Indelible (6 page)

“It’s a cramp,” she said.

“Drop if you have to.”

No way was she letting go. “I get this when I’m sculpting. It’ll pass.” She reached for a pinch hold and pushed with her left foot. It might be about balance and creativity, but it was also hard work. She pressed the toe of one shoe into a crack and propelled herself to a grip just below the top, then bellied up and over, relief and wonder rushing in. She made it! Who’d have thought?

Looking down, she caught Trevor squarely looking up. A jolt passed through that had nothing to do with rock climbing. His jaw slackened.

Heart rushing, she swallowed. “Please tell me I don’t have to climb down.”

Whit pointed. “There’s a walk-off in the back.”

Natalie turned, shaky as she descended the crevice where the rock met the land behind it. Reaching them, she said, “Wow. That was hard.”

Trevor bent to fold up the mat.

“It’s a good training rock,” Sara said. “Lots of choices.”

“Yeah.” Whit removed the chalk bag. “But flashing your first free ascent without bailing is good stuff.”

“If I flashed anything, it wasn’t intentional.”

He laughed. “It means you made your climb the first time without falling.”

“I was too scared to fall.”

Trevor put his hands together. “You guys hungry?”

The others seemed surprised by his lack of enthusiasm. She wasn’t. That shock of connection required a response. His was obviously to withdraw. He might not know why, but she did. In her exuberance, she’d shown herself. It was one thing to memorize a rock, another altogether to capture him as she had, yet again. His face filled her vision and wouldn’t go away until she exorcized the image.

She thanked Sara for the boxed lunch. The roast beef on rye with horseradish tasted good with potato salad and strawberries, but she ate only half and wrapped the rest. Braden cried, and Sara nursed him while the guys talked schedules and business. She maneuvered the baby upright and coaxed a burp, then praised him. That would change right about the time he turned ten.

A noisy squirrel ran the length of a nearby branch, leaping into the next tree where a big black crow protested. Natalie took in the jagged rocky promontories forming the aged faces of Native American chiefs, proud horses, and even a dragon—all blocked straight on by Trevor’s stunned expression. The need to release it throbbed in her temples.

The splendor and beauty of nature had eased the condition when she was small. If her parents had let the overload continue before she developed coping skills, she might have permanently shut out the world. Now she protected herself by rarely looking directly and constantly changing focus. It made her seem shifty to people who didn’t know, but when she did look, they called it spooky.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“What’s wrong with your eyes? They’re putting holes in me.”

She understood Trevor’s recoil, even as disappointment stung. Her attraction would pass. It wasn’t for the flesh-and-bone man anyway, but
her idealized version. Not fair to expect him to live up to that. His shadow announced his approach. She glanced up to the hands hanging casually on his hips and said, “Are we done?”

“If you are.”

“Sure.” The others must have come only to spot her. That beginning rock she’d conquered would be child’s play to them. Sara could probably do it blindfolded, clutching Braden in one hand. She silently laughed at the thought as they got back into the car. So she wouldn’t be ice climbing Mount Everest. Or seeing Trevor MacDaniel. She could live with that.

Back at the gallery, she thanked them all again, then went inside and mapped the boulder in clay, every crack and bulge, the ones she had used, the ones rejected, the problem she had solved, too easily maybe, not with her body, but with her eyes. From the landscape of the boulder emerged Trevor’s face. Her hands remembered his positioning hers on the rock, the warmth and scent of him. She stepped back, studied her creation, then shoved it all into the sludge bucket.

Round he throws his baleful eyes,
That witnessed huge affliction and dismay,
Mixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate.

T
hough he burned for the encounter, it could not be rushed. There was a purpose larger than he, a reason for his existence that could not be put aside. He must allow for both. The journey serving the end. But how?

He rubbed his chin, pondering. And then it came—prepare the way. Yes! What before was done in secret, he would document and demonstrate, and when the time came, they, each, would know the other. By their deeds, they’d be known. They’d be judged.

He had no newscasters, no TV cameras. His message would be subtle, a whisper, not a shout, a dim reflection of the other’s glow, a moon to his sun, a shadow in his mind.

It required preparation, one thing he lacked especially. Not an obstacle—thieving was as simple as breathing when people left doors and cars unlocked, and even locked he found ways—not greedy, needy. No remorse for the wealthy ones whose insurance bought newer, better. One small loss against his myriad.

That would wait for dark. Until then, his mission called. Silent cries of desperation. They were everywhere, the broken, neglected, hidden among the fortunate. Seeing the one playing alone, he approached. The face tipped up had not yet turned to stone, not abandoned hope. He held out his hand, and it was taken.

Where were the forces arrayed, the avengers, the guardians? He gnashed his teeth. At some point they would wonder. But would it be too late?

Four

A
fter tucking her stick under her arm, Fleur reached for the door, but heard it swing open before she turned the handle. “Ms. Reeve?”

“Natalie, please.” Her voice was warm and young.

“I’m Fleur Destry. We have an appointment?” She indicated the portfolio under her arm that held one loose canvas and photos of the rest.

“You’re the painter.”

“Yes.”

An understandable pause, then, “Thanks for postponing yesterday’s appointment.”

“Sure.” The door swung wider, releasing tones of hammered dulcimer and flute.

“Come in, please.”

Tap. Tap. Stone or ceramic tiles on the floor. The air was freshened with a hint of apple underlaid by juniper. Fresh potpourri, she guessed, although imitation fragrances were hardly discernable from the real thing anymore.

“Bring your portfolio to the table here. The light is good and we can spread out.”

Though covering well, her surprise was still apparent. “You didn’t expect me to be blind.”

“I haven’t known any blind artists.”

“I didn’t tell you on the phone because I want you to see paintings, not a blind person’s paintings.”

“I will, then.”

“I lost my sight when I was fourteen. I see now with my mind’s eye.” She tapped the table leg and reached out to the surface. She laid the portfolio down and opened it. “I set up my palette in a certain order, so I know which colors I’m putting where. It isn’t random.”

“No, I see that. The structure is dynamic.”

“Thank you.” She’d been hoping for something like that. “The other canvases are much larger, but I’m told the color in the photos is accurate.”

“Fleur, these are wonderful. I’d love to represent you in the gallery.”

“Really?” The music changed to a lively jig of tin flute and Celtic fiddle.

“I’ve been overwhelmed with landscape artists, and while some were quite well done, that isn’t what I’m looking for. These will be a striking complement to my sculptures.”

“Would you mind if I examined one?”

“Not at all. Come this way.” After several steps, Natalie stopped her. “The platform is waist high. The sculpture is an arm’s length in front of you.”

Carefully, she reached out and found the cool, smooth, and rough shape. She ran sensitive fingers over it. “What are the colors?”

Natalie described the hues as Fleur’s fingers traveled it once again. “Is it a waterfall with a coil here at the top?”

“Yes. The coil is just whimsy.”

“I like that.”

“Want to see another?” Natalie brought her to one piece after another.

Laughter welled up as she felt the clever renderings, nothing just the way it would be in life. “They’re delightful.”

“You agree your work fits?”

“I do.”

“So let me explain the terms.” Natalie read her simple contract. “I’d have you sign—”

“I can sign. Just place the pen on the line.” By the scratch of the tip, it was a liquid ink pen.

“How did you keep it so straight?”

“The tilt of the paper.”

“You’re amazing.”

“The chief of police wants to make me a detective.”

“You should take him up on it.”

Fleur laughed. “I’d rather paint.”

Natalie watched Fleur Destry leave, once again aware of God’s hand, in that a sightless and a hypersighted artist formed a perfect blend before ever encountering each other’s work. It was there always, if she looked, the presence that said,
See, I told you. All things working together for good
.

Cody’s disability broke her heart, but if a blind woman could paint, who was to say he couldn’t do anything he put his little mind to? She closed her eyes, seeing Fleur as though she stood before her, the long nearly black hair, her soulful, sightless eyes, thin, waiflike features. Another angel in this place of miracles.

She went into her studio. With thumbs and palms and fingers, she transferred Fleur’s face to the clay, a less painful process than the last one. Part of her wished she hadn’t consigned Trevor’s face to the sludge, because the climbing three days ago was the last she’d seen of him. But she’d have been tempted to revisit that stunned moment of connection, and what good would that do?

She gently draped Fleur’s face with a damp cloth and slid the board that held the bust into one of the deep shelves lining the walls. It wouldn’t go into the kiln, but she wasn’t ready to part with it. She hadn’t parted with Trevor’s heroic rescue either. Far too large for a shelf, it stood, likewise draped, in one corner. She left him standing there and went out.

Jonah came up from behind and circled his wife in his arms. “What’s that?” He looked over her shoulder.

“An invitation to the Nature Waits art gallery opening.”

“And we’re invited why?”

“I’m guessing all the city notables received one—Chief.”

“What do I know about art?”

“You don’t have to know anything. But here’s something neat. Fleur’s paintings will be displayed.”

“Fleur’s?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know she paints.”

“I didn’t know she paints.” He nuzzled her collarbone. “How does she paint?”

“How does she do anything she does?” She turned and circled his neck with her arms and kissed him.

“I love coming home.”

“I love you coming home.”

“But I have to go out. I’m addressing the parents at back-to-school night. Want to come?”

“If I never set foot in that school again, it will be too soon.”

“You shouldn’t have been such a rebel.” She opened her mouth to respond, but he kissed it. “Kidding.” He brushed her cheek with his fingers. “You were the star they missed.”