If You Loved Me (28 page)

Excerpt from

The Colors of Love

by

Vanessa Grant

Chapter 1

Jamie Ferguson grasped the glass in her hand more tightly. "Say that again. How many?"

"We sold eight of your paintings tonight." Liz Havers adjusted the silk scarf that accessorized her gold suit so perfectly, "It's an incredible opening night for an unknown artist."

Behind Liz, a big sign displayed the words:

Introducing Jamila

A Strong Young Northwestern Talent

It was Liz who had suggested she sign her paintings with her exotic given name instead of the more common
Jamie
she normally used, and no surname. Mystery sells paintings, said Liz, and it would do no harm to surround Jamie's image with a tinge of mystery.

The gallery was empty now, but an hour ago it had been swarming with people. One, an art critic for a national newspaper, had told Jamie he expected to see a lot more of her work in the years to come.

"You're off duty now," said Liz gently, taking the glass from Jamie's hands. "Stop nursing this glass—you've been carrying this same glass of champagne around all evening. Go home and get some sleep. When you wake up, start painting. I need twenty-five canvases for your autumn showing."

"My autumn—oh, Liz! I was so scared tonight, it took me three tries to get my lipstick on straight. You're really going to do an autumn showing of my work?"

"At least twenty-five paintings, and I don't want them all at the last minute."

"I'll start tonight," she promised, laughter bubbling. "I can't believe it's really true. When I was a child, I used to walk through your gallery staring at paintings by
real
artists, telling myself it must be the most wonderful thing in the world to have painted them."

"And now you have."

"It's you who encouraged me," Jamie said. "Thank you for telling me my paintings weren't ready the first time I brought them to the gallery, for making me work harder."

Behind Liz, Jamie could see the painted outline of a young woman standing on a wooden float, waving to a departing fishing boat.
Leavetaking
was only one of the canvases that now sported a small red tag in one corner. She felt a sharp pain at the knowledge that she might never see the painting again.

"I'll get a check ready for you," said Liz. "Come in Monday and pick it up."

"I'm working Monday."

Liz shook her head sharply. "Not here, you're not. You'll need all your time to get ready for the autumn showing. You're a professional painter now, Jamie. You won't need to work in the gallery to make ends meet."

* * *

Jamie welcomed the rain on her face and the smell of wet pavement in her nostrils as she stepped onto the sidewalk outside Northern Images. Faintly, she could hear music from a nearby nightclub. Across the street, a man hurried past a darkened bookstore, hat pulled down, shoulders hunched protectively while Second Avenue threw back broken reflections from the streetlamp.

Rainy Night,
she thought. She'd wash the canvas with pale gray, then build up the dark pavement, shades of gray sidewalk and buildings, tones of rain picked up in the creases of the man's trench coat. No face, only a gray shape moving through the wet night. She'd prep the canvas tonight and do a preliminary sketch, something for her muse to work on while she slept.

Rain sparkled on her face as she stepped onto the pavement. The man in the painting would wear a hat, rain beading on its surface.

She rummaged for keys, grasped them in one hand. If she wanted, she could buy a new car.

No, she would not waste all that money on a
new
car when her eleven-year-old green hatchback was still reliable. She'd splurge on a tune-up and new tires. Then she'd be able to buy the new easel she wanted and pay off her student loans. She'd stash the rest of the money in term deposits to tide her through until the autumn showing, in case Liz couldn't sell another Jamila painting until then.

Her car started on the second try, its engine sputtering before it settled into a quiet purr. Perhaps she should paint the man without his hat, rain beading on his hair and—No, she wanted the rain to blanket him with anonymity, a mythical figure in raincoat and hat, an impression of a warm fire somewhere, his woman waiting to greet him at home with a smile.

Jamie pushed the car into gear and made a U-turn on the empty street. Eight paintings sold for outrageous prices, her own successful first showing. Difficult to believe she'd stood in Liz's gallery for three hours tonight, a glass in her hand, lean green slacks on her legs under the colorful four-hundred-dollar shirt Liz had insisted she buy. The shirt wasn't a smock, and it wasn't a jacket, but it wasn't a blouse either. Jamie hadn't argued about buying it because she'd seen Liz groom other artists; she knew her mentor's skill in creating an artist's public image. And the colors were marvelous, shades of green and red swirled together so cleverly that when Jamie saw herself in the mirror, she actually
looked
like a successful artist.

She'd never sleep tonight.

God, she loved these crazy Seattle streets that ran along the hillside, the frequent intersections with steep cross-streets. Tonight, every time she looked down one of those streets, she found herself searching for men in raincoats, wanting to glimpse another hunched-over shape.

Once she had the wash on the canvas, perhaps she'd go outside and walk, although it was already past midnight.

Impulsively, she turned off toward Magnolia Bluff.

She drove deeper into the peaceful, hilly residential area of Magnolia, enjoying the rain-swept emptiness of the streets. In daylight she would see a beautiful ocean view, but it was after midnight now and she saw only parked cars and lights streaming from house and apartment windows, diffusing the feeling of isolation.

As Jamie braked for a stop sign, something seemed to move on the street ahead. She started out slowly, eyes narrowed, searching for a rain-drenched pedestrian, or an animal.

Nothing, just the rain pounding as the heavens opened wider. The sidewalk ahead was empty, none of the cars showing taillights. Perhaps she'd seen a leaf, wind driven, tumbling across the road. The night was turning nasty, rain driven now by a twisting wind. A gust buffeted the side of her car as big wet spots splattered on her windshield. She switched the wipers to high speed and leaned forward to peer through the pounding rain.

Something moved behind one of the cars on her right, a flash of something dark, the shifting of shadow on shadow.

Jamie braked although she couldn't really
see
anything. Something
had
moved, something...

Nothing. Jamie eased off on the brake.

A dark shape flew out between two cars, then a flash of white as Jamie braked hard, her tires protesting on the pavement.

She felt a thump.

Oh, God! She'd hit something. A dog?

She threw the driver's door open and scrambled around the front of her car, squinting against the brilliance of her own headlights.

A child.

Oh, God, no! A child lying on the road, only inches from Jamie's front wheel. Jamie fell to her knees beside a little girl, dark hair, white face.

She mustn't move the child, she knew that much.
Why
had she never taken first aid? She needed to put on her four-way flashers, call for an ambulance, but the child was lying in the rain, eyes closed. Was she breathing? How could Jamie tell in the rain, with—

The girl's eyes opened, dark eyes.

"Lie very still," said Jamie, her voice hoarse as she placed one hand carefully on the girl's chest. She could be hurt anywhere, and Jamie had no way of knowing. Broken bones, internal damage. "Stay still," she repeated urgently. "I'm going to get help."

The child squirmed under Jamie's hand.

"Where's Squiggles?" Her voice was thin, urgent. "I have to find Squiggles."

* * *

"Can you make the infection go away?" worried nine-year-old Timothy Wesley.

"We'll nuke it," promised Dr. Alexander Kent. "You'll sleep here in the hospital tonight to be sure we've blasted that infection into space, and by Monday you'll be back in school."

"I'll still be able to hear?" As Timmy asked the question, Alex saw the boy's mother flinch.

"I've had a good look at the graft on your eardrum, Timmy. It's healing wonderfully." Alex saw Timmy's mother, Teresa Wesley, relax at the news, too. "You did the right thing, telling your mom immediately when you got the earache." He looked up at the sound of rubber-soled shoes. "Here's Nurse Stanley. Roll over and we'll blast that infection."

Timmy giggled and rolled over.

"Thank you, Dr. Kent," said Teresa. She gestured to Alex's formal jacket and bow tie. "I'm sorry we ruined your evening. You were out."

"A charity benefit. It's no problem." He'd escorted Diana Thurston to the benefit, and she'd smiled her understanding when his beeper sounded, nodded when he said he'd try to return in time to drive her home.

"Go back to your party," said Teresa. "Have a good time."

"I will, and don't worry. Timmy's fine."

As Alex left the examining room, Nurse Stanley murmured, "Dr. Kent, can you take a look at another peds patient? Pedestrian struck by a car. Six or seven-year-old girl. Conscious. Crying. No visible injuries. She was brought in by the driver."

"Name?" asked Alex. What was a little kid doing out on the street this late?

"Unknown. We can't get her to stop crying."

Alex could already hear the child's sobs.

As he stepped into the examining area, a flash of color caught his eye. A woman, young, a riot of curling red hair spilling over her outrageously brilliant shirt. Alex pulled his eyes away from the woman and focused on the child, who was struggling against the nurse attempting to take her blood pressure.

"Let me—lemme go! Please don't—I need—gotta get Wiggles!"

"Hello," said Alex in a low voice, resting his hand lightly on the child's shoulder. "Can you tell me about Wiggles?"

The girl's sob caught in a hiccup and she stared at Alex. On the other side of the bed, the flamboyant woman's hands clenched together, as if only the grip of her fingers kept her motionless.

"I'm Dr. Kent," Alex told the child, forcing his attention away from the woman's green eyes. Red hair and green eyes; even without the bright clothes, she was as inappropriate as a rock band in a nursery. "Tell me about the wiggles."

"Sq-squiggles," corrected the child, her voice ragged from tears.

"Squiggles," he agreed as his fingers found the fast, strong pulse in her wrist. "Tell me about Squiggles."

"He's orange an' he squiggles away all the time. That's why I call him Squiggles. Daddy says I shouldn't name him anything, 'cause he can't stay."

"Squiggles is your pet?" Alex signaled the nurse to try the blood pressure now. "Tell me, do you hurt anywhere?"

"Just a little kitty," said the child, not seeming to notice the blood pressure cuff as the nurse fastened it firmly.

"Your kitten's name is Squiggles? What's
your
name?"

"Sara, an' Squiggles is all alone in the rain. If he gets wet, he'll get 'monia and die."

"Don't worry," said a low, melodious voice. "I'll find Squiggles."

Alex's head jerked up. The woman's wild red hair seemed to fill the room. Her lips, moving now, looked incredibly soft as she said, "I'll find the kitten for you, Sara."

Alex felt the child's jerk of hope.

"Promise?" she breathed.

"I promise," said the woman. Alex saw her eyes, green and sincere, and felt a jolt of anger. This was not a woman to search for a lost kitten in the rain. False sincerity, empty promises. Damn her.

"You're the driver?" he demanded of her eyes. "Not a relative? Do you know who her parents are?"

"No, I've never—"

"How did you hit her?"