What the Heart Knows: A Milford-Haven Novel - Book One (15 page)

Miranda Jones stood in front of the easel in her studio, her eyes closed.
I’ve almost got it—the lighting on those hills in San Diego
. Once she could see it in her mind, she knew she could get it onto the canvas. But now it was gone again, as though she were looking through a pair of binoculars she couldn’t quite focus.

Opening her eyes, she bent over to look again at the photograph on her worktable, concentrating on the light where it hit the hillsides and touched the tall grasses. She used the photo as a reminder, allowing it to transport her back to the moment just before she’d brought the camera’s viewfinder to her eye. The goal was not to
copy
the photo, but to
express what
she’d seen in that moment. She could still hear her teacher Monsieur Gilroy, with his French accent, telling her, “Paint not from ze outside, but from ze inside.”

Right. Trust it, trust the process, let it lead me
. She daubed her paintbrush in the Raw Umber then swirled in some Yellow
Ochre, waiting for the precise tonality in her mind’s eye to guide her hand. Yet as she looked at the palette, she was still confused as to exactly which color she needed to use.
Maybe I can’t get this because I’m still distracted by my conversation with Sam this morning
.

She stared out the window, thinking about her friend’s story about parent and child being forever lost to each other.
What would it be like not to know who your parents are? I feel so enmeshed in my own parents’ issues. It’s one of the reasons I had to move away. Do adopted kids have the same stuff, or is this glue I feel purely biological?

But in listening to Sam, she’d heard about this from the
other
perspective—that of a parent—the very one Miranda felt so eager to discount most of the time. Shaking her head to rid herself of such callous thoughts, she remembered Sam’s sadness.
If I don’t set aside her problem, I’ll never be able to get back to work
.

The sudden
Bong!
of her doorbell startled her. It seldom rang unless she was expecting someone… a friend, a delivery. Still holding her paintbrush, she moved away from the canvas and started out of her studio without really considering whether or not she wanted a visitor.

Opening the door, she was surprised to see a stranger whose looks and wardrobe suggested he’d just stepped out of a photo shoot for
Gentlemen’s Quarterly
. Beyond him, parked at the curb, crouched a gunmetal-gray Mercedes convertible.

“Yes?” she tried to sound unsurprised, as though she received fashion-plate visitors every day.

“Oh, hello.” His eyes widened as he looked at her face, then strayed to the paintbrush in her hand. “I don’t mean to disturb
you.” His gaze swung back to her. “I see you’ve got your painting clothes on.”

Suddenly self-conscious, Miranda glanced down at her paint-spattered overalls and flip-flops.
I’m certainly not dressed for company
. Bringing her eyes up to his, she blushed.
Just because he’s so handsome, why should I worry about how I look in front of some guy I’ve never met?
“Well, it’s what painters wear.”

An awkward moment of silence hung in the air.
This guy isn’t just handsome; he’s incredibly attractive. And awful damn sure of himself, too. Those blue eyes…
. His gaze continued to hold on her face as though he couldn’t look away. Finally, she asked, “May I help you?”

“I came about one of your paintings—the large one that’s hanging in the Finders Gallery.”

This guy’s a client? Why didn’t Nicole call me before just sending someone here?
Realigning her thoughts, Miranda set aside her irritation and gathered her manners.
The large painting at Finders… which one does he mean
? She stood there mentally flashing through her canvases as though viewing color slides.

Suddenly aware she’d kept this prospective buyer standing on her door stoop so long that he was shifting his weight, she stammered, “Uh… would you… like to come in?”

A quick smile brightened his face.
Could he get any cuter
? She stood aside to let him in, and he stepped up, closing the door after himself. Another awkward silence enveloped them as he stared down at her.
What is he looking at? Do I have a smudge of paint on my nose?

From the corner of her eye, she could see her guest-cat
streak down the stairs to the bedroom, apparently shy about the new stranger.

The man spoke. “I was at the gallery yesterday, and they said I’d find you in your studio. I’m uh, I’m Zack Calvin.” He extended his hand. “And you’re Miranda Jones—”

“—Miranda Jones,” she said simultaneously, returning his smile. But as she stood with him, trapped in the handshake, held by the reflection in his blue eyes, she began to feel captured.
Like one of the cheetahs at Wild Animal Park
.

As Miranda withdrew her hand, he broke the silence. “Great place you have here.” He glanced around the large room where angled sunlight lanced across her living and dining areas, arrowing through the kitchen and into the foyer where they stood.

“Thanks,” she said, self-conscious again. “I was lucky to find a place like this in Milford-Haven. I do love it in this town. It’s peaceful enough to get some work done, and beautiful enough to have something to paint all the time.”
What am I, a travel brochure?

“The moment I saw your painting—the one called
The Cove
—at the gallery, I… I really wanted to buy it.”

“You want to buy it… just like that?”

He nodded decisively. “Just like that. What do I have to do?”

“Well, Nicole at the gallery sets the prices on all the work they carry. But the one you’re talking about—it really isn’t for sale. It’s kind of a special one to me, and I lent it to the gallery because well… because Nicole was so insistent.”

“Not nearly as insistent as I can be.”

Miranda studied him. “You go after what you want, don’t you?”
Why did I say that? That’s something Meredith would say
.
Her sister was the assertive one. Miranda’s brash comment felt good for the first instant, but then she chafed in the aftermath, feeling out of character.

He flashed a smile. “Yeah, that’s what they tell me.”

Zack Calvin heard his own words and nearly barked out a laugh.
Great. Impress her by being a pompous ass
. Though he managed to suppress the self-criticism, he felt gripped by the odd sensation that something had gone missing.
What did I come here looking for?
He glanced around the room again, as though he might find it.
Am I looking for the painting? But it’s back at the gallery
. Then he brought his gaze back to stare again at Miranda, aware he was making her uncomfortable.

She’s gonna think I’m a nut case. But there’s something about her. She looks familiar, though I’m sure we’ve never met before. I knew from her photo that she was great looking, but she… she evanesces—even in overalls
.

Miranda fidgeted, flung her hair over her shoulder.

Long, silky hair. Oh man, don’t look at that. You did not come up the coast to involve yourself with another woman
.

He tugged up on his waistband.
I came here to find out about her painting. I felt some pull of recognition the moment I saw it
. “Listen, do you have time to knock off work for a while?”

“Knock off?” she looked astonished.

“We could go to the gallery and complete the sale.”

“Complete the sale? But I just explained—” She paused. “Thanks, but… Listen, I’m sorry, I’ve got a lot to do.” She stepped around him and put her hand on the knob—the one that wasn’t holding the paintbrush—of her front door.

She’s showing me the door, but I can’t leave town without that painting
. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll pay any price you’re asking … you know, for the painting.”

She seemed to consider this, and he watched, intrigued, as her expression transformed reluctantly from the solitary focus of the artist, to the practical openness of the business person. “That’s a very attractive offer. But, you see, that painting is already contracted as a loaner to the gallery through the end of the year. There’s nothing I can do about it until the contract expires.”

He felt himself triggered into negotiation-mode.
Is it her resistance? Or the fact that she’s using business language
? Either way, a fresh idea sprang into his head. “How about this. Would you accept a commission from me—a work of the same size so you still get your price—to do another painting, say of a slightly different view of that same location? It is a real place, right?”

“It is. A commission… well, yes, I do commissioned pieces. I’m actually doing one right now. I’m not sure how quickly I could get to yours. I’ll need to put you in touch with my representative, and—”

“—We can figure out the details later,” he interrupted. “For today, how about if we go look at that spot? The cove, I mean. Frankly there’s something about that place that just fascinates me.”
Maybe that’s it… the thing I feel I’ve been looking for
. “Is it around here?”

“It’s not too far.” She looked down at the paintbrush she was still holding. “I have brushes to put away, paint tubes to close. Can you give me a few min—”

“—Of course,” he interrupted her again. “I’ll wait right here.”

“Okay! I’ll be as quick as I can. If we don’t hurry, we’ll lose the light.” She looked down at his highly polished loafers. “I hope you brought something else to wear on your feet?”

“Oh.” He looked surprised, but recovered quickly. “I did. I mean, they’re not exactly hiking boots, but they’ll work fine.”

“Okay, good, My hiking boots are in my garage and I’ll grab them as we leave.” She turned, then stopped to offer, “Um… have a seat.”

“Okay.”

“Would you like some water before we walk?”

“I’m fine.” Zack assured her. “Take your time!”

He watched as she darted across the large, open room into what must be her studio, heard soft thuds and lightly swishing water. He stepped into her livingroom area and glanced around.

Pleasant enough. Looks like a comfortable sofa. Nice woodsy colors. Some kind of quilt thrown over the end
. He moved to the sliding glass doors that showed a balcony, then looked beyond.
Not a panorama, but a nice view—ocean in the distance through this stand of tall trees
.

He turned and took a step back into the room where he now could see a huge canvas mounted on the perpendicular interior wall.
Wow, is that. …?
He looked sideways at the window view again, then back at the painting.
It’s like a mirror … pulling in the very view she sees out her glass doors
. He bent to read the title of the piece: “Home In the Trees.”
The window or the canvas… not sure which I like better!

A few minutes later, she rushed out of the studio, flashed him a smile and ran down the set of stairs located along the far wall.
Maybe her bedroom is on the lower level
, he thought I
wonder if it’s a feminine boudoir or whether it looks rustic like the rest of her house. Nope, nope, don’t go there
.

Miranda Jones brushed her hair smooth, clipped it into a barrette and glanced at her face in the mirror.
Who is this guy waiting for me upstairs? Why did I agree to accept yet another commissioned work when I have so many deadlines? Well, at least Zelda will be proud of me for taking on a new client. In any case, it’ll be fun to paint another view of the Cove. I can do a preliminary watercolor in my new journal. Oh, and that means I’ll need my camera today. Glad I just put in new film
.

Her phone rang. She grabbed the receiver automatically before the answering machine did. “Hello?”

“Darling, I’ve found you in again!”

Zelda has uncanny timing
. “Oh, hi. Listen, I only have a second. Someone’s waiting for me.”

“Darling, you sound so excited. Who is this person? He—it is a
he
, I trust—must be quite interesting to take you away from your work.”

“Yes, Zelda,
it’s a he
.”

“Oh my! Miranda gets a social life.” Zelda teased like a Portuguese Man-of-War, floating innocently on the surface, stingers ready just below the water line.

“He’s interested in my work, Zelda, and I left him standing in my foyer. I have to go.”

“You’ve let him into your house? A man you don’t know? My, he must have made quite an impression. Where’s he from?”

That’s one question I can answer
. “Santa Barbara.”

“Well, if he’s
anybody
, I must know him.”

Maybe if I tell Zelda the vitals, I can get her off the phone
. “His name’s Zack Calvin. He seems… substantial.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He hasn’t mentioned that yet.”

“Hmph! Sounds secretive.”

“Zelda, we’ve hardly had a chance to talk! He says he wants to commission a painting.”

“Oh! Well, in that case, I’ll let you go, dear. I’ll call you back.”

“I know you will!” Miranda hung up, hurried through a quick change of clothes, then stood still for a moment to consider the stranger waiting in her living room.