Phoebe had set aside her paintbrushes almost an hour ago and now worked with the pads of her fingers, the edge of her palm, the ridges of her knuckles, drawing the cobalt and indigo hues together, blending and smearing, the lines curving into broad, sweeping strokes that haloed the bronze and honey flesh tones of the woman on her canvas. A blood red sash draped casually across the woman’s high, small breasts, wrapping all the way around her so the end fluttered gracefully over her groin and thighs in a rather sensual attempt at modesty. Phoebe had painted the woman’s face turned away, as though unaware she was being studied, and the long fingers of one hand splayed across the feminine plane of her flat abdomen.
This one, the first in the series, already had a name. Scarlet.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Alice Masters, wondering why Cerulean had touched her so. She’d entered an astronomical amount on the painting in the silent auction, a bid no one else even came close to, and Phoebe had just assumed the buyer was some wealthy and eclectic art collector or an equally wealthy donor who needed a charity to contribute to and liked the painting well enough to take it as a reward for their generosity. To learn that it was the wife of a small town grocer who had probably sacrificed at least a little to come up with the funds sat uncomfortably with her…and yet, it seemed fitting somehow, too, that the woman who now had a painting of Phoebe’s sacrifice had surely known sacrifice of her own.
Would Cal’s wife see—and understand—the passion and pain behind this new series…this extension of that first painting? Had Cal recognized the connection? Had he seen the similarity in the women posing on each canvas—the postures, the lowered eyes, the contours of the face, the neck and shoulders, the presence and wonder of nature in each depiction of a woman in various stages of pregnancy?
Beatrice Martin’s smoky voice crooned in French about dark nights and secrets hidden in the past, and carrying on, and waiting…waiting…without breaking.
Phoebe stood back and evaluated the painting—the heavy-handed technique she’d used presented a subtle undercurrent of discomfort and unease so in opposition to the graceful movement of the female form on the canvas. It wasn’t complete; when the oils had set up a little more, she’d come back in with a fine-tipped brush and add defining lines and understated contouring.
Someone knocked on her door, startling her. She glanced down at her paint-spattered attire and then decided she didn’t care. “Tant pis!” she muttered her frustration in French. “I’m an artist and this is how I do art.” She headed for the door, wiping her hands on a paint rag as she went. “You’ll just have to deal with it,” she declared to whoever was on the front porch. At least she was no longer crying, too. The finger-painting had soaked her anguish up right through her fingertips.
Another knock, this one a little more insistent.
“Coming!” she called out over the loud music, not happy about being disturbed while the muse still lingered. “Give me a second!” She marveled at how much paint she’d gotten on her hands, on the long once-white smock she wore to protect her clothes. A streak of sienna was smeared across the top of her right foot.
She yanked open the door…and froze.
Trevor Zander. Looking for all the world like he’d just showered and shaved and was ready to preach a Sunday sermon to a world of sinners.
She slammed the door so quickly, she almost caught the hem of her smock in it. The air rang with the sudden and intense silence, and then her heart started up again, her pulse pounding like a kettle drum between her ears. Why, oh why hadn’t she looked through the peephole first?
Her hands flew to her hair, smoothing it away from her face, but it was too late. He’d already seen her looking like something the cat dragged in. Thank goodness she’d changed out of her pajamas today…although, her sleepwear would class her up considerably compared to what she wore under the paint-splattered smock. Old gray leggings with frayed hems, an over-sized Mid-U tee shirt Juliette had left on accident a couple years ago, her hair piled in a loose knot on top of her head, the stray curls that insisted on falling around her face held at bay by a red paisley bandana wrapped biker-style around her head. No makeup, no jewelry, no shoes, and slouchy socks to boot. Nice.
What in the name of all that was good and holy was Trevor Zander doing here? On her doorstep? Had one of her sisters sent him to check on her? But why would they do that? Why not just come themselves? She couldn’t begin to imagine his reason for being outside her front door.
She waited, wondering if he’d just go away.
Nope.
“Phoebe? I’m sorry to just show up like this, but I tried calling. I emailed, too. I didn’t know how else to get a hold of you.” He cleared his throat; she heard it even through the heavy door. He sounded nervous—and well he should be! “I really want to get together with you, and I was hoping—well, I was hoping at the very least that you’d be home tonight so we could connect.”
What was he going on about? Phoebe frowned and shook her head, completely vexed at his presence, his presumption, and most of all, his faultless appearance in the face of her disarray. She couldn’t think what to say to him. She was at a complete loss for words.
“Phoebe?”
She would not open the door to him, that was for sure. But she couldn’t just pretend she didn’t know he was out there. On the other hand, if she simply ignored him, he’d get the message and leave, wouldn’t he?
“Look, I know this is not the way to go about doing this, but I—well, it’s kind of urgent that we talk.” His voice had dropped, but it came through clearer. He must have stepped closer; maybe he was even trying to speak through the peephole!
Hadn’t he seen the way she looked? Wasn’t it more than evident that she was in no condition to receive company? To talk? And what woman in her right mind would open the door to a practical stranger who stood on her doorstep begging to be let in? Like the big bad wolf. The thought made her snicker, and she quickly covered her mouth, hoping he hadn’t heard.
There was silence for several moments, but she was too afraid to open her peephole cover and look out. What if he was standing right on the other side of the door peering in? She fought down a giggle of hysteria.
“You’re right, Trevor. This is not the way to go about doing this. Please go away. I’m not comfortable with you lurking outside my front door.”
The silence thickened.
“Trevor?” Had he gone after all?
“I’m sorry. You’re right. It is kinda creepy.” She heard him chuckle, but it didn’t sound sinister or unsettling. “But I’m not leaving. Now that I’m here and I know you’re there, I don’t want to waste the opportunity to talk. You’re a hard person to get a hold of, Phoebe Gustafson.”
He wasn’t going to leave? Should she call the police? Maybe she should spray him with pepper spray through the peephole. Maybe that was overkill.
“Please listen. Just for a minute, okay?” He was speaking quietly now, almost as though he hoped she was just on the other side of the door listening. “I…uh, well….” He cleared his throat and tried again. She had to step closer to catch his next words. “I remember you.”
Phoebe’s rambling thoughts came to an abrupt halt.
“Please, Phoebe. We need to talk.”
No, no, no, no. She didn’t want to talk to him right now. Not about that day in the church. And especially not about Lily. Lily. He knew about Lily. Or at least he’d known she was pregnant. He might be the only one other than those involved in the program.
There was no way on earth, in heaven, or in hell that she was going to talk to him. She had no intention of acknowledging anything he could—and most likely would—use against her, even if only to her family. “You need to leave, Trevor. I’m not interested in talking to you.”
“Phoebe, I need to apologize. I need to—”
“I don’t care what you need, Trevor Zander,” she cried out, cutting him off. “What about what I needed all those years ago, huh? What about what I need today?” She yanked open the door and glared at him, no longer caring what kind of image she presented. “How dare you come to my home after all these years and tell me what you need? You have not changed one bit, have you? You’re still a pompous, arrogant—”
This time he cut her off.
Instead of being intimidated by her ferocity, instead of stepping back a pace, Trevor lurched forward so suddenly she could have sworn he caught himself by surprise, too. He cupped her face in both his hands and bent forward so he was only inches away. “Stop,” he ground out, his mouth so close she could feel his breath on her lips. “Please stop. I’m not that man anymore. I’m not. If you’ll just give me a few minutes. Hear me out, please.”
So stunned by his unexpected actions, she went still for a few brief—and oh, so heavenly—moments, before reaching up between them and shoving him away. Her cheeks burned where his palms had been and she swore she could still feel the pressure of his fingertips behind her ears and around the base of her skull.
“What are you doing?” she screeched. She sounded nothing like her usual calm, collected self. “You can’t just manhandle me like that!”
Trevor raised both hands in surrender. “Sorry. I’m sorry,” he muttered, then laced his fingers together over the top of his head. “Phoebe, I’m sorry. I have been so desperate to talk to you all week. Since I remembered.” He shot her a wry, but remorseful lip curl. “And clearly, I’m not the only one who has remembered.”
When Phoebe only continued glaring at him, he took a small step back. “Phoebe, I was wrong. I was wrong in every way that day. It wouldn’t have mattered if I’d said the sky is blue and the grass is green; I still would have been wrong.”
Phoebe bit her bottom lip so hard she tasted blood. He was too much, too intense, too assertive. She didn’t know how to keep a hold on the reins with him. He was still standing too close—she breathed in the delicious man smell he emitted, like her Italian Roast coffee layered with chocolate and something spicy—and his eyes were too blue, too bright, too much.
She realized she was holding her breath and let it out slowly so he wouldn’t know. “Well, as you can see, this isn’t a good time for me.”
“I can’t even imagine,” he murmured, and his words intoned that he was acknowledging far more than the fact that he’d interrupted her work.
“No, you can’t,” she declared, not willing to give him any rope. Go hang yourself, she wanted to shout at him, but even as she thought the words, she could feel the angry air bubble in her chest deflating. And behind it, another one formed, this one filled with vulnerability and relief at the very thought of being able to talk to someone who already knew a big part of her darkest secret. Not all of it, but enough of it…could she trust him? Did she want to trust him? Did she dare?