Nightsong (17 page)

“Jesse?”

He stopped and turned his head in answer.

“Do you know anything about a van Warner painting?”

Jesse’s eyes were shadowed by the frown that creased his forehead. “Phillip asked me that, too. Is there some reason I ought to know something about it?”

She couldn’t tell him. She just couldn’t. This was the first time she’d felt a sense of closeness with her father-in-law, the first time they’d really communicated. Maybe Phillip wouldn’t find the painting, and then Jess wouldn’t have to know. “Phillip talks a lot about van Warner and I just wondered if….” Elleny let the sentence trail into silence and decided that sometimes a lie was the lesser of two evils. “Never mind. It isn’t important.”

He seemed to accept that and turned toward his room, but again she stopped him. “Jesse? Do you think ... someday ... you might want to paint again?”

“Wanting and doing aren’t the same.” The cranky tone was back in his voice, but she paid no attention.

“I think that all depends on you, Jesse.”

He raised his eyebrows, then lowered them in a frown. “Go to bed and leave an old man to get some sleep.”

He walked on, and Elleny turned to her bedroom door. “Good night,” she called softly, but there was no answer. Only the sound of the latch clicking shut at the far end of the hall. On impulse she went into A.J.’s room and tucked the covers around him. He slept in contented ignorance of her protective care and, as she watched, a loving ache welled in her throat and became a rivulet of tears on her cheek.

In the silence of the big house, while A.J. slept, Elleny cried for her son, who would never have even a memory of his father. She cried for Jesse, who lived with too many memories. She cried for Mark and the sweet remembrance of loving him that nothing could take from her.

And finally she cried for Phillip because he would never be able to understand why she cried.

* * * *

Surprisingly, Elleny slept for several hours and awakened, if not refreshed, at least with a more hopeful outlook. She showered, dressed, and felt halfway human by the time she joined A.J. in the kitchen. She attributed the sick feeling in her stomach to watching her son consume not one but two super-crispy, presweetened bowls of breakfast cereal. But she knew it was a reaction to yesterday’s trauma and to the uncertainties that now hovered over the future. A.J.’s future.

She had worried about how a move to Boston might affect him, but this morning she faced worries she hadn’t dreamed might threaten his security. Of course, now that there was no reason to consider moving, she knew A.J. would have adjusted to a new home in a new state without any problems. She had moved many times as a child; she would have eased the transition and everything would have been wonderful.

Wonderful.
Elleny didn’t think anything would be wonderful in her life for some time to come. Phillip had ripped the word from her vocabulary. Or maybe it had been Mark who had made the first tear. She didn’t know. At the moment it didn’t seem to make much difference.

And yet even after she reached the store, thoughts of Phillip and a futile longing for his comforting touch followed her through the morning.

Each time the customer bell jangled over the door, she looked up expecting to see him, knowing, of course, that he wouldn’t come. And even if he did, she knew it would be only to renew the argument, provide her with more facts about a subject she didn’t care to discuss.

Why couldn’t he have understood that inmost part of her which couldn’t denounce the past without condemning the future as well? It just wasn’t in her to hate Mark for crimes she hadn’t known he’d committed. And what purpose would it serve? Mark was dead. How could the destruction of every remembrance, every good feeling she associated with his memory, make any sort of reparation?

It couldn’t. There was no good reason even to consider it.Even for Phillip. She loved him, but if he couldn’t accept the qualities in her character that made her too trusting, too vulnerable at times, then he couldn’t really love her.

So it was best that he was leaving.

Still, despite her reasoning, she watched for him.

A misty rain anchored her mood in a dismal afternoon that saw not one customer enter the shop. Elleny busied her hands with rainy day chores, but finally gave up all appearance of work and stared out the window at the wetness. Yesterday she had whistled a dozen different melodies, today she couldn’t think of one. There was only the dripping rain and occasionally the splashing, lonely sound of a car driving past.

* * * *

Phillip eased the car to the curb in front of Elleny’s store, flipped
off
the wipers, and groped at the seat beside him. His hand closed over the cardboard backing of Mark’s sketchpad and he frowned the entire morning’s frustrations at the rain splattering the windshield. Wasn’t everything that had happened during the past twenty-four hours bad enough? Did the weather have to spit at him, too?

He turned the frown toward the shamrock-painted window front and froze as his gaze found Elleny. She was standing inside, her image distorted by the streaks of moisture and the accumulating fog on the car window. But he didn’t need a clear visual path.

He could see her with his heart, and that, after all, was the main problem.

Lifting the sketchpad in his hand, he shielded his view and waited to let the steady sheet of raindrops diminish. Or was he waiting to give his common sense time to reason with his stubborn heart?

He’d come for one last try at convincing Elleny that Mark was guilty of theft and forgery. And he’d come to offer his promise that when the van Warner painting was found, it would not adversely affect her. He’d realized, belatedly, that the subject of what would happen once the stolen artwork was recovered had never been mentioned, and in the long, dark hours of the night he’d decided to do whatever he could in order to protect her and A.J. and Jesse from public disgrace. He couldn’t leave without giving her at least that much reassurance. Besides, he now freely admitted that if he was to find the van Warner, he would have to have her cooperation.

So after he’d packed his things, loaded his car with luggage and the borrowed canvases and paints and berated himself for being fool enough to get personally involved in a case, he’d decided to pay a farewell visit to the bookstore and its proprietor. If Elleny refused to help him narrow down the possible times, places, and opportunities for Mark to have hidden that painting, Phillip knew he would simply have to admit defeat and begin the long journey home.

And hope to God his heart would follow.

The rain slackened. He opened the door and held the sketchpad over his head as he got out and slammed the door on a dead run. In seconds he was inside the bookstore, dripping on the wood floor and battling an awkward impulse to kiss Elleny hello.

“What a day!” was the greeting he substituted, although under the scrutiny of her cinnamon-brown eyes, he wondered if he shouldn’t have followed his first impulse. “Are you busy? I’d like to talk to you.”

“No, thanks.” She turned and walked to the table a few feet away. “I don’t think I’m up to that.”

Her face flamed in sudden remembrance, and Phillip felt a tender sympathy stir inside him. Helplessly, he moved to place a hand on her shoulder. A touch she allowed but didn’t respond to or encourage. “Elleny, I’m sorry. I didn’t want you to be hurt. Not in any way. But I had to do my job.”

“Those qualifications get you every time, don’t they, Phillip?” The tilt of her lips was cautious, as was her unhurried but definite retreat to the other side of the table. “
You had to do your
job.”

He watched her trace a fingertip pattern onto the embossed front cover of a book and made no reply. He wished he’d had the choice of ignoring his need to see her again. He would have preferred to disregard the inexplicable necessity of trying once more to make her understand. Yet here he was, needing her help, needing her, wanting to reassure and not having the opportunity. He simply stood in an agony of silence, able to conquer neither the pride that urged him to leave, nor the love that compelled him to stay.

“I thought you were leaving today.” She didn’t look at him, and he didn’t bother to disguise the touch of hurt, the hint of annoyance he felt.

“Only if you refuse to help me.”

“Don’t count on my help, Phillip, and don’t think you can talk me into it, either.”

“At the moment I’m only asking you to listen, Elleny.” He placed the sketchpad on the table and turned it to face her.

She slowly raised her eyes in reluctant question.

“This is one of Mark’s sketchpads,” he explained, although he was certain that particular point was not in question. Better to go slowly though, take one step at a time, and maybe she would accept what he had to say. “It contains an incomplete sketch of the van Warner painting that was stolen. I would have shown it to you last night, but I ... wasn’t thinking too clearly then.” He paused when her gaze fell to the tablet. “Would you like to see it?”

“Where did you get this, Phillip?” The words were so soft he could barely discern them, but he had no difficulty interpreting the tension that curled her hand into a fist.

He hesitated, recognizing the potential for argument. “At the cabin.”

She spun around and stood for several seconds with her back to him, her shoulder blades rising and falling with the strength of her agitation. When she spoke, her voice was low and controlled. “You stole it then.”

His patience snapped. “Yes! Add theft to the list of my crimes against you, Elleny. Concentrate on the lies I told and on how I deceived you. Tell yourself over and over that you can’t trust me. But before I walk out that door, turn around and look at this drawing.” Angrily he began flipping through the pages. “See for yourself that the husband you
trusted
betrayed you. Not only you, but his father and who knows how many other people. Any wrong I may have committed was honest, as strange as that might seem to you.” He found the sketch, slapped the rest of the tablet flat against the table and brushed back his hair with restive fingers. “When I first came to Cedar Springs, I didn’t know what kind of person you were. For all I knew, you could have worked hand in hand with Mark to steal the van Warner. I couldn’t just assume your innocence, and I couldn’t rush in and begin demanding answers. The cover I invented was necessary to discover the truth. Give me the benefit of the doubt, Elleny. At least look at the evidence I found.” He swallowed some of his cloying pride and drew a deep, calming breath. “Please.”

Elleny turned, seeking him with her eyes, clasping her hands to warn him that the distance separating them had not been bridged. “It doesn’t matter, Phillip. You could show me the stolen painting with a handwritten confession from Mark and it wouldn’t make any difference.” Immediately, she saw disbelief shadow his eyes with anger and wished there was a way to make him understand. “Nothing can change the past or the way I felt about Mark.”

“Stop clinging to the memory of a man who didn’t deserve your trust. Or your love. Admit, once and for all, that you were wrong about him. That he wasn’t the shining example of a loving husband and father that you’ve painted in your mind. Stop pretending, Elleny.”

“You stop, Phillip. What gives you the right to judge
my
relationship with Mark? How could you say you loved me and
not
understand why I have to defend him? Isn’t it bad enough that you took advantage of the trust I placed in you? Do you have to strip any vestige of happiness from my memories as well? Isn’t that what you want me to admit, Phillip? That I wasn’t really happy with Mark?”

“I want you to face reality. I want you to see the fantasy world you lived in with Mark for the lie it really was. It’s a matter of principle, Elleny.”

She squeezed her hands together so tightly they ached in protest, but the pain felt almost good. “I think it’s a matter of pride, Phillip. Your pride. Your unshakable belief that I should view life from your perspective, realistically and without illusions. Why can’t you accept my right to see things from a different point of view?” Her glance circled the room, searching in vain for something to convince him. “Two writers might take one incident and write two vastly different books. Two artists might view the same landscape, but their paintings of the scene would be different in so many ways – the depth of color, or the brushstroke, or even the size of canvas.”

She stopped for breath, for any sign of encouragement in his expression, but he was looking past her, his gaze on something she couldn’t see. She sighed in defeat. “You should leave now.”

He walked toward her, and her heart pounded with uncertainty. But he didn’t reach for her, didn’t even shorten his stride as he passed her. He hadn’t even glanced at her! She pivoted in a panicky spin of shocked surprise. Before she could open her mouth to ask even one of the questions whirling through her brain, he answered them all by placing his hands on either side of the framed watercolor that hung between the bookshelves. Carefully, Phillip lifted the painting from the wall and carried it to the counter.

“What are you doing?” Her voice rose in a hollow echo of her scattered thoughts.

“When did Mark give you this?” Phillip ran his fingers over the heavy wooden frame, his whole attention focused on the painting.

“I don’t remember exactly. I had it for a long time before he….” She trailed into a realization of where the sentence was going and finished in a whisper. “…before he framed it for me.”

Phillip’s glance was pointed and quickly returned to careful examination of the picture. He tapped on the wood at various points, listening like a burglar for the sound of tumblers in a lock. “I don’t know why I didn’t see this before,” he said, half to himself as he dug in his pocket for his key chain. “It’s so obvious to me now.” In a matter of minutes he had pried loose one side of the frame with a key and was working his way around the edge.

Elleny watched in stunned silence as he gingerly removed the pieces of wood and lifted the canvas. Mark’s painting was left on the counter as Phillip held another canvas in his hands. It was larger than the other, but the frame had concealed the hidden painting’s size in a clever, unassuming way.