Holding the door as he left, her eye wandered to the corner of the hallway.
"Oh, wait a minute, Jared. Can you hang this back up for me on your way down?"
She lifted the wooden sign and gave it a final inspection. Rembrandt Inn, Hartsboro Bend, Vermont. Here at least, was an artistic project she'd finished without paralyzing seizures of self-doubt. She re-painted the sign every year and its installation ordinarily signaled they were accepting guests.
Jared’s sleepy eyes widened. "You open already? Thought you stayed closed until May."
"We do, but I'm taking on a long-term guest, and it sounds ridiculous but I don't know when he's getting here, or how, or if he's still coming. I want to be sure he knows the place when he sees it. If he sees it. God almighty, why did I get myself involved in this? Just hang the sign. If he hasn't shown by the time the ice goes out, I'll take it down again."
"Unless the ice don't go out 'til May." Jared chuckled.
"Not even funny, Jared." Kate reproached him with a teasing scowl. Not the least bit funny."
2
L IKE A COBRA STRIKING AT ITS PREY , SHE STABBED THE BRUSH down into a glistening dot of color and then hesitated, the instrument rigid in her grasp. She'd layered the canvas with a fresh coat of gesso to seal the hairline cracks that had appeared since the last application, and Kate stood now with eyes closed, breathing in the soft oily smell from her palette, filled with the anticipation of beginning.
The problem was it could only be called "beginning" if something followed. In an all-too-familiar pattern, hesitation lengthened into paralysis, anticipation faded to anxiety, and "beginning" became inertia.
"Maybe I should try watercolors instead." Kate let the palette drop to the floor with an echoing slap.
Watercolors wouldn't work, either. The medium wasn't the problem. Once, she'd been able to move easily from oils to watercolor to ink sketches, and the connection between her mind and the hand holding the brush was like one long elastic synapse, tingling with precise obedience. She always knew where the next stroke would go, knew how it would look carrying the paint over the canvas. Her hand was as steady and reliable as her life, until a day almost six years ago when it wasn't anymore. Since then, the empty canvas had been a metaphor for everything she'd lost. Except for re-applications of primer she could never bring herself to make a mark on it, could hardly bear to rest the bristles of a perfectly dry brush against its blank surface.
Above her, the room’s track lights flickered and the darkness beyond the windows abruptly stuttered with blue-white light. A roll of thunder followed and Kate's mood brightened. She loved a good thunderstorm.
She moved down the hall to the living room of her third-floor apartment. Its large picture window provided a view of the lake and the road on her left, as well as the trout brook running along the bottom of a gorge on the right, which served as the property's western border.
The fat drops pelting the window were already multiplying as she settled on the sofa, and a minute later the rain was beating down in wind-driven sheets, filling the potholes in the dirt road and adding greater volume to the seasonal flood of the brook.
Cozy and snug, Kate's eyes drooped as she gazed at the storm, but opened wider when a figure appeared on the road—a man, head tucked down against the downpour, carrying a large duffel bag in one hand and an oddly shaped case on his opposite shoulder. He turned up the driveway, briefly illuminated in the pool of light from the roadside sign, and she sat up, bemused and staring.
"Oh, come on. Are you kidding me?"
She hurried downstairs and as he reached the front steps Kate opened the door, leaving the chain lock secured. "Lousy night for a walk," she remarked through the opening.
He stopped short at the sound of her voice—and of the chain drawing tight against the wood—and darted a rueful glance down
"Oh, wait a minute, Jared. Can you hang this back up for me on your way down?"
She lifted the wooden sign and gave it a final inspection. Rembrandt Inn, Hartsboro Bend, Vermont. Here at least, was an artistic project she'd finished without paralyzing seizures of self-doubt. She re-painted the sign every year and its installation ordinarily signaled they were accepting guests.
Jared’s sleepy eyes widened. "You open already? Thought you stayed closed until May."
"We do, but I'm taking on a long-term guest, and it sounds ridiculous but I don't know when he's getting here, or how, or if he's still coming. I want to be sure he knows the place when he sees it. If he sees it. God almighty, why did I get myself involved in this? Just hang the sign. If he hasn't shown by the time the ice goes out, I'll take it down again."
"Unless the ice don't go out 'til May." Jared chuckled.
"Not even funny, Jared." Kate reproached him with a teasing scowl. Not the least bit funny."
2
L IKE A COBRA STRIKING AT ITS PREY , SHE STABBED THE BRUSH down into a glistening dot of color and then hesitated, the instrument rigid in her grasp. She'd layered the canvas with a fresh coat of gesso to seal the hairline cracks that had appeared since the last application, and Kate stood now with eyes closed, breathing in the soft oily smell from her palette, filled with the anticipation of beginning.
The problem was it could only be called "beginning" if something followed. In an all-too-familiar pattern, hesitation lengthened into paralysis, anticipation faded to anxiety, and "beginning" became inertia.
"Maybe I should try watercolors instead." Kate let the palette drop to the floor with an echoing slap.
Watercolors wouldn't work, either. The medium wasn't the problem. Once, she'd been able to move easily from oils to watercolor to ink sketches, and the connection between her mind and the hand holding the brush was like one long elastic synapse, tingling with precise obedience. She always knew where the next stroke would go, knew how it would look carrying the paint over the canvas. Her hand was as steady and reliable as her life, until a day almost six years ago when it wasn't anymore. Since then, the empty canvas had been a metaphor for everything she'd lost. Except for re-applications of primer she could never bring herself to make a mark on it, could hardly bear to rest the bristles of a perfectly dry brush against its blank surface.
Above her, the room’s track lights flickered and the darkness beyond the windows abruptly stuttered with blue-white light. A roll of thunder followed and Kate's mood brightened. She loved a good thunderstorm.
She moved down the hall to the living room of her third-floor apartment. Its large picture window provided a view of the lake and the road on her left, as well as the trout brook running along the bottom of a gorge on the right, which served as the property's western border.
The fat drops pelting the window were already multiplying as she settled on the sofa, and a minute later the rain was beating down in wind-driven sheets, filling the potholes in the dirt road and adding greater volume to the seasonal flood of the brook.
Cozy and snug, Kate's eyes drooped as she gazed at the storm, but opened wider when a figure appeared on the road—a man, head tucked down against the downpour, carrying a large duffel bag in one hand and an oddly shaped case on his opposite shoulder. He turned up the driveway, briefly illuminated in the pool of light from the roadside sign, and she sat up, bemused and staring.
"Oh, come on. Are you kidding me?"
She hurried downstairs and as he reached the front steps Kate opened the door, leaving the chain lock secured. "Lousy night for a walk," she remarked through the opening.
He stopped short at the sound of her voice—and of the chain drawing tight against the wood—and darted a rueful glance down
Similar Books
Captive of Fate
Lindsay McKenna
More Deaths Than One
Pat Bertram
Whiplash
Catherine Coulter
Past Imperfect
Kathleen Hills
Falling Free
Lois McMaster Bujold
What to expect when you're expecting
Heidi Murkoff, Sharon Mazel
Within the Cards
Donna Altman
Keeping Secret: Secret McQueen, Book 4
Sierra Dean