"I hope you like it," Zack said from behind her.
Michaela jumped at the sound of his voice.
"You've been staring at that canvas for over twenty minutes," he said without commenting on her surprise.
"When?" She cleared her throat. It had clogged in the time she'd been standing there. "When did you paint this?"
"It's funny you should ask that question."
"Funny. . .how?"
"I painted it just before I called you. I had no model for it." He glanced at the canvas. "I don't usually paint portraits, but this young woman appeared in my dreams the same night I saw your name in the clouds. I had to paint her."
"In vivid detail," Michaela whispered. She hadn't intended to say it out loud. She knew the details. The scarf the young girl wore was Michaela's. In fact, the painting was that of Michaela's mother when she was sixteen years old.
"I've never painted detail like that. I couldn't stop. I worked day and night. I didn't sleep, ate very little. I was driven until the painting was done. By then, I'd lost ten pounds."
Zack walked with deliberate steps, his arms folded, as he came to stand next to Michaela.
"Who is she?" he asked softly.
Michaela didn't avoid the question. She didn't bother asking how he knew that the person on the canvas was known to her.
"Come with me," she said.
Leading Zack to the small office she used to coordinate everything, she put the papers in her arms on the desk and moved to the single unopened crate sitting among the canvases occupying most of the floor. Using a knife, she cut the tape and opened the six-inch flaps that exposed the wooden support inside. She looked at Zack, offering him the opportunity to pull the heavy canvas from its casing.
Zack stepped forward. He lifted the entire canvas and stabilizing frame from the box. Bubble wrap and shredded Excelsior dropped to the floor as Zack set the painting down. She knew he didn't need to remove the wooden supports from the frame to see the face of the young girl on the canvas. It was almost an exact replica of the painting that stood on the easel, not twenty yards from where they were now. Zack's had strands of gray in the hair, while Michaela's version omitted that color.
"How?" he asked, his voice confused and holding a note of incredulity.
The woman in the painting wore a scarf. Michaela pulled the exact one from her purse and slipped it over her hair. Zack opened his mouth but made no sound.
"I don't understand," he finally said. "The jawline is different." He glanced at Michaela. "Barring that, she could be your sister. Same hair, same eyes, same nose."
"Mother," Michaela corrected.
Zack's head swung to stare at her.
"I planned to display the scarf next to the painting. It's mine," Michaela said. "My mother gave it to me last winter." She indicated the woman in the painting outside the office. "I was wearing it last year when I got off the ferry."
"She's your mother?"
Pulling the scarf free, Michaela let it slip through her fingers and land on the desk. "Alexa Manfred-Smith. She and my father live in Arizona. Last year she was here for the Art Walk. She gave me the scarf because I admired it. After the Walk, I stayed on the Vineyard and painted that portrait."
"Under the weight of the cloak," he stated.
She nodded without saying anything out loud.
"While I was painting mine, you were doing the same thing?"
"Probably at the same time," Michaela said. While the words seemed matter of fact, that was not how she delivered them.
"What does it mean?" Zack asked.
Michaela spread her hands. "I have no idea. But it made you call me and volunteer to judge the art."
"And by far this is a superior painting." He stared at her canvas. There was pride in his voice, coupled with something she couldn't identify. "When I saw the others, I wanted to say they were bad replicas of previous works, but they aren't. They're fantastic replicas. Compared to mine, this is superior to anything I've done, anything I've ever done."
"No," she contradicted.
"Yes," he insisted, his voice strong as he emphasized his point. "I don't say that lightly. I should be jealous, but I'm envious." He laughed, but it was more a grunt than mirth. "I want to be this good, this great!"
"You are," she assured him, but she could tell by his expression, by the way he looked at her painting that he didn't believe her.
Michaela was avoiding Zack. He knew it. Since she'd seen his painting, it was hard to get a glimpse of her. Maybe he should say since she'd seen both of their paintings – his and hers. He stopped, rolling around the reference of his and hers in his mind. A second later, he let it go.
Glancing out of the library window at the B&B, he thought of how perfect the day looked. If he wasn't here, he'd probably have a paintbrush in his hand, trying to capture the wonder of the afternoon and the ocean in the distance.
His painting set on an easel in the gallery. Zack couldn't take it down. He'd tried to do so, but Michaela wouldn't have it. She'd advertised that his new paintings would be displayed. They had to have something. And the two that he brought were the only ones he had. Both were the paintings that seemed to paint themselves – the grape arches and the portrait of the woman he thought was Michaela. It was her. Only it was her in the future.
He agreed to leave the paintings up. As a result, the crowds around that section of the gallery were thick and rife with questions: Why two paintings? Were they the same woman? Were they both painted by the same artist at the same time or years apart?
Zack answered none of them.
He wondered when Michaela would appear. They needed to talk. Zack turned when Blythe came in and set a slice of pie in front of him. He smiled and accepted it and the cup of tea she must have known he wanted.
Taking the first bite, he groaned with pleasure. These were clearly the best pastries Zack had ever eaten and that included his grandmother's homemade concord grape pie. Blythe didn't serve pies for breakfast, but this was afternoon and he came in complimenting the smell that wafted through the room and she insisted he have a slice. Now, three slices later, he was stuffed, but happy.
Enjoying a second cup of tea, he wondered where Michaela was. Hearing a noise in the hall, he turned toward the sound, hoping it was her. The deep baritone sound of man's voice came his way. Zack couldn't make out any words, yet the tone was happy and welcoming. Then there was a higher, more musical voice, a young girl's. Again, Zack was disappointed.
The door to the library opened wider and a man and a young girl who had to be related to each other came in with Blythe.
"Mr. Cooper," Blythe said. "This is Jim Davis and his daughter Penny. They live on the island and dropped by to see Ms. Manfred-Smith."
"Hello," Jim said, shaking his hand. Penny, a short red-head, smiled and also shook his hand. Blythe silently left the room. Jim was about the same height as Zack. He looked fit, so he probably worked out and he had a smooth tan that said he spent a lot of time outside.
"I don't know when Michaela will be back," Zack said.
"You're the artist," Penny stated. "Mickey's told us about you."
Mickey, he thought. "What did she say?"
"She's thrilled that you accepted her invitation, although you have to be really good to be better than Mickey."
Zack didn't know if he could get used to thinking of Michaela as Mickey. She didn't look or act like a Mickey.
"I try," he said. "I take it you two have known. . ." he paused. ". . .Mickey a long time."
"She's known me since I was born. Dad went to school with her. She went away for college, then off to Europe to study."
Obviously, Penny was chatty. Zack smiled, remembering the exuberance of youth. He wasn't the chatty type. That was his brother, but the two of them got into enough scrapes that you couldn't tell which one thought up the inane scheme.
"Each year when Michaela comes to the Vineyard, Penny rushes to see her," Jim said.
Zack turned his attent
ion to Jim.
"One day Penny wants to be an artist," he explained.
"I haven't decided if I want to do paintings, watercolors or sculpture," the young girl said.
"Right now, she's into swimming, tennis, and something called line dancing," her father went on.
"What about you, Mr. Cooper?" Penny asked. "Did you always want to be an artist?"
Zack shook his head. "When I was in grade school, I wanted to be a professional baseball player. Of course, I sketched and painted, but I never thought I could make a living painting. I did it for fun, using colored pencils and charcoal."
"Were you any good?" Jim asked. "At baseball?"
Zack hesitated, before shaking his head. "To tell you the truth, I was terrible."
"Then it's a good thing you had something to fall back on."
"Penny!" her father reprimanded her.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I apologize. My dad says I'm often tactless, but I didn't mean anything insulting. I just thought it was a good thing you were drawing, or painting and it became your profession."
Zack smiled. "I understand. I was in high school when I started taking painting seriously." He eyed Penny. She was in high school now, so he wanted to be careful. "You don't have to decide that young," he told her. "It happened to me then." Zack tactfully left out the story about Mary Ellen Green and his geometry class.
"Hey, look who's here," Jim said.
Michaela stood in the doorway.
"Mickey," Penny screamed and rushed toward her. The two women hugged, momentum turning them around in a full circle before they hugged again.
"You're taller," Michaela told Penny.
Zack hated that comment. He'd been told that so often by relatives who only saw him a few times a year. They had nothing else to say except that he'd grown. What did they expect him to do, stay eight years old forever?
Michaela and Penny came arm in arm back into the room and took seats.
"I see you've met our star speaker for this year's Walk," Michaela said.
"Yes," Jim said. "Penny's been grilling him."
Michaela looked at Zack. He waved his hand as if it was nothing. "She's young and inquisitive. I remember being the same way, Mickey."
Michaela flashed him a look that said only Penny got the privilege of calling her by a nickname.
"If you're finished for the day," Jim said. "I thought you might like to have dinner with us."
Zack squeezed his jaws together. He'd been waiting for Michaela and he didn't want to think of her being out with another man.
"I was just going to grab something from the kitchen and drown it with coffee. Dinner sounds wonderful."
"Zack, want to join us?" Jim offered.
Zack wanted to take Michaela to dinner, despite the three pieces of pie he'd consumed. But he didn't want to be the third wheel on a date. Jim was obviously in love with Michaela. They'd known each other most of their lives. Zack had only met her a few days ago. In another few days, he'd be gone, back to his life, his routine, back to planning paintings and putting paint on canvas, doing speaking engagements and being alone.
"Thanks, but I've eaten enough dessert to cover me for the rest of the night," he said. "You three go. Have fun."
Zack stood up and said goodnight, shaking hands again and leaving the room. Reaching his bedroom, he went to the balcony. Michaela, Jim, and Penny came out, talking and laughing as they got into the black SUV sitting at the curb. Zack didn't like the way he felt. What was it about Michaela that made him think he had a right to her time exclusively? He'd been waiting for her in the library, listening for her to arrive. He wanted to talk to her. They needed to explore what was happening, what had happened. Zack had no invisible cloak guiding him. He didn't believe in ghosts or poltergeists, or things that go bump in the night. Yet, mysterious, unexplainable things had happened to him.
He wanted to know why he knew Michaela. They'd never met before, yet he knew her. And that was impossible. It also wasn't Michaela that he knew. It was her mother. At least it was her mother as she probably looked today. And he'd painted her with Michaela's scarf. At the same time Michaela was painting almost the same portrait.
Zack checked the sky for an answer. None came.
He knew the world was too symmetrical for there not the be a reason. There were balances everywhere. As a painter, he knew them, saw them wherever he looked. So where was the balance to the painting? Was it hers? The two of them making something complete.
Or was it the two of them making something complete.
Chapter 4
The place was a favorite of Michaela's. She'd painted it many times. This was her place. Here she didn't feel the cloak so heavily. The breeze from the ocean kissed her face as she sat on the bench in front of the arbor and watched the crashing waves in the distance. She wondered what people were doing on the other side of the ocean. Was there a woman sitting on a bench facing West while she faced East? What were her thoughts? Were they as jumbled as Michaela's? Did she have a Zack who occupied her thoughts from waking in the morning until the arms of sleep claimed her each night?
Since she'd turned around and found him standing behind her, no one else had impacted her thoughts so securely. That was only a few days ago. What would it be like a few days from now?
When he was gone.
And she was once again alone.
The image of Zack's painting flew into her mind. The details were as clear as if it was sitting on an easel next to her. She imagined hers next to the one Zack had painted. Using her artists' eye, she compared the two works.
Compared to mine, this is superior to anything I've done, anything I've ever done. Zack's words repeated in her head.
She'd contradicted him at the time, but now, with as much objectivity as she could muster, she had to admit Zack was correct. Her painting, even the ones she'd copied of the masters works, weren't just copies. They were improvements. Michaela flinched. In the art world, there was no improving on someone else. Everyone was unique. Paintings were a combination of talent, available resources, some technology and the ability to see how all those things collided to create a finished work.
Her works were better, but the talent wasn't all hers. It came from this island. Something about Martha's Vineyard worked with her or through her, but not totally. Michaela prepared the canvases, mixed the paint and held the brushes, but something else guided her hand at times. This. . .entity or force. . .was all she could call it. It controlled her hand and she painted what every cell in her body told her to paint.
But why? Michaela had asked herself that same question hundreds of times and never received an answer.
"Michaela?"
She jumped at the sound of Zack's voice. How long had he been there? And what was he doing here?
She stood and turned. She smiled brightly, although her heart thudded against her chest hard enough to be seen through her clothes. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd find you."
"How did you know where I was?" she asked."
"Jim told me this was a place you liked to come whenever you were on the Vineyard."
"Jim?"
"He came by the B&B looking for you."
"Why isn't he here?"
Zack didn't answer. He looked at her, letting his eyes tell the story. Michaela hoped she was seeing what she thought she was seeing and not just what she wanted to see.
"You know he's in love with you? He's probably been that way since you two were in high school."
"I know," she said.
"How do you feel about him?"
Michaela wondered if she heard a note of apprehension in his voice. Did he want her to tell him she loved Jim or that she didn't? Unsure, she opted for the truth.
"I love Jim, but not the way he wants me to. And if he'd open his eyes and see the truth, he'd know he doesn't really love me either."
Zack let out a breath.
"So, why were you looking for me? Is something wrong?" She changed the subj
ect. Exploring her feelings was a place she didn't want to go. Not with Zack.
He shook his head. Straddling the bench, he faced her. "I have a question."
Michaela steeled herself to hear it.
"The portrait of your mother. . ."
"Mine or yours?"
"Both," he said.
"Why and how do you think we both painted the same portrait?"
She looked at the sea, then back at him. "I don't know your reason. For me, it has something to do with the cloak, although at this place on the island I feel the weight less than any other place."
He looked around, up at the sky, out to sea and through the slates in the arbor.
"Have you met my mother?"
He shook his head.
"I called her the night we discovered the two paintings," Michaela said. "I told her you were my guest judge and asked her if she'd ever met you. She said no, but she admires your work. She hinted that she'd love to grace one of her walls with one of your small paintings. I think she wants me to get one and give it to her."
"We'll talk about that later," he said. "I've been thinking of your gift for days, and if I go with the belief that you have a weighted aura that gives you the talent to recreate better paintings than the masters, then it must be you who somehow influenced me?"
Michaela took that in. She thought about it for a long while, not sure if she could call it a gift or a curse. "In another world, I'd wonder what it was you were thinking, but in light of seeing the paintings, I understand every word of your concern. Unfortunately, I can't offer any explanation. I don't know what made me change. Maybe it was the lightning or maybe it was always there, and the lightning enhanced it. I don't know why it only happens on this island."
"Do you think the influence will continue? Once we're both off the island and back to our normal routine?" he asked.
"I don't know. So far, it's only happened the one time," she said.
Brush Strokes Page 4