It was the early hours of morning before Elleny gave in to the doubts and made her way down the stairs to the living room. With a weighty feeling of disloyalty she crossed to the wall where the picture hung. For what seemed an interminably long moment she hesitated in the dusky darkness and then reached to snap on the small lamp attached to the frame.
As her eyes grew accustomed to the soft light, the painting warmed to subtle beauty. Color flowed to color with no clear pattern, yet the scene evoked intensity and a vivid sadness. It was a scene of a summer, one brief season, fighting beneath a blazing sun, clinging stubbornly to a life that faded moment by moment. That was the poignancy of the painting.
And its message? Elleny supposed that would vary with the perspective of the individual viewer. For her, in the waning hours of the quiet, contemplative night, there was a message she didn’t want to consider.
It was Phillip’s fault. He had seeded the doubts. He had altered forever her perception of Mark. Phillip stated without compunction that she was wrong for ever loving Mark.
But she had. And it hadn’t felt wrong then.
She slipped a trembling hand into the pocket of her robe and welcomed the soothing touch of satin. There was no way to soothe her mind, though. No way to look at the beautiful painting before her without wondering, endlessly wondering. Who was the artist? Phillip had said it was Jess. She had believed it was Mark.
Should she ask Jesse? Could she just bluntly ask him if his son had stolen his painting? Or should she try to find out in a more subtle, less aggressive way? Elleny wasn’t sure she could manage either approach.
There was a sound on the stairs and then the glow of illumination as the hallway light came on. Elleny glanced over her shoulder, knowing by the footsteps it was Jesse, feeling the pulsating beat of her heart against her rib cage. Here, perhaps, was her opportunity, but she wasn’t prepared. She had to know, but she simply wasn’t ready to ask.
Jesse stood in the doorway for a minute watching her, his face shadowed, his expression hidden. “Restless tonight?” His voice was mellow, hoarse and deep, and for the first time in a long time, he sounded as if he wanted to hear her answer.
Was this the moment? Should she blurt out the question now? No, not yet. She tried to smile but turned out a dismal effort. “Just some things on my mind.”
He nodded and came to her side, slowly. He stood next to her in silence, resting his hands on the curved handle of his cane and looking at the painting just as she was. She turned her gaze to him, studying him, searching for a clue that would negate the need to ask. But she knew that words were her only hope. Maybe, after all, a subtle probing would be best. If she could just get him to talk to her.
“Quiet is good for the soul,” Jess said softly.
And suddenly, oddly, Elleny felt at peace, a state of mind that had eluded her all evening. Yet now it came, along with the acceptance of the bond she shared with Jesse. A bond formed because of their love for Mark and strengthened by their love for A.J. A bond that gave her new understanding. And new courage.
“Why did you stop painting, Jess?” The question came from her heart, though she already knew the answer. She supposed a part of her had known all along. And Jesse would confirm it if she didn’t push for answers, if she took the conversation one slow step at a time.
“You know why.” He lifted a hand in explanation. “I can’t paint anymore.”
“The doctors have told you therapy would help restore the use of your hands, Jess. You just don’t want to paint anymore.”
He pursed his mouth in a grim line. “Since Mark died, I don’t have the heart for it.”
“Since he died, Jesse? Or did it happen sometime before that?” She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t, but she placed her fingers on his arm to make the contact that seemed so necessary. “Please tell me. I need to understand.”
In the stillness she heard her heart beat and in her memory she heard the teasing, pleasant sound of Mark’s laughter. She remembered his smile. She looked at the painting and felt the sadness as if she were the dying summer clinging to a past that was fading with each heartbeat.
“If you’re asking, Elleny, you must already know.”
She closed her eyes against a denial that came too late. What she had hoped not to ask was the very question that now she had to voice. “You painted this, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
With Jess’s admission, her hand trembled against his arm. “If he hadn’t died, he would have gotten caught, wouldn’t he?”
“Eventually. I think I did a fair job in covering for him.”
“Why? Why didn’t you stop it in the beginning?”
“The beginning.” Jess shifted his weight and sighed. “Now that’s something I’ve pondered long and hard. But I don’t know. I just don’t know when the beginning was. Did it start the first time Mark put brush to canvas because he wanted to be just like his dad? Or did it begin on the day he was born and I passed out cigars? I think I must have told the whole world that my son would be the greatest artist who ever lived.”
Elleny smiled in bittersweet reminiscence. “Mark told the world something similar on the day A.J. was born. Do you remember?”
“I know that anyone Mark didn’t tell, I did.” Jesse’s lips curled slightly with the memory, then returned to the solemn line of the present. “I pushed Mark too hard, Elleny. Expected too much of him. Nothing he painted was quite good enough. If he ever had a thought of choosing another career, he was afraid to tell me. I taught him everything I knew about art, but I neglected to teach him anything of real value.”
“That isn’t true, Jesse. The Mark I knew and loved was a son you can be proud of. And there’s a stubborn part of you that clings to that pride, no matter how faded.”
“Is there a stubborn part of you, too, Elleny?”
“I guess there must be.”
He lifted one hand from the cane and patted her fingers where they lay against his arm. “Good night, Elleny. I believe I can rest now.” He turned and began the long walk upstairs.
Elleny waited a few minutes, took a last lingering look at the summer painting before turning off the light and following him. She was tired, suddenly, more tired than she’d been in a very long time. Yet she, too, thought that now she could rest. Rest in the understanding that no one was totally good or totally bad, no single perspective totally right or wrong. And there was comfort in knowing that Jesse, although disillusioned, still loved, still treasured that part of Mark that had been good.
At the top of the stairs she paused to watch Jesse. Was it her imagination, or did he seem to have a lighter step? For years she had thought of him as a moody, contrary, ill-tempered old man, but tonight he was touchingly human. Perhaps, all along, her problem with him had been simply a matter of perspective. Maybe she shouldn’t let the discussion end. There were things she hadn’t told him. Maybe she should tell him about the van Warner and about Phillip being an insurance investigator. Wasn’t it wrong not to warn Jesse that despite his efforts, Mark still might be exposed as a thief and forger?
“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.
Phillip studied the watercolor for long moments in which she could not breathe, wasn’t even sure she wanted to. The evidence of Mark’s crime, the proof Phillip had doggedly pursued, was now concrete. And Elleny felt a lingering denial ease into a grudging acceptance.
It hurt – this confirmation of Mark’s deception and of Phillip’s truth – yet she had no sense of betrayal. The husband she had loved, the Mark she had known, had not stolen the painting and substituted a forgery in its place. It had been another person, someone she hadn’t known existed. She would have to face that, she realized. She would have to deal with the ramifications of Mark’s other life as they pertained to her future and to A.J.’s.
But for now, she had to face Phillip.
“What are you going to do with it?” she asked in a tight, choked voice.
Dark eyes turned their focus to her in concern, but there was a flicker of triumph there, too, and she didn’t think she could forgive him that. “I have to return the painting to the owner, Elleny. There’s no choice, but I promise I’ll do what I can to protect you.”
“It isn’t for me, Phillip, but for A.J. I don’t want him to be affected by any publicity or....” She couldn’t get another word past her lips. Her mouth was cottony dry and refused to plead anymore.
Phillip took a step toward her, but she immediately moved back. He stopped and for a moment she saw pain in his eyes.
“I’ll do everything I can, Elleny. If it’s within my power, the crime Mark committed will never again hurt A.J., Jesse or you.” He paused. “And I think you have to admit that Mark did commit this crime.”
A heavy sensation of disaster churned in the pit of her stomach as he turned the challenge to her. “There isn’t a handwritten confession, but I believe this evidence would convince any jury beyond a reasonable doubt. Defend him now, if you can.”
Her hands trembled. Her heartbeat was as loud as a drum roll. Phillip was waiting for an answer. His answer. For him it was a black-and-white question easily settled with a black-and-white answer. For her the answer was shaded by a thousand memories of a man whom she had loved and respected. Mark hadn’t been the person she’d thought he was. If he’d lived, she undoubtedly would have been disillusioned and would have had to face this moment in some other context. But Mark had died ... and she had mourned. She couldn’t resurrect the past and then condemn it to death. She couldn’t mourn again.
From somewhere she found the courage to lift her chin and give her answer. “I can’t defend what he did, Phillip, but I will always defend my right to believe he was a person worth loving.”
The words dropped into a vacuum, and she waited for him to speak. To finally understand.
But he didn’t. He just stood for an eternity, holding the painting like a shield, as if he too were waiting for words that didn’t come. At last he turned, made his way to the front door, and opened it. For a moment Elleny thought he really was going to leave without another word.
But at the last possible second, with his hand on the doorknob and the rain creating a rhythmic accompaniment behind him, he looked to her again. “If you want to live your life behind a pair of rose-colored glasses, Elleny, then who am I to stop you? Thanks for….”
With a sad, wistful sort of smile, he left the rest to her imagination and walked outside. With the van Warner canvas tucked protectively beneath the folds of his coat, he closed the door behind him and paused beneath the narrow awning before running to the car.
Elleny stood at the window to watch him drive away through the steady downpour. And then there was only the empty street and the lonely splash of rain ... and her empty heart.