The Colors of Love (9 page)

She put the pastels away and replaced the sketchpad. In twenty minutes she was due at the vet's. She felt the familiar panic, the fear that somehow in those twenty minutes the vision, the colors, and the heart of the picture she'd begun would be lost.

No. She had the sketch, the shape of the wave, the
feel.

In the gallery, she could hear voices, Liz's carefully modulated tones discussing color and form with a customer. "...exciting new talent... Jamila's vision of..."

Jamie felt guilty, as if she'd concealed herself to eavesdrop. Heart beating, she slipped past the entrance to the gallery and out the front door. As she hurried toward her car carrying the rolled sketch, she spotted Squiggles pawing at her passenger window as if attempting escape.

This morning Squiggles had tipped over a jar on her paint table, spilling acrylic colors and solvent onto the hardwood floor. Thinking of claws and kitten mischief, she opened the trunk and laid the sketch inside, then unlocked the driver's door and managed to get behind the wheel without letting Squiggles escape.

He immediately climbed into her lap and curled into a soft, furry, purring ball. She let herself enjoy him for a moment, the softness of his orange fur on her palm, the soothing sound of his purr, the way his rumble of contentment seemed to
squeak
as it cycled.

Alexander wouldn't approve of her driving with the cat unconfined in the car, and he'd be right. Driving to the gallery, Squiggles had mewed loudly, prowling in circles from the dashboard to the back window while Jamie fought to concentrate on driving. She could stuff him back into her pack, but although he'd seemed content to ride there yesterday when she was walking, today he'd dodged away when she opened it.

She needed one of those cages, a pet carrier.

She found one in the pet store next to the veterinary clinic, paid seventeen dollars and ninety-one cents, then rushed back to the car for Squiggles.

When she opened the door of the cage, Squiggles stepped inside cooperatively, sniffing the plastic. But twenty minutes later, when the vet had finished poking, prodding, and giving Squiggles a vaccination over protest, the kitten ducked away when she picked up the cage. Luckily, the vet had a firm, gentle hold on the kitten, and slipped him into confinement.

"You'll want to bring him in next month to be neutered," reminded the vet. "We'll do his second series of injections then."

Squiggles had been treated for worms and fleas, then given a clean bill of health. Jamie had written a check, in return for which she'd received a cardboard folder containing the kitten's medical record. She slipped it carefully into her purse. She'd show it to Alexander, she decided, the next time she saw him.

Sara was coming on Wednesday. Would Alexander return before then? To criticize? To
check up on her?
The anger she'd felt last night over his criticism had become tangled with expectation now.

She'd seen him in the hospital, walked with him in the rain, searching for the kitten. She'd felt his lips on hers, and last night in her kitchen, she'd seen him angry, agitated in the way of a man who wasn't used to being disturbed.

What would it be like to have a lover? She hummed as she drove home through Seattle's streets, enjoying the memory of his kiss.

* * *

Alex had cleared a two-hour slot beginning at one-thirty Wednesday afternoon, giving himself time to drop in at Jamila Ferguson's while Sara would be there. Just to check, because Sara worried him.

But at one-ten, the ER attending at All Saints called to say Jason Patterson had been admitted, unconscious. Alex ran across the street to the hospital, getting there in a record two minutes, his mind filled with images of the diabetic Jason pale and lifeless.

Twelve-year-old Jason lay in an ER cubicle, unconscious but alive, skin pale and lips parted, an IV drip connected to his right hand.

"Five percent glucose," said the attending. "Lab's running blood sugar now. Mom's outside."

Alex checked the boy's pulse. Jason's unconsciousness could be a symptom of either diabetic coma or insulin shock. The attending had correctly administered a mild glucose solution against the possibility of diabetic shock, which could quickly lead to brain damage and death. If the blood work showed Jason was hyperglycemic instead, the mild glucose dripping into Jason's veins could quickly be counteracted with an insulin injection.

Alex checked the boy's pulse, noted that his skin felt damp as if he'd been sweating, that his breath lacked the sweet smell typical of hyperglycemia.

A nurse entered caring a clipboard, and announced, "Blood sugar's 1.9."

"Okay. Twenty-five percent glucose," ordered Alex.

Twenty minutes later he was in the Chief of Medicine's office, saying, "One of my juvenile diabetics has just been admitted with insulin shock. His mother's been packing him rabbit food for lunch every day, but the kid has a massive chocolate Easter egg stashed in his room. He's been skipping the rabbit food, saving up for the damned chocolate. He keeps up with his insulin shots, but with no food, the insulin works on his blood sugar instead. It takes a nosedive, and the patient goes into insulin shock. It doesn't matter how much literature I hand his mom, Jason's twelve years old and he thinks he's bloody well immortal! Gordon, it's time you got me some dollars to start a group for these kids."

"Where the hell am I going to find that kind of money?" Gordon lit a cigar despite the hospital's complete smoking ban. "I'm not the villain here. You know damned well I'm fighting to keep the services we've got. Send the kid to diabetic camp."

"Camp doesn't start until July. My kid could be dead in July."

"I'd help you if I could, Alex. You know that."

Alex leaned forward despite the cloud of smoke. "I've got a needs study on your desk. If you can't give me money, give me support."

"I can't—"

"A letter, Gordon. You know we need a free-access treatment center. This hospital can't provide one, but you'll be referring patients." He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. "I drafted something for you. Take a look. If you and I don't do something about this, we'll be responsible for kids like Jason dying."

"I'll think about it," said Gordon.

Alex spent fifteen minutes arranging a barrage for Jason when he regained consciousness—visits from both a social worker and a nutritionist—then he returned to his office five minutes late for his three-thirty with Jenny and Brad Stakeman's new baby.

The baby gurgled and rammed a fist into his mouth while Alex listened to his heart. The scar on his little chest was already only a pale pink line.

"Perfect," said Alex, and both parents broke into smiles. "He'll be sliding to first base in a few years. The incision's healed, the heart's healthy, and you can relax, stop worrying."

An hour later, between an anorexic thirteen-year-old and a six-month-old baby with measles, Diana called.

"Have you got the pro formas?" she asked, her voice distorted by some weird effect of the satellite telephone transmission from Europe.

"I'm picking them up from Dennis tomorrow night."

"Thursday? Okay, but email them to me Thursday night, earlier if you can. I was talking to Grandfather today. Could you send a copy around to him once I've looked them over? He refuses to use email, so you'll have to courier them. We're close to a decision, Alex."

"Good. I had a twelve-year-old in a diabetic coma this morning."

"Is she all right?" He could hear Diana's concern, even with the satellite distortion.

"Stable now. Yeah, he'll be okay this time."

"We'll get your treatment center," promised Diana.

* * *

It was six before Alex got away from his office, seven before he finished talking to Jason. For the moment, the boy seemed to be taking his condition seriously. He looked scared, and Alex pushed down the urge to soothe the fear.

"You're diabetic, Jason. With proper diet and care, you can live as long as anyone. If you're careless, if you let yourself resent the fact that the other kids can eat chocolate when you can't, you could die tomorrow."

Jason nodded, his eyes dark and disturbed.

"Your health is under
your
control. If you look after yourself, you can prevent this from happening again. I'm sending the dietitian up tomorrow morning."

"I saw her last time," protested the boy.

"Yeah, but this time you need to listen, and when she asks questions, be honest. It's your life, Jason. Look after it."

* * *

Alex pulled down his visor against the glare of the setting sun. This scare might have been a good thing, showing Jason the seriousness of his condition. No point wishing for the power of a peer group of juvenile diabetics to help Jason see himself in perspective, for regular counseling and dietetic consultations. For now, Jason would have to make do with the resources available, and hopefully it would be enough.

Outside Jamila's house, the lightbulb he'd installed Sunday night illuminated a freshly constructed, un-painted safety rail on her landing, and rails on either side of the five stairs leading to it.

Somehow, between Sunday and Wednesday night, she'd managed to get someone out here to build her a porch rail. So that Sara would be safe? Or because she thought Alex would return to harass her if she didn't?

There was nothing overtly unfit about Jamila, nothing he could have pointed to when he talked to the social worker Monday morning. Mrs. Davis, the baby-sitter, would fall under scrutiny, as would Wayne Miller himself. But Jamila—what could he have said?
We need to stop Sara from seeing this woman. She struck the child with her car—no, it wasn't her fault, but afterward she found the girl's kitten, offered the kitten a home, and now wants the girl to visit. I don't trust her.

He climbed the stairs slowly, his unease growing even though he gripped the rail and found it solid.

Jamila had installed a rail. If he went to her kitchen cupboard, would he find the poisonous cleansers gone? If so, it didn't make Sara safe. The danger Jamila represented was more insidious. The motherless girl would be drawn to the warmth of her fire, the brightness of her hair, and the softness of her laugh. Sara would feel safe, but there would be no safety, no vigilance. Jamila was encouraging Sara for her own purposes, following her impulse without regard to the child's needs.

Sara would come to depend on her. Then, one day, Jamila would be gone, moving on to the next passion, leaving Sara more alone than ever.

She opened the door seconds after he knocked.

Tonight's black stretch leotard covered her from neck to ankle.

"You're not painting."

"Just finished." With her hair pulled back from her face, she looked uncharacteristically sober. "Do you want to see it?"

Better not, he thought as she led him along that corridor, in case her painting tightened the web around him. But he followed her, forcing himself to study the clasp at the back of her head, the riot of red curls tangled around it—forcing his eyes away from the graceful sway of her hips as she walked away from him.

When he stopped at the entrance to her studio, she caught his hand and led him to the easel. Then she released him, stepping back, leaving his world empty except for the painting.

Ocean, he thought, but he knew it wasn't ocean. Waves... blue... something heart-stopping in the way colors battled shape. He saw—thought he saw a face in the storm, a woman... gone... a hand reaching, but there was no hand. Then there was, two hands clasped together with desperate tension in the moment of fulfillment.

He blinked and the lovers' hands disappeared, leaving waves, an ocean of storms that wasn't an ocean, and his own heart thudding in dull ragged beats.

"What do you call it?" He told himself to look away, but his eyes clung to the sweep of a blue wave that wasn't a wave.

"I'm not sure. I'll name it tomorrow."

Only a painting, he told himself. Oils on canvas—he could smell the oil paint thick in the air. "This is what you paint? Abstracts?"

"Usually I do people, and the world they live in."

He didn't look at her, but knew her head would be tilted as she studied the canvas, her lips pulled together in a frown of concentration.

"This is different," she said.

He jerked his gaze away from the painting—a mistake, because she stood only a hand's reach away.

"I'm hungry," she said. "I haven't eaten since—I'm not sure when."

When she bent her head and reached up into her hair, he fought not to touch the graceful curve of her torso. She pulled a clasp away and the mass of her glorious hair came tumbling down. She dropped the clasp on the small table beside her easel.

"What about you?" she asked, absently finger-combing her hair.

He didn't know what she'd painted, but when he looked at it he saw only need, and beyond all reason he needed this woman in his bed.

Her
bed would be better, then he'd have some chance of walking away afterward.

He jerked away from the easel, prowling to the middle of the room.

"You pack a wallop, Jamila."

"I do?"

"Your painting, I don't know what it is, but it's powerful." He didn't know why it bothered him so much to discover that she was a hell of a good artist, but it did.

"Thank you. Are you hungry? Have you eaten?"

Hunger, he thought. "No, I haven't eaten."

In an instant she shifted from repose to energy as she spun toward the kitchen. "I'll make us something."

He followed. One step, two, grasped her arm.

He wasn't ready when she turned, not ready for the closeness, the scent of soap and oil paints, the knowledge that he had only to tighten his grip, pull her closer to feel her curves hard against him.

"Not here," he growled.

Her eyes were wide, alarmed... no, not alarm. Something else. He remembered the feel of her fist clenched in his shirt, her breath against his mouth.

"Where?" she asked, her pulse beating rapidly under his fingers.

She'd painted it, a tangle of blue and black, desire warring against sanity. He didn't want her to feel this pounding unease, didn't want it to be real.