by Jayna Morrow
“Hey, Olen. It’s been a long time.”
Olen’s droopy eyes and curly, dark hair hadn’t changed since high school. He hadn’t grown any either. He was still as short as he ever was. A dimple appeared in his chin as his mouth turned up into a wide smile. It had been years since he’d seen his old high school friend. Olen extended his hand and Holden accepted it in a vigorous shake.
“Hello, Mrs. Lissemore.” Irelynn greeted her friend.
“Good to see you, Irelynn. You two enjoying another evening together?”
“Dinner and a downtown stroll. Visiting.”
“That’s wonderful. It’s great to see you out and about and enjoying yourself again.”
Irelynn smiled.
“I need to speak with you about something. Do you have a moment?”
“Sure.”
The two ladies stepped away.
Holden turned his attention back to his old friend. Olen Wyatt. Of all the people to run into, here was the one person from his old life who knew him best. He’d lost count of the number of science experiments they’d completed together. Olen was, unequivocally, a nerd. What did that make him? A nerd’s best friend.
“I heard you came to town a while back. Sorry I missed you.”
“It was kind of a…” He trailed off and gave his words careful thought, unsure of what Gabriel would want the world to know. “…family emergency. I didn’t go anywhere but to my brother’s house.”
“It’s...OK,” Olen muttered. He broke eye contact.
“No, it’s not OK.” Holden shuffled his feet. He’d run away from his old image, shutting out those he cared about. “I should have made time to see you, ya know, catch up on old times. I’ve stayed away for too long. I’m sorry about that.”
“I’ll get over it. Maybe we can get together while you’re in town this time?”
Irelynn returned without Mrs. Lissemore. “Your grandmother said to tell you she’ll be waiting in the yogurt shop.”
Olen nodded.
“Mrs. Lissemore is your grandmother?” Holden asked.
“Yes. How do y’all know each other?”
“She’s a friend of Irelynn’s, actually. I met her the other night. To answer your question, let’s hang out this week. I won’t leave without seeing you.”
“I’m gonna hold you to it.” Olen grinned looking Holden up and down. “You’ve changed a lot, old friend.”
“Aging will do that to a man.”
“It’s more than years. Look what you’ve done to yourself.”
Oh, no, here it comes. Holden did not want to have this conversation in front of Irelynn.
“You traded your glasses for a gym membership and a snazzy new shirt with no pocket protector. What have you been up to, man?”
The effect of Olen’s words was like walking around all day with an undetected pimple, only to have someone point it out at an inopportune moment.
Irelynn pressed her lips together to keep from laughing.
“I take a little more pride in my outward appearance now.”
“I see.” Then something flashed in Olen’s eyes. He laughed and snorted a bit, held his hand out to steady himself. “Speaking of appearances and pocket protectors. Do you remember when we entered that physics competition and...”
“Hey! Whoa, buddy. I think that’s a story for another time.”
Irelynn’s lips, the edges of which had betrayed her amusement earlier, relaxed, and her eyebrows rose. Nothing got by her. And nothing about her got by him.
“OK, I won’t embarrass you in front of your girlfriend. How did you two end up together anyway?”
“Oh, we’re not a couple,” Irelynn chimed in. “We’re working together this week. Maybe next week.”
That couldn’t be all. Holden’s heart sank. “We’ve also spent time together outside of work, and I think we’re becoming friends. Wouldn’t you say so?”
Irelynn smiled and nodded.
“Sounds like y’all need to figure that out.” Olen’s laugh ended with a tiny snort. “How come I don’t remember you from school, Irelynn?”
“I’m younger, but I was homeschooled. I was sheltered, too.”
“I see. I look forward to getting to know you then.” He turned to Holden. “Let’s exchange numbers so we can make plans this week.”
In unison with Olen, Holden pulled out his cell. He pushed a button and bumped his phone against Olen’s to exchange information. “Got it.”
“Me, too. Now I’ll let you two friends get back to your non-date. Granny’s waiting.”
“I’ll holler at you later, man.”
“Nice meeting you, Olen. Goodnight.” Irelynn smiled again.
Olen entered the yogurt shop and waved.
Now Holden would have to hang out with Olen. And he’d have to make a decision to reveal or not to reveal certain facts about his life. That’s why he’d come back, right?
He wanted to unveil one thing right now. Even standing on the sidewalk in the middle of downtown, with people watching, he was tempted to take Irelynn’s hands, tell her to get rid of Emerson and give him a chance. He couldn’t understand the magnetic force behind it all. Nothing in his scientific studies explained it. He’d resist though. He was a man, and he understood the game.
Emerson had lost interest, if he’d ever had it, and was pulling away. He didn’t want to be the bad guy and break up with her, so he’d play this game until Irelynn dumped him, fed up at long last. Holden despised head games, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t used the technique a time or two. But that was before he let the Lord guide his path. These days, he did his best to be transparent, which was why he struggled so much with his identity now.
“Are you OK?” Irelynn’s abrupt question whisked him out of his thoughts.
“Yeah, thinking about old times. You want to go for a drive?” He started in the direction of his car.
She followed. “Sure.”
“What did you and Mrs. Lissemore talk about?” He kept a strolling pace. “It looked serious from where I stood.” He walked on the outside of the sidewalk, keeping Irelynn on the inside and away from traffic. The old-fashioned, gentlemanly move, felt more natural with her. He walked close enough that their shoulders brushed about every ten steps.
Holden lifted his gaze to the sky while he waited for her answer, seeking out the Big and Little Dippers first, then a quick scan for the brightest star. If the great astronomers had asked the sky questions and left the universe a mystery when it refused to answer, people would still be looking up in wonder. But they hadn’t given up. They’d studied and researched until they claimed the answers they sought and opened up the true beauty of space.
Irelynn wasn’t like a public wall on a social website, but more like a classic novel to be studied and appreciated. He loved that about her. Irelynn was literature and science combined. She was beauty and brains, gift-wrapped in understanding, and tied up with a sweeping bow of mystery. He welcomed the challenge to learn every facet of her being.
Maybe his theory about Emerson was incorrect and he was doing the best he could with his crazy schedule. But from the statements Irelynn had made, Holden couldn’t help feeling that what Irelynn needed was a new perspective about the whole relationship. But losing Emerson when her self-esteem was low and she was harboring unresolved issues regarding her artistic abilities would make the situation worse. She might retreat further. No, Irelynn needed to protect her inner flame from outward peril. She needed to build a raging fire inside her heart that nothing could snuff out.
“Don’t tell me you’re a secret agent and don’t have clearance to reveal the information that Mrs. Lissemore...if that’s her real name...shared with you?”
She stopped, glanced up at him with an ‘I’d-roll-my-eyes-but-I’m-tired-of-rolling-my-eyes-at-you’ look, and shook her head. “Good grief, Holden. You are a strange one.”
“I’ve been told that a time or two. What did y’all talk about? Was it that bad?” He faced her. His car was a fe
w feet away.
“Depends on how you look at it, I guess.”
“How do you look at it?” His question took a step too close.
She retreated into a deep, dark place for self-preservation.
He knew the place well. Getting out was difficult. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I’d like for you to. I won’t judge you no matter what.”
She laughed to lighten the mood. “It’s nothing like that.” Uncertainty split her laughter.
The effect gave him the desire to hold her. “My car’s right over there. Let’s drive around while we talk about it.”
“What if I told you we were comparing casserole recipes for the upcoming church potluck?”
“Is that what y’all discussed?”
“More like a recipe for disaster. Look, I know you want to drive around the countryside and reminisce, but I need to think. Could you take me home?”
He tried not to show his disappointment. He’d wanted her to point out places in Sweet Home that were significant to her, a personal tour of the town through her eyes. He held the door open for her before climbing behind the wheel.
“Mrs. Lissemore is a huge fan of my artwork.” She flicked her fingernails.
He kept his gaze on the road so she wouldn’t be too uncomfortable to speak.
“She recommended me for the mural job at the restaurant.”
“I see. And how did she come to be a fan of your artwork?”
“She was a fan of my father’s first. Mr. Lissemore commissioned a painting from him for their thirtieth wedding anniversary and surprised her with it. A remarkable piece with the couple embracing in a field of stunning colors, created by a moonlight filter. Mr. Lissemore had described the violet night he’d proposed, and Dad captured it in the painting.”
“I’d like to see that painting.”
“You can. It’ll be on display at their anniversary party. She invited us both to attend.”
“Oh...” Even in the dark car, with the moonlight spilling in from the windows, he couldn’t hide his disappointment. That’s what Mrs. Lissemore needed to speak with her about—inviting them to the anniversary party? “And you’re worried what Emerson will think about us attending the party together?”
“I did explain to her that we weren’t together, but that’s not the only thing we discussed.”
“Oh.” He perked up. “What else did she say?”
He turned on Irelynn’s street, located on the edge of downtown. It had taken all of two minutes to get there. No wonder she walked to dinner. If he hadn’t planned on a country drive, they would have walked this evening. He came to a stop in front of her building.
“She wants me to paint another portrait.”
She wrung her hands. The hands that hadn’t painted in years. She regarded them as if they’d committed some crime and could no longer be trusted.
“Will you do it?”
Palms up, her fingertips curled. Then she flipped them over and rubbed them on the knees of her jeans. “I haven’t painted in so long.” Her words came out thick. “I have a lot to think about.”
10
Irelynn woke up in the middle of the living room floor and blinked at the hundreds of charcoal and pencil sketches scattered around her. A little after five in the morning, in her groggy state, the memory of how she’d ended up here was hazy. Maybe it was because she didn’t want to remember? Maybe it was because a rarely-used portion of her brain, the part that ran on autopilot and regret, summoned her here?
Mrs. Lissemore had asked her to paint a portrait for her fiftieth wedding anniversary. She’d gone about it in a way that left Irelynn no choice.
She’d sworn that there wasn't anything or anyone who could get her painting again. But nothing could have prepared her for Mrs. Lissemore’s approach.
I pray you’ll say yes. Our collection won’t be complete until we have father and daughter Raffertys. Your dad was so proud of you for developing your talent and following in his footsteps. He talked of it constantly.
Proud of her? Really? Then why had he killed himself and left her with deep scars and a hole in her heart? She had so many questions...
Irelynn blinked, and her eyelashes stuck together before popping loose, the aftermath of tears mixing with mascara. The skin on her cheeks tightened. Dried tears. She made a wide, arching scan of the sketches surrounding her. A few were wrinkled from her restless sleep. A few were tear-stained and smudged. It gave them character, she concluded, unable to restrain her artist’s eye.
A knock at the door caused her heart to leap. She jumped over the circle of artwork and peeked through the blinds.
Holden stood on her front stoop.
After smoothing her hair and picking at her clumpy mascara, she offered up a quick prayer that nothing was wrong and opened the door. “Is everything OK?” she asked, already searching his expression. “It’s so early. There’s not a problem at the dairy is there?”
“Everything is fine.” His reassuring words calmed, but confusion remained. “I was going to ask you if everything was OK, though.”
“Of course. Why would you think something is wrong?” Other than the fact that his showing up unannounced at five in the morning had given her a mild heart attack. She relaxed against the door but didn’t make an offer for him to come in. Her living room floor was in no state for guests at present. Neither was she, for that matter. She still had on the jeans and black shirt she’d worn to dinner. Curiosity trumped embarrassment though, now that they’d established there was no emergency.
“I was out for a morning run, and I saw your lights on. It was odd for you to be up this early, so I thought I’d check on you. You know, since I was in the neighborhood.”
His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his chest. Damp hair fell in awkward clumps. Stubble covered his chin since he hadn’t yet shaved. And here he was on her doorstep.
“I don’t usually get up this early, but I had a lot on my mind and didn’t sleep well last night.” Her voice faltered a bit, and she regretted revealing so much. He’d pounce on any opportunity to rescue her. He couldn’t deliver her from inner demons. Nobody could. Her reaction to Mrs. Lissemore’s request came as no surprise to her—she shut down when she thought about painting—but he wouldn’t understand. This was something she’d have to work out on her own.
“We can talk about it. Can I come in?”
“The place is a mess...”
If her artwork counted as a mess. An easel with a blank canvas sat in one corner. Paint supplies on a folding table. And all her thoughts, feelings, and questions were strewn about like dirty laundry.
“I can see that. What have you been up to since nine thirty?” He smiled and swept past her.
“Don’t come in, please!” Her heart that had leaped when he’d knocked earlier, swan dived, and began taking laps between her ribs. He’d invaded her cave, and she had nowhere to hide. Her hands covered her mouth out of desperation.
He crossed the entranceway. She’d converted the living area into an art studio, and scattered sketches decorated the room, reflecting the many stages of creativity from haphazard, to clustered, to everything in between. He shook his head. “Did you draw these?”
She came to stand next to him, head bowed low so that her hair formed a fortress around her face, and nodded. “Some of the older ones are my dad’s.”
Holden’s fingers slid around a section of her hair. Gently, he tucked it behind her ear. “Your father was an artist, too?”
His smile enveloped her like an arm around her shoulders. “Yes, he was.” Her heart did a double twist and landed a belly flop. “He loved to sketch Sweet Home from the time he was a young boy.”
“And then you started sketching Sweet Home.” He glanced at her. “Are all of those sketches of this town?”
His glance transformed into a stare that penetrated her soul.
“Roughly sixty years of Sweet Home history in pictures.” Once spoken, she couldn’t deny the s
emblance of pride for the work she and her father had done.
“Why did you stop drawing? Something terrible must have happened to stop a talent like yours.”
“My father died.” The words tumbled. “Killed himself, actually. And my mother—” She stopped, unable to go on. Dizziness almost took her off her feet. She rounded the couch and took a seat. She never imagined how burdensome it would be to talk about the past.
“Your mother didn’t approve of your art?”
“I think she was scared I’d suffer the same fate.”
He sat next to her, and the couch cushion sank in with his weight. He leaned in close, and she sucked in a deep breath. She dreaded the telltale twitch at the corner of his mouth, the one that appeared right before he made a joke, but the twitch never appeared. Holden had a serious side?
“Do you believe that will happen?” His forehead wrinkled.
“I don’t know. I look like him, act like him, paint like him. They say genetics are powerful.”
“Genetics? Is there some sort of connection between his art and his death?”
She leaned forward until her head almost rested in her lap, then reached out and picked up a half-finished sketch at her feet. Unlike the others, this sketch was skewed, the lines fragmented, and the overall picture distorted. “Toward the end, his ability to draw and paint wavered. Frustrated, he’d try and try to draw the same image, and each one would come out worse than the one before it. He couldn’t understand what was happening to him, and neither could we. Doctors called it rapid deterioration of the brain. Autopsy reports stated that there was a malignant mass on the brain.” She stopped to clear her throat before continuing. “Mother thought his art drove him to madness, like van Gogh.”
“I’m no art expert, but I’ve read that there is no connection between van Gogh’s art and mental health. I would say the same for your father. You’ll not drive yourself to insanity by painting and drawing, Irelynn.”
She didn’t give a response but fixed her gaze upon the sketch she held. Did brain deterioration cause his artistic decline or did years of extreme creativity cause the brain deterioration?
Holden moved to the floor and shuffled some papers.