September Canvas (7 page)

“Guess that’s the mark of a good reporter.”

“Yes, it is.”

“To keep digging.”

“To find the
truth
.” Faythe finished her coffee and placed the mug in her backpack. “ That’s the reporter’s job. No, their duty. To find the truth and report it to the public.”

“No matter whom it hurts. No matter if the truth is not what it seems.” Rigid, her eyes cold, Deanna gripped her mug with a white-knuckled hand.

Faythe refused to take the bait and spoke softly. “Someone hurt you?” She didn’t want to add to Deanna’s pain, but she refused to accept responsibility for what someone else had done. “A reporter printed something that wasn’t true?”

“Not exactly. Anyway, it’s ancient history.” Deanna jerked her shoulders again in what looked like her trademark way of dismissing a topic. “Forget about it.”

“It’s a little hard when you obviously expect me to turn on you and do the same. Look, you don’t know me, but I don’t know you either.” Faythe tucked a few errant strands behind her ear. “And I promise, I’m not here on this gorgeous morning to dig up some dirt on you. I’m on vacation.”

Deanna’s taut body relaxed marginally. “Guess I’m a bit paranoid.”

“You might have every reason, I don’t know, but not with me.” Faythe didn’t know how else to reassure Deanna. But the advice from the woman in the grocery store and Deanna’s aversion to reporters tickled Faythe’s curiosity. She wanted to ask Deanna about the warning but couldn’t, especially after assuring her she wasn’t there to pry. She would have to be patient.

“All right. It’s not fair to be so secretive and expect you to walk on eggshells, but I’ve been burned and I have to be careful.” Deanna rose to her knees and packed the leftovers of their breakfast without asking if Faythe was ready. “I’m simply not used to socializing, which shouldn’t surprise you.”

Faythe decided to be honest. She might burn her bridges, but she refused to bend over backward to accommodate anyone, not even Deanna. “Here’s what I know.” Faythe took Deanna’s hand, making her stop brushing breadcrumbs off the blanket. “That woman in town, Kitty-something, said I should stay clear of you. She didn’t give me any details, and she seemed genuinely concerned. I figured if you were an ax murderer, you’d be locked up. But I don’t let anyone sway my opinion or determine my friends.”

“I see.” Deanna squeezed her hand, her voice a whisper. “And I’m not what they say I am.”

Deanna paddled the last few yards and jumped up to pull the canoe ashore. She wished she hadn’t asked Faythe to join her and knew the jerky movements of her hands betrayed her feelings as she helped Faythe onto the grassy slope. Why did she let Faythe draw her into a conversation that opened doors that should stay closed? And she was furious that she couldn’t find a single harmless topic to break the silence on their way back.
“I’m not what they say I am.”
Faythe would surely ask follow-up questions, especially after Deanna said, 
“It’s nothing. Nothing I want to talk to you or anyone else about. This
was a mistake. Let’s go home.”

Faythe had stared at her with her beautiful green eyes, and if Deanna had read any sort of accusation in them, she could have used her pent-up anger and resentment to write her off. Instead, Faythe’s eyes held equal parts pain and compassion, and the sight killed her. Once Faythe became more familiar with Grantville and its townspeople, this compassion would turn to dismay.

“Deanna…” Faythe stood rigid, clinging to her backpack. “Deanna, please. I don’t know what I did, or said, that made you so angry, but no matter what it was, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend to.”

“Not your fault. I’m not good with people. Or around people. The fact that I work from home and live out by the lake by myself should tell you something.” It hurt to speak. Her vocal cords felt as stiff as the rest of her body.

“I wasn’t prying. I thought we were getting to know each other.” Faythe took a deep breath and stepped closer. “Please.” Deanna hated her own weakness, which twisted her throat into a hard knot. She swallowed repeatedly to avoid the treacherous tears, searching for the anger and resentment that had saved her so often.

Instead, something inside her softened. She didn’t know if it was because of Faythe’s gentleness or because of the undeniable attraction.

For heaven’s sake! Am I getting totally spineless because of some damn
onslaught of hormones?

Faythe fiddled with the drawstring in her windbreaker. “Can’t we beach the canoe and talk?”

“I don’t have anything else to say.” Deanna meant to sound dismissive, but instead the words came out as a husky whisper. “You don’t know me. You don’t want to know me. Take my word for it.”

“No. I’ve done the ‘right’ thing for ten years and followed all the good advice the well-meaning people around me have dished out. Look where that’s gotten me. Stuck in a media circus doing news stories about everything from juggling poodles to the best freaking treatment for athlete’s foot.” Faythe gestured emphatically.

Deanna laughed, surprised. She hadn’t expected to find humor in Faythe’s words, and certainly not in her own. “Juggling poodles?”

“Yup. Three of them. All were true divas.”

“They demanded champagne in their dressing room?” Deanna couldn’t stop her silly smile.

“How did you know?”

Faythe grinned back, and suddenly Deanna could breathe again.

“Here, let me help you.” Faythe pulled on the opposite side of the canoe and together they dragged it farther up and turned it upside down. “Ah. There.”

Deanna brushed a few wet leaves off her jeans and pushed the hair out of her eyes. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” Faythe lifted her hand, palm up, to Deanna, who took it hesitantly. “Want to catch a movie, perhaps later in the week?”

Deanna could hardly reply. The sensation of Faythe’s soft, slender hand in hers drowned out everything else. It wasn’t the first time they had touched. When she’d held Faythe in a firm grip as she saved her from the water, she hadn’t felt this bittersweet tenderness. Shaken, Deanna gently pulled her hand back. “All right. Absolutely. Why not?” She didn’t think about her words. She just wanted to escape these startling feelings and the innocent touch that caused them.

“Tomorrow night? I can check which movies are showing. Or would you rather rent something? Aunt Nellie has pay-per-view.”

“Sounds good. I mean, renting.” Deanna finally realized that going into town to the movies with Faythe would be impossible.

“I think so too. At seven or thereabouts?”

“Sounds good.”’

“See you then.” Faythe stepped closer and hugged Deanna.

“Thanks for taking me canoeing. Take care.”

“You too,” Deanna managed. The unexpected full-body contact depleted all of her oxygen, and she stumbled backward. “Bye.”

“Bye.” Faythe waved and headed toward her house.

Deanna stood frozen, making sure Faythe was not about to say something more, then spun around and hurried to her cabin. She dumped the backpack on the kitchen table and continued into the bathroom, where she closed the door. She needed as many walls and doors between herself and the outside world as possible. Gasping, she studied her reflection, not recognizing the wild look in her eyes. Normally she kept a cool façade, her temper carefully subdued and controlled. Two years ago, she had let her temper flare, which cost her dearly. Nothing could take away that pain, and she had restrained herself since then, determined not to rock the boat again.

Faythe was a variable Deanna hadn’t counted on. Although a woman of the world, well dressed, knowledgeable, and with a fantastic career already despite her youth, Faythe possessed a soft innocence, something genuinely
good
that drew Deanna in despite her best efforts to keep Faythe distant.

That hadn’t worked, since Faythe had stepped right up and hugged her. Deanna leaned her forehead against the cool mirror. How was she supposed to keep someone as lovely as Faythe away? Every time Deanna tried to create some distance, either by being cold or dismissive, the pained expression in Faythe’s eyes wouldn’t let her follow through.

“I may have to tell her the whole ugly story.” Deanna grimaced at her reflection, looking at herself cross-eyed since she was so close to the mirror. “Then again, she might be so stubborn that she’ll try to save me from myself.”

Deanna stalked out of the bathroom and over to her work area.

Tossing her jacket on a pile of books on a chair, she switched on the light, then opened her sketch pad and grabbed a charcoal pen. She drew a scene from memory, the canoe in the foreground and the lake framed with maple trees in the background. Before she knew it, a slender figure sat in the front of the canoe. With long hair framing her face, the woman glanced over her shoulder at the dark outline of another woman who sat with a paddle resting just above the waterline.

Deanna stared at the drawing, half finished and sketched in such a frenzied style. Faythe seemed to have invaded every part of her existence, and Deanna could think of only one place where she would find no trace of Faythe. She glanced at her watch. It was time to go see Miranda anyway. She had never needed the comfort of being around her beloved little sister this much. Miranda, the gentlest soul in Deanna’s life, never questioned her. Perhaps that was why Faythe’s sweetness was so compelling?

Not about to speculate a second longer, Deanna grabbed her bag and car keys and was out the door in record time.

* * *

Opening Google on her laptop, Faythe typed in “Deanna Moore Grantville Vermont.” She had to find out what the hell was going on.

The computer mulled over the entry and found more than ten thousand hits. The first ones were about Deanna’s work, her illustrations and paintings. Deanna had her own section at one of the publishers where Faythe found a small bio, with thumbnails of her Bunny Buttercup illustrations. A guest book was attached, and Faythe clicked on the link, curious what readers thought of Deanna’s work.

The comments were appreciative and endearing, competing with each other to express how much they loved and adored the illustrations for Bunny Buttercup. Faythe felt proud of Deanna when she read how parents seemed to enjoy the stories and the illustrations as much as their children did.

Returning to Google, Faythe found another link, this time to a discussion forum for books and their authors. Eventually she was staring at the long row of messages in a thread called “Deanna Moore, illustrious illustrator.” Faythe had stumbled upon vile remarks on the Internet before, but never been personally involved. She read several of the messages but couldn’t manage any more.

I know what U did. I know the girl U hurt. I don’t think U should work with kids ever.

You are an immoral bitch who should be locked up!

You f*cking wh*re!

Why don’t you move away from Grantville? You’re not wanted here!

The occasional messages from appreciative readers were lost in the flurry of flames against Deanna. Stunned, with a thousand questions forming in her head, Faythe did the only thing possible. She tracked down the webmaster and requested that he purge the derogatory comments.

Faythe continued to other sites, and even though she didn’t find such foul language, she discovered similar comments with a clear message. Other people than Kitty-with-heart, probably Grantville residents, clearly felt the same way she did. Frowning, Faythe decided not to log on to the local newspaper’s site. It would be wrong to read what she knew would be written there. She had to ask Deanna herself.

She owed her that if she wanted to be her friend.

Friendship was important, but the concept left her antsy and she twirled a lock of hair around her finger, over and over, as she thought about the situation. She had no idea if Deanna found women sexually attractive, but her response to the handshake and the hug earlier spoke volumes—mostly about strong, if repressed, emotions. Faythe had held Deanna’s hand long enough to feel her racing pulse. She had no clue how she had dared to simply hug her, but as brief as the contact was, Deanna had trembled against her. It had taken all her willpower to let go and merely smile.

Faythe closed her eyes and thought of Deanna’s tormented features when she tried to push Faythe away… She snapped her eyes open again.

That was it. Deanna was trying to push Faythe away,
before
the reverse happened. Whatever people were up in arms about, Deanna was certain Faythe would side with them. Stubborn and with a journalist’s desire to find the objective truth, Faythe straightened her back and began to type. She wouldn’t go behind Deanna’s back and dig up dirt on her, that wasn’t fair, but she would write down everything she felt and knew about her. She’d write it like a novel, like a drama documentary, and add little by little. This way she would get to know the true Deanna. She could still write down her own subjective—
no, heated
—thoughts about her. This was for her own eyes only.

Faythe’s fingers flew across the keyboard. This was the second best thing to actually spending time with Deanna. She would discover the truth.

"Dee.” Miranda rocked back and forth on her bed, her arms wrapped around herself. “Dee-dee-dee-dee…”

“Honey. Honey, listen to me. I’m here now.” Deanna forced herself to sound calm and reassuring. Her little sister had regressed into a behavior she had displayed the first semester at the Tremayne Foundation and School. She looked so small and young where she huddled, barely coherent. Touching Miranda when she was this distraught was dicey at best. Either Miranda would cling to her or she would recoil like a wound-up spring.

Carefully, Deanna placed a hand on Miranda’s shoulder. The rocking stopped for a moment, and she didn’t push Deanna away.

“There you go, honey.” Deanna slid closer and wrapped both arms around Miranda. “You’re fine. You’re more than fine. You’re okay now. I’ve got you.” She kept murmuring in the monotone voice she knew calmed Miranda’s frayed nerves. That, together with slow, circular caresses along Miranda’s back, stilled the rocking motion, and eventually she curled up almost on Deanna’s lap. Her sister’s fresh scent of soap and mint toothpaste was familiar, and Deanna focused on that fact to keep any angry thoughts from showing. “There, you see. You’re doing fine.”