Hallie's Comet

by Denise Dietz

  He flipped through them slowly. “These are your paintings?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve changed your style.”

  “How do you know my style?”

  “I’ve seen your ballerinas.”

  She was staring intently at his face, anticipating his reaction, so Gabe tried to remain impassive, especially when he came to the picture of his “double.” It was flattering, almost too flattering. There were no imperfections. Hallie’s rendition didn’t show the small scar across his chin, the result of a swift fall to the ground during one of his wartime assignments. Hallie’s rendition increased his chest by a couple of inches and gave him pecs that would make a heavyweight contender scramble between the ropes. “I give up,” the contender would howl. “Let Rocky or Hillary Swank fight Gabe.”

  Gabriel, not Gabe. He would have to keep them straight.

  Had Hallie responded to Gabe’s kiss? Or Gabriel’s?

  Strange to think that Gabe Quinn’s rival wasn’t his brother, Josh. It wasn’t even Hallie’s so-called fiancé, Ivan. Gabe’s rival was a man who didn’t exist. If he did, he’d be hanging up there on the wall, along with the other movie stars.

  That thought brought Gabe back to the immediate present and Hallie’s expressive eyes. Her gaze still probed his face.

  “These are great,” he said with genuine enthusiasm. “Your paintings have an old-fashioned playfulness. And yet, in my humble opinion, your painted women could pose for a calendar, or the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. And your comet is awesome.”

  “I’m mad as a March hare, right?”

  He was tempted to grin at her latest offbeat phrase. “Wrong. I bet it’s subliminal.”

  “Subliminal? My mind is functioning below the threshold of conscious awareness? Like a television commercial?”

  “Exactly. You read a book or saw a film and—”

  “That’s what Marianne says. Well, duh! Josh might have mentioned you at the art seminar. I don’t remember him calling you Gabriel or giving a physical description, but we talked about so many things. When I began to paint my dream man…” She paused, her cheeks aflame. “Okay. Let’s figure this out, step by step, logically. I was painting ballerinas for my gallery show. I promised the gallery six new canvasses. Usually I thrive on pressure, but this time I must have felt stressed. So I took a commercial break. I painted you, probably from something Josh said. Then my subconscious continued directing my brain and I created Lady Scarlet. Gosh, I feel better.”

  “I’m glad I could help.”

  “Help? You’re a godsend.”

  She was the godsend, Gabe thought. A godsend was a desirable thing that comes unexpectedly. Hallie had certainly burst into his life unexpectedly, just as Jenn had unexpectedly exited.

  Was he caught in a rebound vortex?

  No. He didn’t believe that. His relationship with Jenn had been deteriorating for months. However, he must not forget that his brother had staked the first claim. Even if Hallie didn’t reciprocate, Gabe had no right to trespass.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” she said, her voice tremulous.

  On tiptoe, she molded her fingers around his neck and gave him a kiss that seared his lips. All his clear reasoning wended its way up the chimney. Like smoke. He was drawn to Hallie, the same way a nail was drawn to a magnet. Or, to use another, more apropos cliché, a moth to a flame.

  “Gabriel,” she breathed, just before she captured his tongue.

  His hands inched her skirt up until he encountered cotton panties that felt like silk. Or did her supple thighs feel like silk? He was so intoxicated by her kiss, he couldn’t tell the difference. With a moan, she straddled his hips. Good. Now her face was level with his, and he could give her tongue the attention it deserved. He could also give her curvy rump the attention it deserved. He ached to nuzzle her breasts and lick her nipples, but that would come later. Maybe not. As he fondled her buttocks, she let go of his neck and began to sink backwards.

  He lowered her to the Turkish Prayer rug. Her legs relaxed. Long lashes shaded her cheeks. He couldn’t make a coherent decision. Should he taste her sweet breath again? Or should he search out the hidden treasure that lay buried beneath her blouse and bra?

  “Gabriel,” she breathed. “Oh Gabriel, I’ve waited so long. Years and years.”

  Despite his heart’s thunder, Gabe heard her whispered words. This time he knew she was responding to the man in her painting, her perfect man.

  He felt a flash of disappointment, then anger. Why not take advantage of her confusion and play her subliminal hero? When he finished, she would concede that reality was more satisfying than dreams.

  But that would be too late. He wanted her awake now, aware now, responding to him.

  “Gabriel, why do you hesitate?” she whimpered. “Is it because I’m pure?”

  Gabe sat back on his heels. Pure? Was Hallie a virgin? He recalled her wide-eyed gaze at the airport when he’d mentioned the roommate thing. Yes, she was a virgin, or a very competent actress. No. Jenn acted. Hallie possessed integrity. He didn’t know her very well, but he knew that much.

  “Honey?” He leaned forward and gently traced the contours of her face. “Honey, wake up.”

  She blinked open her eyes. “I’m on the floor. Did I faint?”

  “You swooned,” he said. It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was close, and he didn’t want to frighten her.

  “I’ve never fainted in my life,” she wailed, sitting up. “Today, twice. You must think me a silly goose. There I go again. I’ve never said ‘silly goose’ before. I’ve never even tasted goose, or cooked one’s goose, or brewed a goose.”

  “Hush. You’re physically and emotionally exhausted, that’s all.” Rising, he extended his hand and helped her to her feet.

  “I remember thanking you and kissing you. Did I swoon from your kiss?”

  “Probably,” he teased. “I tasted my first real kiss when I was in the fifth grade. It was wet, very wet, and the girl upon whom I bestowed the honor called me a basted frog. In retrospect, I’m sure she meant bastard frog.”

  Hallie gave him a tight-lipped grin, just before she said, “You have to kiss a lot of basted frogs before you find your prince.”

  “I’ve practiced since the fifth grade and my kisses aren’t quite so sloppy. I don’t think I’m proficient enough to cause swoons, but I’m working on it.”

  “I think I’ll retire.”

  “From kissing? You’re awfully young to retire from—”

  “Bed, Gabe. If you don’t mind, I’ll retire to your bedroom. I’m suddenly so exhausted I can’t see straight.”

  She did look dog-tired, he thought. Circling her waist, he guided her up the staircase and turned right. They entered his bedroom. It smelled of freshly-laundered sheets. The moon shone through an overhead skylight, casting a diluted glow across his bureau, desk and king-sized bed. Hallie headed straight for the bed, sank down upon its mattress, and closed her eyes.

  Poor baby. He was tempted to massage her tense shoulders, but she had already turned over onto her side and fallen fast asleep. What about her clothes? Forget it. He had a washer and dryer. If her outfit was dry-clean-only, they’d deposit it at the cleaners on their way to Cripple Creek. He was anxious to visit Cripple Creek. He had soothed Hallie’s fears, at least temporarily, with un-Twilight Zone logic. But he knew, for a fact, that his brother hadn’t mentioned him during the art seminar. Furthermore, “subliminal” didn’t cover her quirky conversational lapses. Or Gabriel. Who the hell was Gabriel?

  There was a definite link between Gabriel, Lady Scarlet, and Scarlet’s daughter. Gabe was a movie buff as well as a music buff. Now he tried to probe his memory for a similar plot, or at least a Gabriel. He’d remember that name since it was his own. Nope. Didn’t ring a bell. Yes, it did. There was a 1950-something movie where Clark Gable had played a man named Gabriel. But the heroine wasn’t Lady Scarlet. In fact, the only Scarlet Gabe knew of was O’Hara, Scarlett
, spelled with two tees at the end.

  Could Lady Scarlet be a pseudonym?

  If true, she’d be impossible to trace, assuming she’d actually existed. What about her daughter? The daughter didn’t even have a name.

  Gabe stifled the impulse to snap his fingers. He recalled the photo he had shot when Jenn jostled his arm; the shadow of a woman and child seated on his antique couch. Could the woman be Scarlet? Could the child be little Miss No Name? Come to think of it, that very same couch had appeared in two of Hallie’s paintings. Which meant what?

  Which meant he was as mad as a March hare, too. Or that he and Hallie were connected by the past.

  Gabe liked to read about the past, but he liked to live for the present. And the future.

  I want to establish a future with Hallie O’Brien!

  He yearned to blurt the words out loud. He yearned to tell her that the thought of losing her caused an ache far worse than the one he’d felt when the pretty fifth grader called him a basted frog.

  Tomorrow he and Hallie would drive to Cripple Creek. Tomorrow they’d try to unravel the mystery of Scarlet, Gabriel and the little girl. There had to be a logical explanation.

  As he closed the bedroom door, Gabe thought he heard her murmur, “Don’t forget to give your Knickers a goodnight kiss.”

  TEN

  Hallie awoke with a start. Gabe didn’t have a bedroom clock so she couldn’t determine the time. The overhead skylight displayed an infinity of stars, haphazardly pinned to a bolt of black velour.

  Gabe had left the hallway lit. Clothed in her rumpled skirt and blouse, she navigated the staircase, which led directly to the family room.

  Her “Archangel” slept on the sofa, his dark lashes shading his cheeks. The blanket had slipped and she saw that he didn’t wear pajamas, at least not on top. She had expected a mat of fur to dominate the vast expanse of his chest, but it didn’t. Pale moonlight, spilling through the window panes, revealed sleek, etched muscles. Gabe looked like an ad for an exercise machine, the TV ad where a male model exhibits different parts of his body and hints that viewers could achieve the same result if they invested a few measly dollars a month, plus shipping and handling, satisfaction guaranteed.

  Satisfaction. Oh, yes. Handling. She wanted to trace those hard muscles until her hand tired of its task. No. Until her lips tired.

  Crazy! She was acting crazy again. She had known Gabe less than one day. Well, less than three months, if her dream portrait counted, and yet she honestly felt as if she’d known him for a hundred years.

  With a sigh, she tiptoed into the alcove where he had set up her easel. After pressing her thumb against a light switch, she saw that her primed canvasses leaned against the wall. Her paint box lay on top of a table, along with various studio props.

  Three hours later, a new painting adorned her easel. The painting depicted a bull and matador. In the distance, bleachers and box seats were filled with people, some standing, some sitting, all cheering.

  Well, almost all.

  Highlighted by a cyclone of sunshine that spiraled down from the top of the canvas, one young girl looked stunned. No. Distressed.

  She wore a yoke dress, the material falling loosely from the stitched smocking on her chest. Her red hair had been drawn up and back to display her ears, but unruly curls tumbled, willy-nilly, to frame her small, heart-shaped face. Her feet were shod in boots and in her hands she clutched a bonnet.

  On their own volition, Hallie’s fingers curled tightly around her paintbrush.

  As if directed by a master puppeteer, she added a couple of quick strokes.

  Now, the girl screamed.

  Dropping the paintbrush, Hallie stepped back, away from the painting.

  The bull’s slick hide glistened. The matador, dressed in black and gold, held a red cape aloft. There were many other scrupulous details, including a dark blue sky that resembled the bunting on an American flag.

  Like a swimmer emerging from the depths of a chlorinated pool, Hallie rubbed her eyes. She was vaguely aware that her skirt and blouse were paint-spattered, but she didn’t care. The urge to paint had gone away, thank goodness, leaving her emotionally drained. And so tired she thought she might keel over.

  She had used pure crimson for the matador’s cape. A few spots stained her white blouse and looked like blood. She hurt all over, as if she had been gored by the bull’s horns. Still half dazed, she dragged her aching body up the stairs, entered Gabe’s bedroom, shed her clothes, and curled up under the blanket.

  Behind her closed eyelids, she pictured matadors and picadors. She wanted to cover her ears against the sound of clapping hands and stamping feet. She felt the tense, horrid expectation of the crowd and smelled the dust of the bullring, even though she’d never been to a bullfight, never even watched a bullfight. Bullfights were brutal, bloody, and she knew, without a single doubt, that she’d feel a deep, emotional empathy for the bull.

  Ivan had once told her to grow up; that bullfights were merely sporting events and that the bull had a better than even chance.

  She didn’t believe him, not for one moment.

  If a movie began to depict a bullfight, she left the theater. If the movie was on TV, she shut her eyes. Or turned off the television.

  Hallie tried to sleep. But even with her eyes shut, she couldn’t turn off her painting.

  ELEVEN

  Gabe downshifted the Blazer.

  “Teddy Roosevelt once described Cripple Creek as scenery that bankrupts the English language,” he said. “But you’ve lacked language, English or otherwise, for more than a dozen bumpy miles. Have you lost your voice?”

  “Yes,” Hallie replied with a dreamy smile. At the same time, she admired the play of Gabe’s thigh muscles as his laced hiking boots hit the clutch and brake petals. White denim hugged his lean hips. His blue shirt was rolled up above his elbows, revealing muscular forearms. He had suggested she dress comfortably and casually, so an old faded pair of jeans hugged her hips.

  Maybe she should have worn something spiffier. She had packed her favorite ankle-length smock-dress, but unless she stuffed her feet into high-heeled boots, the smock was too long.

  Allowing a dress to trail on the street is in exceedingly bad taste. Such a street costume simply calls forth criticism and contempt from more sensible people.

  Despair coursed through her as she stifled the urge to plug her ears with her fingers. The voice was inside her head. Plugging her ears wouldn’t help.

  “I guess you can’t talk and assimilate bumps at the same time,” Gabe teased.

  “New York has bumps, only we call them potholes,” she retorted. “Frankly, I’m trying to assimilate all this beauty. And the altitude. Both are making me lose my breath.”

  “You’ll get used to the altitude.”

  “New York has mountains, the Catskills. Did you ever hear the joke about Rip Van Winkle? When he awoke from his twenty year nap, he found a phone and dialed his brokerage firm. The stockbroker who answered said, ‘Mr. Winkle, your assets are now worth five billion dollars.’ Rip was delighted. As a billionaire he could do all the things he’d never done before. Visit Europe. Wed a beautiful woman. Eat fine food and drink expensive wines. Then an operator interrupted his conversation. The operator said, ‘Please deposit one million dollars for the first three minutes.’”

  The sound of Gabe’s laughter eradicated Hallie’s despair. “I’m still sleepy,” she admitted ruefully, yawning behind her hand. “And yet, I feel as if I slept twenty years last night.”

  A bald-faced lie! Gabe’s gaze was on riveted the road, so he couldn’t see her eyes, heavy-lidded with fatigue and bright with denial. He hadn’t discovered her bullfight painting because she’d risen early and primed the canvas with thick white primer, “erasing” the bull, the matador, the crowd and the little girl.

  Despite her puzzling compulsion to create the original Cripple Creek scenes, the six resultant paintings had intrigued her. The bullfight painting, however, terr
ified her. She understood why the little girl screamed because she would have screamed too, and that was the scary part. Somehow, she had stepped into her own painting and become the little girl.

  Hallie shook her curls. No. She hadn’t become the little girl. She’d felt a connection with the little girl.

  Now she wished she had left the canvas un-primed. Gabe had soothed her fears last night, so he might have a perfectly logical explanation for her latest “paranormal pictorial.”

  “I’m still sleepy,” she repeated.

  “It’s the altitude, honey.”

  “You blame everything on the altitude, don’t you?”

  “Yup.”

  They reached the top of a steep rise. Hallie gazed down at what looked like haphazardly clustered houses and hotels, spread out across a Monopoly board. “Where did the name Cripple Creek come from?” she asked.

  “A cow wandered across the creek, fell, and broke her leg.”

  “Really? That’s the truth?”

  “Cross my heart.”

  “Even from a distance the town looks so charming, so aesthetic. How can they allow gambling?”

  “The favorite justification is that gambling played an integral part in Cripple Creek’s history. It was the recreational release that gave men the resolve to go down into those mines day after day, month after month.” Removing his hand from the steering wheel, Gabe gestured toward the Mollie Kathleen Gold Mine, now a tourist attraction.

  Although she’d never been particularly claustrophobic, Hallie shuddered at the thought of entering its dark, dank concavity. Not her cup of tea.

  “Some say you can hear the miners,” Gabe continued, “coal-black from working underground all day, whooping it up at the poker tables. Cripple Creek is filled with ghosts.”

  So am I, thought Hallie, tightening the laces on her tennis shoes.

  Gabe parked in a small lot behind a casino called Elk Creek, then retrieved his camera bag from the Blazer’s back seat. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’d like to spend a few minutes with Elk Creek’s owner, Joe. I’ve promised to shoot some photos for his decor.”