"Michaela," Zack called.
She heard her name from a long distance. Michaela looked up and saw Zack sitting across from her.
"Sorry, I was daydreaming. My paintings." She remembered his question. "They're not on-site at the moment. I'll pick them up tomorrow before the setup begins."
All the artists or their assistants saw to the hanging and lighting of their works.
"They're not being delivered?" Zack said.
Shaking her head, she said, "Mine are stored at my family's house. I often paint there and since I only have a couple that I'm displaying, bringing them to the gallery won't be a problem."
"If you need a hand." He spread his. "I'm willing to help."
Michaela nodded, thinking he was the most personable artist she'd met and she'd met plenty in her lifetime. Zack could have been a salesman or a consultant. He had clean fingers and fingernails. No paint residue marred his skin. The only part of an artist she saw in him was his scrutiny of the world. When he'd looked at her, she had the feeling he was taking each one of her features separately and analyzing them before putting them back together.
She wondered if he painted that way, like a surgeon, only seeing the one single area that he painted, then moving to the next and the next until he'd completed the entire canvas. Yet, she didn't fully believe that scenario. He looked to her like a man who could see the big picture. Viewing just a small part of anything was not even a concept he understood.
Maybe she should just let things be and not try to put him into any artists' box. He didn't seem to have a fit anyway.
"How did you decide to become a painter?" She stopped. She didn't mean that. You don't decide to be a painter. You just are. It's in your DNA. All you need to do is find the spark that calls you or have someone point out your talent. "I mean when did you begin to take it seriously?"
Zack looked up and smiled. Then he laughed as if the memory was a happy one. "I guess it came to me when I was about seven, but I didn't know it."
Michaela frowned.
"The school took us to a museum. Everybody laughed at all the portraits and landscapes -- me included." He smiled again. "But I really liked some of them. When I was about sixteen, an art teacher encouraged me to paint. I started experimenting. I used to sit in class and sketched Mary Ellen Green. She was a leggy, long-haired, cheerleader who sat across from me in Geometry class. I had the worse crush on her. "
"But she didn't know you were alive."
Zack's brows rose. "How did you know?"
"For me, it was Jordan Taylor. I have an entire sketchbook of him. He had dark brown eyes, dimples in both cheeks and a killer smile."
They both laughed, then Zack continued. "Mary Ellen's profile was perfect in my eyes and I couldn't help sketching her face and hair. Then I'd go out and sketch trees and bushes, houses, everything. It felt so right, and it was calming."
"Did you need something to calm you?"
"Only as much as any pubescent sixteen-year-old boy needs."
Michaela laughed.
"My home life was fine, parents loved and supported me. But art, that was my passion. I knew then that I wanted to do nothing else. What about you?"
"I come by it honestly. My mother was an art professor at the college."
She tossed her head in a direction that was probably toward the college, but Zack didn't know where it was.
"Where are they now?" he asked. "Your parents."
"Arizona. They retired and bought a huge desert house so they could see the night sky and the mountains in the distance. My mother loves painting the sand and the ocean."
"So other than support from parents and Jordan Taylor, what's your favorite thing to paint; portraits, landscapes. . .?"
"A few years ago, I'd have said scenes, like a line of buildings or people on the street, but lately I've been leaning toward single subjects."
"Portraits?"
She nodded. "Sometimes, but I also do a single flower, not like Georgia O'Keefe, but maybe a single rose in a vase or a child playing in a park."
Zack nodded, but he could tell there was something else on Michaela's mind. He could only wondered what it was.
Chapter 2
Setup day began early for Michaela. Carrying her coffee and a muffin, she was at the hall before seven. And she wasn't the first one there. Activity had already begun. The sound of wrenches prying crates open and hammering filled the air. Going to her small office, she put her things down and took a drink of the coffee Blythe had ready for her when she left the Bed and Breakfast.
Michaela loved the sound of preparations lifting to the height of the cavernous room. It meant the Walk was coming together. Looking over the activity, she thought of the way the space had looked nine years ago when she held the first Walk.
It began as an idea to pump up her lagging career and to raise money for an art program in the Vineyard schools that had been eliminated due to budget cuts. Michaela had a little money, enough for the bare bones of what it was today. Local artists came out of the bushes it seemed when she posted a few flyers and set up an Internet website about the event. Most of the offers she refused. The art wasn't up to her standards.
Then two things happened. Blythe introduced her to one of her guests, Eric Cameron. He was a fledgling artist who'd come to the Vineyard a few years ago and was exactly who Michaela had been hoping to find. The second thing was one of her instructors from Italy was on the Vineyard and agreed to judge the contest she conceived as she stood talking to him.
The event was so spectacularly attended that it surprised Michaela. Eric's career skyrocketed, and he'd been a fixture at the Walk ever since. Word traveled to Boston and her career expanded and continued to grow to where it was today. She was constantly asked for showings in her small gallery. That gallery now was huge and had a reputation in the art world.
This year she had Zachary Cooper as the judge and speaker and she couldn't do better than that. But his presence made her nervous. She'd been thinking about a major draw for the Walk and Zack's name had floated through her mind for less than a nanosecond. He was too big and probably too busy for an event on Martha's Vineyard. But when she walked into her gallery the following morning, she had two messages on her machine from him.
Michaela had to sit down before her legs gave way. Zack Cooper called her. She gazed at the painting across from her desk. It was one of his. She admired his work and thankfully she'd purchased the small oil painting before he became the art world's next best thing.
There was no painting by Zack in this make-shift office, but Michaela pictured the canvas in her mind. She may have bought that painting before he was a household name, but now that he was, why would he volunteer to do a favor for a total stranger?
She was going to have to ask him.
Her chance came sooner rather than later. Zack came through the door almost at the same time that she thought of him. Michaela couldn't help asking herself if the cloak had conjured him up. Quickly, she banished the thought. The cloak was heavy on her shoulders, but it only affected her, not Zack or anyone else.
"Good morning," Zack said. "Had breakfast, yet?"
His eyes were slightly blurry and tired looking as if he didn't sleep well.
"Coffee and one of Blythe's muffins."
He frowned. "Come on, let's go get some protein."
His tone wasn't commanding or spoken as a command, yet Michaela felt she needed to go with him. Five minutes later they entered the St. Romaine Hotel, one of the five-star facilities on the Vineyard. A large poster advertising the Walk stood inside the double doors. Adrienne English was the hotel manager. She was from Amherst, MA, and Michaela and she were good friends. Michaela didn't see her when they entered, but she was probably somewhere around. The hotel always supported the Walk.
The dining room, even at this early hour, was elegantly appointed. The walls were accented in gold and white to complement the white tablecloths, silverware, china dishes and crystal water glasses.
"That ought to last us until everything is ready," Zack said when they finished eating. Leaning back in his chair, he relaxed after pouring a third cup of tea. He looked a lot better after the food.
She nodded, smiling. "I expect a few glitches, nothing catastrophic." She took out her cell phone and checked for messages. The indicator showed none. "So far, all looks well."
Michaela hadn't been gone that long and she knew she should return to oversee the setup, but she wanted to ask Zack a question. A waiter approached the table with a coffee pot. Refusing another cup, she folded her arms on the table and looked directly at Zack.
"I have a question," she began.
Zack turned from surveying the room to give her his attention. "Shoot."
"Why did you call me and ask to come to the Walk? I know it's advertised and attracts some of the best talent out there, but you don't need it. So why did you volunteer?"
For a long time, he stared at her. Then his eyes shifted left and right, and he blinked several times. Michaela recognized the gesture. He was deciding what to tell her. She hoped he'd opt for the truth, but he could be deciding on a story or how much of the truth to reveal. She nearly shook her head to dislodge the thought that he was concocting a story. Why would she even think that?
"I don't know," he finally said.
"What does that mean?"
"You're going to think I'm crazy."
Again, time passed between them. She probably wouldn't think he was crazy. She wore an invisible cloak every time she set foot on the Vineyard. Who would believe that?
"I was painting a landscape. I'd taken some time off after a whirlwind of speaking engagements and thought I'd relax a while before beginning anything new. But I set up a canvas on the easel. Then I set up a second one. I didn't know why – still don't. But I started to paint with no clear vision in mind. The painting took on a life of its own. As you know, that is not unusual. But for me it was totally different. I've never painted anything without knowing what I wanted to capture. This painting seemed to be telling me what to paint."
He stopped, his gaze steady on her face. Michaela hadn't heard anything that would trigger the Twilight Zone music playing in her head. She'd had those days too. As the Walk approached the urge to paint grew stronger.
"The landscape I thought I was painting never materialized. Something else seemed to guide my hand as I painted. It was a Vineyard. It was a Vineyard here on the island.
"There are no vineyards on the island," she said, softly. She didn't know why she whispered. The way he spoke, the mood in the room, the waning light outside conspired to give her the feeling that this conversation needed confidentiality.
"I know that, but the painting didn't seem to understand. I'd been here before, years ago. I wouldn't say I remembered much of the island, but the painting was in detail. It was Blythe Cove with the sea in the distance and row upon row of grape vineyards."
"And that prompted you to call me?"
"I can't say when the thought came to me. I had the phone to my ear before I even knew I'd dialed the number. I don't even remember how I found the number, but there was your voice on the other end of the line and there I was asking to come to the show."
Michaela glanced down and then up at him. His face was handsome but held a perplexed look.
"I told you it was crazy."
His tea had to be cold by now, but he sipped it anyway. Michaela thought it was a defense mechanism. He was gaging her reaction.
"It's not crazy."
"No?" His brows rose again. "It's crazy to me. I didn't even know you. I'd heard of your gallery. Who in the art world hasn't? But to call you out of the blue and ask to come here without a reason is crazy to me." For a moment his eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be trying to penetrate her thoughts. "Why don't you think this is at least out of the ordinary?"
Michaela sat up straight in her chair. "The day before you called, I was thinking of you. The Walk was on my mind and I needed a headliner. I thought of you but discarded any intention of contacting you. I didn't know you. We'd never met, and my show is small compared to the places you've been and it's non-profit."
"Thank you, but that wouldn't keep me from doing a charity event. I do plenty of them."
"But you don't call and ask," she said.
He nodded slightly.
"Your name had been in the news," she said. "The trades documented your travel and I knew you were back from a tour. It seemed improbable that my event would attract you. Then I came in and found the messages. I thought it was strange, but I didn't question the universe, the collective conscious or the gods." She raised her hands capturing them all. "It was my luck that you wanted to come."
"But how do we explain this?" Zack asked.
"Sometimes there are things you can't explain."
Michaela rotated her shoulders and massaged her neck as they stood and left the St. Romaine's restaurant.
"Didn't you sleep well?" Zack asked.
"I did, but I'm always anxious until the Walk is underway." She knew that wasn't the reason she'd stretched her neck. She was adjusting the cloak. It became heavier at times like it was trying to tell her she needed to either do something or stop doing it. Unfortunately, she didn't know which. Trial and error have mostly ended in errors.
They walked silently back to the warehouse. Outside, the signs had been set up along with a makeshift garden path that led to the entrance. Gardeners were working to transform the front with colorful flowers. Several sculptures were being placed strategically on the grass transforming the outside into a park-like setting.
"It's beautiful," Michaela said.
She and Zack stopped at the path and looked in both directions at the work that had been done while they'd eaten. Trellises dotted the landscape. Grape vines draped them. When the show opened, grapes would be added bringing fragrance to the area.
"Let's see how the inside is coming," Zack said. He placed a hand on the small of her back and she began to walk.
Forcing herself not to jerk away, Michaela endured the pleasure of his hand. It rested just above the curve of her behind. She wondered if Zack's intimate touch was intentional or natural. She felt as if she'd known him longer than the two days they'd been in each other's company.
Warmth spread through the blouse she wore and downward past her waist and over the curve of her hips. She could feel each of his fingers as if they were separate digits, each with its own set of pulsating beams. Desire rose in her. Thoughts of turning around and fitting herself into his frame was strong. She resisted with all the strength she had. When they were a third of the way through the gallery, Michaela stopped at a set of crates and moved away from Zack's touch. She hoped her movement appeared normal. She'd reached the point where she needed air and had to find some way to remove his hand.
The gallery had stacks of packaging growing three feet high in one corner, but the rest of the massive space had taken on a museum-quality look. There was still a lot of work to do. She focused on that, pushing thoughts of Zackary Cooper as far from her mind as she could.
Smiling, loving the smell of the paint that permeated the air, she calmed herself. Closing her eyes, she took in the scene, memorizing the way it looked and anticipating what the final arrangement would be when everything was in place.
"Are you going to set up today?" She turned to Zack. Michaela was usually alone, mainly by choice. This was her baby and while several of her assistants did much of the work, Michaela was the one onsite from beginning to end.
"Later," he said, glancing over at the two crates near the entrance.
"I have to go and get mine," she said, suddenly feeling nervous. Michaela didn't know if she wanted to display her painting. Even though it wouldn't be judged in the competition, she'd planned to s
how it. Yet, as time grew closer for her to open her crates, she felt there was something wrong about doing it.
She'd painted the portrait over the past summer. It was a beautiful work, maybe her best. But since she'd finished it, she hadn't shown it to anyone. Like the paintings of the masters she'd done after each Walk, she kept them hidden. She thought of destroying them, but something within her wouldn't allow her to do that. There was nothing wrong with having them. Art students by the score painted and repainted the masters, establishing their own technique and finding their place in the art world. But she wasn't a student. She owned a gallery. What would happen if those paintings surfaced?
She didn't even want to think of that.
Again, she rolled her neck and shoulders. Zack looked at her. She smiled, feeling uncomfortable.
"I have some work to do," she said and headed for her office. That wasn't the exact truth. Everything was done and ready. Michaela could look over it, but she'd done all the heavy work yesterday. What she needed to do was go and get her painting from her family home in the Painted Ladies section of the Vineyard.
She stumbled through the office door. The weight on her was forcing her to the floor. Michaela lunged for the office chair, hoping she could make it before she fell, before darkness closed around her.
She lost.
Arms held her when she opened her eyes. She was lying on the floor, actually lying in Zack's arms. He was kneeing on the floor, with her caressed against him. One hand stroked her temple, pushing her hair back and looking with concern into her eyes.
"What happened?" she asked, trying to see around the room. Zack's body blocked her vision
"That's a question I have for you," he said. Concerned creased his brow causing straight lines to furrow above his eyes.
She heard the faint sound of a siren. Scrambling up, she looked at him. "What's that?"
"Rescue squad," he answered. "You fainted."
"I'm all right. I'll be fine," she said, trying to move. Zack held her tightly against him.
Brush Strokes Page 2