Ivy Secrets (60 page)

“Jamie? Hello, this is Kent. From next door?”

“Yes, hi. How are you?” She shifted from one foot to the other, impatient already.

“I’m great. And I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse. My friend’s got three tickets to the opening tonight at Lupercine. It’s their photography show. Great stuff! So you’re coming with us. Be ready in an hour.”

Jamie shook her head. “I can’t. Thank you but—”

“No ifs, ands, or buts. You’ll love it, and you can’t play the hermit forever. Say yes.”

“No, I really can’t. I’m in the middle of painting and I don’t want to stop. But it was very nice of you to think of me. I appreciate it.”

“Sure. You know what? I’ll just slip the extra ticket under your door. Use it if you can. Bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Jamie stared at the receiver for a moment, then set it down, frowning. She had been painting all morning and afternoon, caught in the same trancelike state as the night before, and this interruption annoyed her. The last
thing she needed was some enamored neighbor lurking at her door. As if she was anticipating his unwelcome appearance in that very spot, her gaze swept the room.

She gasped, her eyes flying wide.

Across the room, her canvas looked gorgeous, vibrant, alive with a shimmering light that seemed to come from within it, from the paint itself. She stood dumbfounded, transfixed.
That
was the light she’d imagined, the light she’d seen before only in her dreams. There … there in
her
painting!

Unaware of her own movement, she took one step closer. Maybe it was only a trick of light coming in through the windows, some crazy mix of smog and sun. Maybe she was dreaming it now. She rubbed her eyes, getting paint in her hair and on her forehead, but she didn’t feel a thing. The light remained. A beautiful light, a perfect light …

But a
landscape.

On the canvas, unforeseen and unplanned, a scene was taking shape: a sweep of hills, trees, a building of some kind hinted at by sharp, dark strokes of umber. It seemed barely hidden beneath her usual abstract style. The brush strokes were hers, as familiar as her own signature. The colors were hers, her characteristic
overlay of thin layers of bright hues. But … a landscape?

She hadn’t painted a landscape since her first formal art class when her father had walked into the studio, glanced over her shoulder, and passed judgment: “Well, you don’t have much of an aptitude for that technique, do you?”

That had hurt. It still did. So she certainly had no intention of painting a landscape now … or ever.

But is it possible to paint something you don’t even know you’re painting? she wondered. Goose bumps rose on her arms.

She approached the easel warily. She drew a deep breath.

Biting nervously at her lower lip, she reached for the brush. But suddenly it felt cold and dead in her hand and her hand was shaking. It took all her energy just to screw the caps on the tubes of paint and to clean her brushes. And soon the loft would be dark.

Maybe she
should
go out for a little while. A bath first, a bite to eat, and then the opening. Suddenly it seemed like exactly the right thing to do. Hurrying into the bathroom, she ran the water good and hot, added some bath salts, and then sank through the cool bubbles into the heat and comfort with a sigh. Closing
her eyes, she kept her mind carefully empty. No thoughts. No fears. No dreams. Nothing.

So she was completely unaware of what was about to begin … or had already begun.