Judgement By Fire (8 page)

Then the phone
shrilled again, causing her heart to thump wildly until, as the machine
answered, Lauren heard Paul’s familiar voice.

“Lauren, I
know you’re in there. Turn this infernal machine off and talk to me!” 

With a grin of
relief, Lauren went to pick up the receiver, at the same time chiding herself
for having a too-vivid imagination.

“Lauren, I’m
so sorry I didn’t call last night, but it got so late,” Paul told her
apologetically, aware that she would have been worried about Lucy. “The doctors
say it’s nothing new, just exhaustion. Old Dr. Miller went ballistic when he
heard she’d been at the protest rally. He gave her absolute hell.”

            “And I bet she paid
lots of attention, and has turned over a new leaf now,” Lauren replied dryly,
relief giving humor to her words.

            “Well, you know Lucy,
always a good patient,” Paul replied with a chuckle. “They’re keeping her in
for a few days’ enforced rest, but I think it’s going to be a close thing as to
who drives who insane first—Lucy or the nursing staff!”

“My money’s on
Lucy! The staff doesn’t stand a chance! In that case, I’ll drop over to the
hospital this morning. That will take off some of the heat for a while,” Lauren
said, doing some rapid calculations of time-and-motion, remembering the traffic
jams on weekdays and silently kissing her working morning goodbye.

“I hear old
Chief Ohmer is pretty peeved with everyone, going around giving us all the
beady-eyed stare,” Paul chuckled, then his voice grew serious as he added: “But
I really never thought things would turn so nasty. We still aren’t really sure
what happened. Lucy remembers everything going into a swirling purple haze and
then reaching out to grab hold of you in a panic, but that’s all.

“Honestly,
Lauren, when I saw her lying there…I suppose, really, I should thank Jon Rush
for getting her, and you, out from that mess before either of you were really
injured. Although I understand the poor man got clobbered over the head for his
efforts! You always did have a nasty temper, Lauren!”

“Paul! I am so
tired of explaining to people that it was an accident—as it quite obviously
was.”

“Okay, okay,
kiddo, I believe you. So you’ll call around and see Lucy later?”

Assuring him
that she intended to visit the hospital during the early part of the morning,
Lauren said goodbye to Paul and went to get on with her morning routine. Before
she could decide where to start the phone shrilled again.

This time it
was Alex Waters, artists’ agent and owner of the Waters Gallery near Curve
Lake, a more populated area some miles south-west of West River. Besides being
Lauren’s agent and chief fan, Alex had also become a good friend over the last
few years.

This time,
however, as organizer of Lauren’s important first full solo exhibition in
Toronto, Alex was wearing his agent’s hat as he chided her.

 “Well, well,
my dear, I hope you’re working hard. I suppose I needn’t mention that the
deadline is fast approaching?”

Lauren’s heart
sank to the soles of her wool-encased feet. Unreliability, thought by many of
the uninitiated to be a trait of the typical artist, was anathema to exhibition
organizers and gallery owners. It was also death to the career of an offending
artist, and Lauren wanted to succeed with this show so much she could taste it.

“Alex, I’m
sorry. I should have called you. You know everything has been so hectic, I
don’t know if you’ve heard of the campaign up here.”

“Heard of it?
Darling, it’s legendary! And such wonderful publicity, too. A picture tells a
thousand words, they say…But you’ve got to deliver the goods, regardless. Now I
can possibly squeeze a couple of days out of the schedule since you’ve been
such a good girl in getting so much attention and publicity. No more than that,
though. I don’t think an exclusive gallery like the Harrison will be happy
about hanging still-wet works while the guests are mingling!”

“Alex, this is
not a publicity stunt! What do you mean a picture tells a thousand words? I’m
not using the ABC campaign as the basis to promote the show.”

“Don’t be
obtuse, sweetheart!  Of course I know your heart’s in the campaign! Just
remember that your next paycheck is in your sales!
Comprenez
? Bye-bye!”

Sighing with
frustration, Lauren put the phone down. Alex was a dear friend, and she’d often
had dinner with him and his partner, Pat Allen, in the luxurious flat above
their Gallery with its panoramic views of Curve Lake and the reservation lands
around it. Gentle and hospitable, Alex could be a total slave driver when it
came to his protégées. The more talent he thought an artist had, the harder he
drove her.

Lauren knew
that it was a compliment that he was driving her so hard but it was becoming
excruciating. Not to mention the disturbed sleep and increasing level of stress
stemming from those hang-ups on her answering machine.

Glancing at
her watch, she smiled to herself as she filled the coffee maker. If she
hurried, there would just be time.

 Quickly she
tidied her work area while the coffee machine dripped, laying out paints,
replacing empty tubes of acrylics and oils, taking brushes from cleaning
solvent and wiping them dry. Other brushes, the ones she used for acrylics,
were ready and waiting, clean in the old-fashioned milk jug that held them
together near the easel.

Everything was
ready now for her dive right in to work once she got home from visiting Lucy at
the hospital.
No excuses for procrastination—to the easel the minute she
walked in the door,
she promised herself.

That left
enough time for a little treat. Feeling light-hearted in a way she refused to
try to explain to herself, she pulled on her parka, slid her feet into boots,
and poured two huge cups of coffee. Stuffing two cereal bars into her pocket,
she made her way out through her back door, across the small porch, and into
the woods.

She wasn’t
disappointed. Jon Rush was just packing the last of his gear into the back of
the Jeep when she came into the clearing, and her heart raced as she saw his
face glow with pleasure at the sight of her.

“Thought the
least I could do was bring over a hot coffee to a neighbor,” Lauren smiled,
offering him one of the mugs. “And voila! Breakfast!” she added dramatically,
producing one of the cereal bars with a flourish.

He took both
gratefully, and his dark eyes held a deep look which made her pulses pound
fiercely in a way which had nothing at all to do with the impromptu breakfast.
She found she had to look away for fear of betraying her own desires.

He was wearing
a flannel shirt beneath a thick Aran style sweater in a natural color, which
accentuated his own blondness and highlighted the dark blue of his eyes. Old
jeans, soft with age and wear, stretched tight over a neat butt and strong
thighs as he reached down to lift a sports bag and stow it in the back of the
vehicle along with his camping equipment.

Lauren stood
watching, her artist’s eye taking in form and color as though she wished to
store it away forever. His voice startled her as, coffee in hand; he closed the
rear door and turned to her.

“So, the truce
still holds?” His voice was deep and mellow, flowing over the snow-scattered
landscape like maple syrup.

Lauren had
many times watched maple toffee made at festivals, the hot syrup dripped over
snow, cooling almost instantly to a thick, sweet toffee consistency snatched up
and devoured by gleeful children. She’d snatched up her own fair share, too, and
now she found herself wondering if that warm, sexy voice would leave the same
sweet taste on her lips. She fought down a wicked desire to stand on tiptoe and
raise her mouth to his to find out.

Then he was
smiling at her and she felt a slow flush rise to her cheeks from her neck as
she saw in his look that he’d read something of her thoughts and shared them.
Momentarily they stood, frozen in ice-fire in the forest, their faces inches
away from each other, lips parted, eyes locked. With a great effort, Lauren broke
away, reaching out to take his now empty cup and berating herself for her
treacherous thoughts.

But as their
fingers touched, the feeling caught again and Jon, looking bemused, bent his
head to capture her lips with a heat so brief like the touch of sunlight
through dappled clouds, caught and lost again like quicksilver.

“No, the truce
is over,” she heard herself saying, trying to match his light-hearted mood, but
struggling with a heartbeat gone into overdrive. “I really think it’s time for
us all to get back to our real lives. There’s really nothing more to be said.”

Lauren tried
for a note of finality. Coming out here like this had been a mistake, fuelled
by an overwhelming desire to see him once more in this rarefied space before
the reality of their individual lives came crashing in again on them both. As
she turned to go, she heard him speak softly and her knees felt suddenly weak.

“No, Lauren,
you’re wrong. We have lots to say—when the time is right.”

She turned
back towards him, wanting to tell him that they were too different and that any
further interaction was pointless. Before she could speak, Jon slipped lithely
into the driver’s seat and, with a brief salute of his hand towards her, he
turned the keys and set the gear lever. The powerful engine roared to life and
the big vehicle moved slowly along the dirt trail through the brush, leaving
Lauren once more watching its disappearing red taillights.

Shaking her
head, wondering at the sense of loss that made her shiver, Lauren trudged back
towards her cottage.  A glance at the big schoolhouse clock over the kitchen
door told her that she had better take her own advice and get back to the real
world.

She quickly
slipped into smooth black woolen dress pants and a deep forest green sweater that
accentuated the red highlights of her hair and skimmed lovingly downwards over
her full breasts.

 Lauren
applied a scant amount of lipstick and mascara, grabbed a black woolen blazer
from the closet, slipped her feet into black low-heeled dress boots and headed
for the door. She just had time to visit Lucy at the hospital, snatch a bite to
eat, and return home to put in a full afternoon’s work. Then, with luck and no
further interruptions, she’d have the final piece for the exhibit completed and
ready for shipping the next day.

Alex was
organizing framing and hanging at the Harrison gallery, so she’d have little to
do after that but swan around on the big night, dressed up to the gills and
making nice to the customers.

Little, that
is, except spend a day in the city adding final touches to limited edition
prints and signing them, as well as a couple of hours caged in her accountant’s
office going over the business plan Alex insisted she develop in order not to
wind up a penniless artist starving in a garret.

And then there
was all the work still to be put in the Art Before Commerce committee. Lauren
sighed and turned her thoughts to color and technique for completing her bobcat
portrait, seeing in her mind's eye how various colors and textures would work.

With practiced
ease, she kept her eye on the rapidly thickening traffic on the six lanes of
Highway 401 as she approached Kingston, the historic town where Lucy had been
admitted to the hospital affiliated with the university. Lauren loved visiting
the old university town—once historically the top candidate for capital until
Toronto flourished as provincial capital and Ottawa took over the reins as
national capital. She loved the wide streets and sedate buildings that provided
a dignified backdrop and vivid contrast to the students who flowed through the
streets, filling the town with their youthful vibrancy.

With a twinge
of sadness, she noted the gaps on the sidewalks where so many of the big old
trees that had lined the streets had had to be taken down, victims of the
once-in-a-century ice storm of the winter of ‘97 – ‘98.

The storm had
paralyzed most of Ontario and Quebec, freezing rain coating everything in ice
several inches thick. The weight of all that frozen water had brought down
power lines, destroyed pylons, and been the death of many majestic old trees
including those which had sheltered generations of students along Kingston’s
streets.

Passing
through the bright entrance lobby of the hospital, Lauren paused to check the
directions board for Lucy’s ward and had to sprint for an elevator. A little
breathless, she finally reached the nurses’ station on the correct floor, and
asked for her friend.

The nurse, a
pretty blond with a round face, gave her a long look, then a big smile.

“Of course! It’s
Miss Stephens, the artist lady from West River! Go right ahead in, dear,” and
she pointed to a door across the corridor.

Lauren was
taken aback to be recognized, but assumed Lucy or Paul had left a message at
the nurses’ station that she’d be a visitor.

She promptly
forgot the incident as soon as she saw Lucy, face white against the hospital
pillowcase, eyes closed, looking impossibly fragile and small in the narrow
hospital bed. An IV drip was attached by clear plastic tubing to the back of
her left hand. The skin there pinched around the ingoing valve and looked far
too thin and delicate to maintain its hold.

Lauren’s heart
tugged as, for a sickening moment, she thought that if her friend moved her
hand suddenly that fragile skin would tear and the IV needle would come loose…

Then Lucy
opened her bright, intelligent blue eyes, not asleep but resting, and turned a
megawatt smile on Lauren, quickly dispelling the appearance of fragility.

“Thank God! A
sane face amidst all this hospital madness! They woke me up at 5:30 this
morning to take vital signs to see if I was doing okay. Good God, I told them,
how could anybody be doing okay when someone wakes them up to stick needles in
them, drain blood from them, and ask asinine questions in the middle of the night?”