The Escape Collection: (The Escape Collection) (67 page)

“Now, that’s enough talk of the past.” Sheena’s voice brightened, breaking away the heaviness of the moment. “Let’s talk about something happier, like why all of a sudden your aura is so much brighter.”

I did want to talk about the past. I wanted to learn more about my mother, but it was clear that subject was closed.
 

“Do I need to guess, or are you going to tell me?” Sheena prodded.
 

“Guess what?” I tried to focus on the conversation.
 

“What’s created such a shift in you? You look different. Freer somehow. If I didn’t know better, and I think I do, I’d say you were in love.”

Love? I almost laughed out loud. Lust maybe, but love?
 

I grabbed a sachet of lavender, held it to my face and inhaled deeply. She couldn’t know about Jason. And if she did, would she be angry? After all, they were close. Jason said she’d all but adopted him.

“No, not love,” Sheena mused. “But there’s definitely something going on. The pinks in your aura are vibrant. Have you spoken to your husband?”

I tossed the sachet down. “Oh, I’ve spoken to him alright.”

“Not good?”

“No.”

Her eyes questioned me, but she didn’t push. “Well, I don’t know what it is, but I’d swear that you have the look of a woman who’s had a good roll in a field of flowers, if you know what I mean?” She winked. “Maybe, you’ve discovered yourself?”

I didn’t turn away fast enough to hide the flush that filled my face.
 

“Don’t be bashful, Sunshine. A satisfied life is nothing to be ashamed of. Look at me.” Sheena gripped my shoulders gently, but firmly enough to spin me so we were face to face again. “But there’s more. The pinks and reds emanating from you are pulsating with sex, passion and...” Her eyes locked on mine.

I saw the moment of realization in her eyes.
 

She knew.
 

The silence built between us. I couldn't read the look in her eyes, but I knew enough not to say anything. Jason was like a son to her. She wasn't going to like to hear that something had happened between us.
 

Not that there was anything at all between us. It was just sex. Wasn’t it?
 

My mind raced as we stared at each other. Finally, Sheena broke the silence. “You should stay away from him,” she said, and busied herself by stacking the art supplies.

“Excuse me?”
 

“It’s not a good situation.”

 
“It’s not like that. He’s helping me.” As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I wanted to reach out and pull them back.

Sheena looked up and gave me a wry smile. “Is he now?”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s just...” I let the words trail away, unsure of how to finish the thought.

Sheena didn’t say anything else but she didn't look away either.
 

I tried again. “Don’t be mad.” The urge to rewind time was strong. I needed this strange friendship with Sheena. I needed the comfort from someone who didn't judge me. “Sheena, please.”

“Mad?” Sheena burst into laughter.
 

Whatever I'd expected her to say, it hadn’t been that. I took a step back from the counter and crossed my arms in front of me. “Is it so funny that I don't want you to be angry with me?”

Sheena wiped her eyes and put a hand to her chest. “Oh, Sunshine. You make me laugh.”

“Do I?”

“You really thought I’d be mad at you?” Sheena asked, and swallowed hard to keep her laughter from bubbling up again. “For sex? Goodness, no.”

“It’s just that...with Jason...”

Sheena waved. “Jason’s a big boy and I’m not blind. He’s a very sexual being.”

“So, you’re not mad?”

“No,” Sheena said. “Sex is a powerful thing. Our bodies have the ability to promote energy flow to all areas of our lives if they’re treated properly. Physical love isn’t the solution to internal harmony, but it’s certainly part of the journey.”
 

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation,” I muttered.

Her smile grew wider. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing.” I shook my head. “But if you’re not mad, then why did you say that you didn’t think it was a good idea?”

Sheena turned serious, her forehead wrinkled in concern and concentration. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you. Some of us believe in the freedom of love, but I have a feeling that you’re more of a traditional soul. You said your husband hurt you, something he said. Is that what this is about? Getting back at him?”

Sheena’s voice was gentle, but her words stung.
 

I looked at the doll I'd picked out for Kayla. “He did hurt me.” My voice was quiet. “But there’s so much more going on than just that. And I know it doesn’t make what I’m doing with Jason okay, but,” I looked up, “it feels good somehow.”

Sheena’s smile was warm. “Of course it does.”

“I’m changing here, Sheena. It’s this place.” I gestured to the pile of art supplies. “I feel like me again. I thought I’d forgotten who I was. But drawing again after all this time, the fresh air, the flowers, and...”

“Jason?”

Becca blushed and nodded. “Yes, and Jason. I don’t want it to be, but I can’t help it. Just being with him has awakened something in me. It’s like all of a sudden I’m aware of things again. Aware of myself. Does that sound crazy?”

“No. But I do want you to be careful. Don’t invest more into a relationship with someone else until you’ve settled your own soul. Before you can give yourself to another, or fix things with your husband, you need to know who you are. And you don't need Jason for that.”

“What if I’m not sure anymore if I want to fix things with Jon?”

Sheena smiled. “You may not know right now, but you will. In the meantime, be careful that you don’t lose Becca just when you’re starting to find her.”

I shook her head. “What does that even mean?”

She gestured for me to come closer, and when I did, Sheena took my hand and opened my fingers to expose my palm.
 

“The answers you’re seeking.” Sheena’s finger traced a circle in my palm as she spoke. “You won’t find them in Jason. You won’t find them in this place. Or even in your art. You’ll find them within you.” Her finger stopped moving and she closed my hand, giving it a squeeze. “Only you.”

***

I hauled my new supplies up to the porch and dumped them on the floor, eager to get back to the car and retrieve my new easel. I couldn’t drive fast enough. The need to try out my new brushes, and leave the conversation with Sheena behind, was strong. I was anxious to paint.

I set up the easel close to the railing and dragged a chair over so I had a place to arrange the paints and brushes. When everything else was ready, I selected the biggest canvas in my pile. I propped it up on the easel and stared at it.

There was nothing left to do but get started. I picked up a brush and held it, poised over the tubes.
 

Nothing.
 

I wanted to paint. I wanted to capture the field, the flowers, the feelings bursting from within me. But I couldn't. My thoughts kept swirling from Jason, to Jon, to the girls.

Was Sheena right? Was I making a mistake?
 

I stood back and took a deep breath to focus my thoughts. The air was hot and it filled my lungs with a warmth that pushed out my confusion as I exhaled.

 
Calmer, I picked up the wooden box, unclasped it, and opened the lid. The photo of my mother slipped out and fell to the floor. I retrieved it and leaned it up in the lid of the box next to the burnt words.

Love Survives—I ran my finger over the words, feeling their delicate grooves.

"What did your love have to survive?” I asked the photograph. “Why did you stop painting? What were you running away from when you came here?”
 

I couldn't see her face in the photo, but her body language didn't look sad. She didn't seem to be running away from anything at all; she looked blissful. Happy even. Dylan said she loved it in Rainbow Valley. That it was the happiest he could remember seeing her. But Sheena made it sound different. Like something had changed somewhere along the way.
 

I looked away and let my fingers slide across the paints. A green tube caught my eye. I lifted it from its resting place and carefully punctured the top. I squeezed a glob onto the pallet and repeated the process with a tube of white. Picking up the brush again, I swirled the colors together and created a paler shade. Gingerly, I touched the brush to the canvas, unsure of what to do next.

 
I looked down at the picture and back to the easel. Moving my hand quickly upwards, I left behind a stroke of green. Before I could overthink it, I did it again. Putting more paint on my brush, I repeated the motion again and again creating the grassy meadow.
 

Soon, I was lost in the process, mixing and blending colors to create the right hues and shades of the blossoms in the meadow. I worked without stopping, without thinking. An urgent need to capture the scene filled me and I let the art and the process of creating take over. I paused only long enough to tie my hair back away from my face.

Finally, I stepped back and examined my work. It wasn’t bad. In fact, it was beautiful.
 

I'd captured the flowers and the pines in the background. Even the grass of the meadow and the sparkling sky above seemed to come alive. But there was still something missing. My gaze landed on the photo of my mother.
 

I'd never painted a person before.

But there was something about the picture that I couldn’t look away from. Something drew me.
 

Before I could think of a reason not to, I picked up a narrow brush and dipped it in paint. With tiny, delicate strokes I began to create the outline of a woman in the middle of the wildflowers.

Like the dream.

When I got to the face, I stopped. I couldn't see her face in the photo and in the dream it was always different. I looked between the picture and my painting. I dabbed the brush in the paint and poised it over the canvas but put it down again.
 

It wasn't right.
 

Leaving the face for later, I went back to work on her skirt. I worked hard to capture the flow of the fabric, making it seem as if she was in mid-spin, like she could come right out of the painting.
 

I lost myself once again, breaking concentration only when I heard Jason’s truck coming up the road.
 

A moment later, I turned and said, “Hi.”

“No, don’t stop. I love watching you.”

He crossed the porch and stood next to me. My hand trembled from his closeness. He ran a finger along a smudge of paint on my cheek. “You’re beautiful when you paint. You look completely at peace. It’s really something to see.”

I pulled away, just enough to create a slight distance between us. But I didn’t miss the change in his eyes.
 

For a moment he looked like he was going to ask me something. Instead he said, “You’ve been busy.”

“I’m not quite finished, but I like it.” I turned to look at the painting.

He moved closer to the easel, his arm barely brushing mine when he moved, and my skin burned from the proximity. Sheena's words rang in my ears and I clasped my hands together to keep from reaching out to him.

“It’s really good, Becca,” he said. “You have a natural talent. Who is it?” He pointed to the woman in the painting.

“I’m not sure yet.” My eyes slid from the faceless form to the photo still propped up against the canvas.
 

Jason followed my eyes. “You look just like her.”

“How can you tell?” I asked, but then added, “I’m beginning to think I’m more like her than I ever knew.”

“Becca, I need—”
 

I cut him off by moving out of his reach again.

“I saw Sheena today,” I said, still not looking at him.

“And? Did you tell her about us?”

“I didn’t have to. She knew.”

“She would,” Jason mused. “I don’t suppose your visit has anything to do with the fact that you won’t let me touch you?”

“No.” I turned to face him. “Well, yes. She told me to be careful.”

“With me?”

“With everything. She told me not to lose myself.”

“She’s right,” he said simply.

“What if by being with you, I’m losing myself before I really know what I’ve found?”

Jason stepped closer and took my hand. This time I didn’t pull away. His skin was warm and his grip around me comforted and excited all at once. “What if,” he said, “by being with me, you’re discovering yourself?”

“I don’t see how—”

He silenced me with a kiss. His lips were gentle as they worked, parting mine.
 

Jon never kissed me like that.

I tried to pull away. To give myself a little distance to think.
 

“Don’t, Becca,” Jason whispered. He held me so close that I could feel his breath on my face. “Don’t shut yourself off. It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not okay.” I closed my eyes against his intense stare.

“It is. Look at you. You’re changing, discovering yourself a little more every day. I see it in you. I see it in your painting. I know you can see it, too.”

I took a deep breath. “I do,” I said. “I do see it. When I think about my life, and who I was only a short time ago... I feel so different.”
 

“You’re finding yourself.” He smiled, and then said, “I told you once that I’m not your solution. And I’m not.”
 

I opened my eyes and looked into his.
 

“I’m not, Becca,” he said, answering my unspoken question. “But it doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be part of it.”

“What does that mean? That you like me, but not enough?”
 

“I do like you. But I’m not going to fool myself into thinking that this is something it’s not. You have a life apart from here, and when you’re ready, you’ll figure it all out.”

“What if—”