m now. I'm scared to death, but you're here, and that's all that matters."
Garret took her hand, kissing each fingertip. "What are you so scared of?"
It was hard to concentrate as she watched him. His head was tipped down, but his eyes were riveted to hers. Six weeks had seemed like a lifetime, not seeing that lusty look. Six weeks of not hearing his voice or feeling his hands on her.
Her mind wandered back to his question. "I'm scared of them laughing at me--staring at my paintings and whispering to each other that they're no better than a child's work. I'm scared of learning I've just been fooling myself."
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment, and she began to wonder what he was thinking. She thought she'd become adept at reading him, but now he was an enigma.
"What are you thinking?" she asked after a moment.
"I'm thinking you've forgotten why you paint."
His answer surprised her, but she couldn't deny its truth.
He continued, "When did your artwork give you the greatest joy?"
"When I saw Ella's face as she looked at the ballerina painting." She smiled, understanding what he was driving at. "It's not about critics, or my mother, or them--the powers that be."
"I know you never believed it was." He lifted his hand to her face and cupped her cheek. "Just remember. No matter what, you aren't alone. I'm here."
"I'm so grateful. I'll never be able to show you how much I love or appreciate you. Not in a lifetime."
"In a lifetime," he repeated, smiling. Before she could ask him why that was so amusing, he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the entry. "If we don't get in there now, you'll be late for your own opening."
"There she is!" Patricia proclaimed as Faith stepped through the door. Immediately, the strobe light paparazzi camera flashes struck Faith blind. Frozen in place like a doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming car, she struggled to make out the faces of the crowd gathering around her. Heat sent beads of sweat all over her face.
A gentle tug at the shoulders of her coat awakened her, and she let Garret slip her coat from her, and then forced a smile. Finally, her mother stepped through the wall of people and offered her hand.
"This woman, I’m proud to say, is my daughter. The talented artist whose work graces these walls." Then Patricia gave her a chilly hug and kiss on each cheek. Faith wanted to cringe. Her mother's affection was so void of emotion, yet her face beamed. What did she really feel, Faith wondered.
As Patricia took a step forward to stand next to her, one arm slipped around her waist, the photographers snapped more pictures. It seemed they would never run out of film, and Faith wondered how many shots of two women standing side-by-side they would need, but after an excruciating amount of time, they finally lost interest and wandered off one-by-one. Faith turned to see where Garret was, frustrated by Patricia's insistent tug each time she'd tried to look earlier. He stood behind her, leaning against a column and grinning.
"They love you!" Patricia whispered in her ear. "Your paintings are selling like hotcakes. We're going to have to talk about some future shows."
Faith nodded, hardly able to register what her mother said. "Excuse me." And she walked away from her visibly surprised mother, intent upon only one thing. "What is so funny?" she asked Garret.
"Funny? Nothing." He answered, still leaning against the column, his arms folded over his chest. You look like you're standing barefoot on hot coals."
"I feel like I'm standing barefoot on hot coals." She glanced around. There were all kinds of people there. Men in suits, and casual slacks and sweaters, ladies in dresses of varying length, some formal, some not so formal, business suits, jeans. "What a hodgepodge, eh?" When he didn't answer, she asked, "How is Ella doing?"
"She's doing great. Frankie's not you, but she's an excellent therapist."
"Good," Faith said, wondering why she felt so strange with him all of a sudden. She'd spent the past month and a half waiting for this moment, anxious to have him near her again, smile at her, hold her hand. But now that he was there, she felt tongue-tied and self-conscious. She laughed when his expression changed from mirthful to pained. "What's wrong?"
He nodded straight ahead. "What the hell is he doing here?"
"He? Who?" She looked in the direction Garret indicated. Steven smiled at her and took hasty strides across the crowded room toward them. "Should I call security? There are so many people here. What could he do?"
Garret shook his head.
"Faith LeFeuvre!" Steven said as he approached them. He nodded a greeting toward Garret, but Garret didn't return it. Seemingly undaunted, he returned his gaze to Faith. "I can't believe you finally overcame that painting thing."
"What are you doing here?" she asked, crossing her arms over herself.
"I read the press release. Had to come."
"Okay," she said, feeling Garret's rigid form next to her. "Now leave. In case you haven't noticed, I've moved on with my life. I don't need you causing trouble--"
"Moved on? So have I," Steven said before she had a chance to finish. His gaze traveled to Garret and then returned to Faith. "And if it makes you feel any better, I apologize for what happened at Mountain Rise. I was out of control. A complete ass."
"Yes. You were." Faith spied a willowy woman walking toward them. Like a model. Her face, for a woman's, was all sharp angles, her clothes sleek and black. She held a press camera in her hands.
"Steven, I have all the shots we need," the woman said stepping up behind him, before acknowledging Faith with a smile. "Miss LeFeuvre. Wonderful show. She glanced at Steven clearly waiting for a formal introduction.
"Faith LeFeuvre," Steven complied, "this is Constance Forester, my coworker."
Constance grimaced at Steven. "Coworker? She looked at Faith. "I'm his boss and his fiancée." She offered her hand to Faith.
"Really?" Faith asked, shaking her right hand while glancing at her left. Sure enough, a huge rock glittered on the woman's ring finger as she shifted the camera in her hand. "Congratulations." Her gaze leapt to Steven, who smiled wickedly.
Faith knew that look. Constance was more than his fiancée. The king of users had found a new target.
Constance smiled at Steven, lifting the camera. "Now that we've met the star of the show, it's time to get this back to the lab. If we're going to sell these shots to Art World, we need to be the first ones there." She looked at Faith. "By the way, now that we have you here, can I get one final picture?"
"Sure," Faith said, taking Garret's hand and leading him to the red brick wall with the painting of Raphaela hanging on it. She leaned into him as she assumed her pose. "If it's not too much to ask, I'd like a copy."
"Fair enough," Constance said as she lifted the camera. "Now, if I use this, who is the gentleman standing with you?" she asked, taking the picture then handing her camera to Steven, who'd followed them.
"This is Dr. Garret Damiani. My…"
Several other press people gathered around, snapping pictures. Faith looked over her shoulder at Garret, who stood angled behind her, her back pressed against his length, his arm resting on her shoulder. What the hell could she say? They weren't engaged, weren't married. Her boyfriend? No. That sounded too juvenile. "My dear friend," she finished. Garret tipped his head down and smiled in return.
Steven slipped the camera into a case hanging from a strap and waved a farewell.
Constance thanked them for the picture, then took Steven by the hand and led him toward the door. He trailed behind her like a puppy, a beaming grin like none Faith had ever seen lighting his face.
"Fiancée." Faith watched them leave, amazed Steven had chosen a woman like Constance Forester as his next victim. No doubt, he'd met his match. She wouldn't be an easy target. His boss. A woman who could tell him what to do. A powerful woman.
When the press had their questions answered and had taken their photographs, Faith said, "If I hadn't seen Steven act like that with my own eyes, I'd never believe it."