by Elle Spencer
Occasionally, a prospective client would insist she work from a photograph. They were too busy or too important to meet her conditions. They couldn’t possibly sit in person. It always amazed her how confidently they’d try to explain how she should do her job. Equally confident, Lindsay would explain that perspective and personality didn’t come to her through a photograph. Yes, a great photographer captured those things in a moment, but the chances of it being the same moment that would inspire Lindsay were approximately zero.
She’d grown accustomed to good feedback. People said she had the ability to capture a person’s essence. More than one stated that it felt as if they had been truly seen and that the canvas had come to life. For Lindsay, it was always a matter of trying to grab hold of the moment when someone didn’t know she was watching. As implausible as it sounded, it happened every time.
Yes, people knowingly sat for paintings, but they tended to forget that fact after a few hours. Some were anxious; others were overconfident. Some didn’t seem to know why they were there at all. But the stillness of the studio was the same for everyone. The rich, the famous, the powerful. The gentle light and slightly warm temperature seemed to relax her subjects. It was a quiet place, with only the soft sound of Lindsay’s voice and the occasional scratch of her pencil on sketch paper or the brush flicking against the canvas.
It took more time for some than others, but there was always a moment when they stopped shifting or making awkward jokes. Most were accomplished people. Busy people. Lindsay liked to imagine her studio as a place where, for the first time in a long time, they were forced to reflect on stillness. The moment they gave in to the stillness was the moment she sought to capture. It was something she’d never seen in a photograph.
When people commissioned portraits of lost loved ones, she’d interview the client and sift through as many photographs as she could get her hands on. She’d seen more video footage of strangers than most people had seen of loved ones.
Lindsay had a soft spot for those clients. Her passion was to bring back the person’s laughter, their voice, and cherished memories for the people they’d left behind. It wasn’t easy, but she’d be damned if she would paint from a photo someone gave her without taking the time to honor who the person really was.
And then there was the way she painted Timmy. She didn’t have anyone sitting for her. She didn’t have photographs. She didn’t even have her own dreams to reference like she did with Roo. But somehow, every time Lindsay painted Timmy, he looked the same. A young boy, maybe ten or eleven. Straight brown hair. Freckles across his nose. Rosy pink lips. He never smiled, even though she desperately wanted him to.
Sometimes she would paint him with a fury, and other times, it felt as if she was moving in slow motion. Either way, she would lose track of time and forget to do things like make dinner.
And now, there was this woman who’d kept her in the studio all night. The woman who stared back at her. Looked right through her. Made her feel something she couldn’t yet describe. Painting her had felt different from the boy. Soft. Tender. Almost sensual. And now, that woman from long ago had a name in the here and now. A personality. A disturbing presence. She knew it was absurd to think Ren was Roo. Wishful musings. But that was the thing. Ren was Roo. Lindsay was sure of it.
She pulled the protective sheet off the painting, and with a gasp, she whispered, “My God, it’s really her.” It was the eyes. Something about the eyes. But it was more than that. Something she couldn’t put into words.
It didn’t make sense, but when had any of it ever made sense? The memories that weren’t her own didn’t make sense. The persistent dreams of Roo that felt so real she could practically taste and smell them didn’t make sense. Her belief that Ren was the reincarnation of Roo didn’t make sense. Even their damned names were confusing.
But those memories were a part of Lindsay and had been for years. She was helpless to stop them.
Chapter Six
Ren closed her eyes and took in the sounds and smells of Salt Creek. Or more specifically, Deb’s backyard. Was backyard the right word? Did people keep a horse and ducks and chickens in their backyards? Or was it considered a pasture at that point?
It smelled of wet grass, pine tar, and fire. She could hear Deb chasing Number Two around the house. He didn’t want to go to bed. He said he wanted to stay on Ren’s lap and sing more songs around the campfire. That’s what the kids called it. Apparently, they loved to pitch a tent and sleep by the firepit in the summer. Deb said it saved her from having to do any actual camping, which meant less work for her. Ren was just content knowing Number Two wanted to snuggle with her.
The screen door slammed. Ren opened her eyes and saw Deb walking toward her with two glasses of wine. She’d changed into yoga pants and put on a long sweater over her T-shirt. Her high rubber boots were mismatched. One blue, one green.
Deb handed her a glass and pulled an Adirondack chair closer. “I chained Number Two to his bed. If you hear screaming, ignore it. He’ll pass out eventually.”
“Good thing I know you’re joking.”
“Am I, though?” Deb stretched out and propped her feet up on the edge of the firepit. “How can you be sure?”
“Because you talk a big talk, but I know how much you love being a mom. Plus, I heard you singing that Frozen song to him earlier, and in my book, that makes you the queen mother of all mothers because good Lord, that is truly an awful song after sixty-eight thousand times.” Ren scanned Deb’s haphazard look and hid a grin behind her wine. “Nice boots, Mama.”
Deb clicked them together. “Mismatching is all the rage in Paris. Just make sure the colors complement each other.”
“You want me to run around Paris in mismatched boots?”
“No, I want you to give me my boots back, so I don’t have to scrounge by the back door for whatever my lazy kids kicked off on their way to the fridge.”
“Never. I love these boots. Besides, this is definitely a possession is nine-tenths of the law type situation.”
“Because you’re an attorney now?” Deb said with a smirk. “Fine. They probably stink anyway, but let’s not talk about that. Let’s talk about sex.” Deb took a sip and settled into the chair.
Ren snorted. “Like I want to hear what you and Colby get up to.”
“Oh, it’s hot. And sweaty. And quick. And—” Deb started to giggle. “Oh God. I think talking about those boots would be more interesting.”
Ren held up her glass. “Here’s to not talking about our sex lives because mine wasn’t much better with what’s her name.”
“Krazy Kerry?” Deb scoffed. “That bitch didn’t know what she had.”
“Thanks, babe. Although I think it’s fair to say she never really had me. The better question is, does Colby know what he has? Maybe I should fill him in before it’s too late.”
“He has a wife who doesn’t care if her shoes match.”
“And he’s damn lucky for that. It’s sexy. And from what I hear, all the rage in Paris.”
“Ha!” Deb pointed at Ren’s feet. “Are you really going to wear my old boots every day while you’re here? I still can’t believe you stole them.” She slapped her forehead. “Oh God. I just brought up boots again. Who have I become that I can’t have a decent conversation about sex?”
Ren put a hand on her arm. “Sweetie, if you really need to tell me about the goings-on in your love chamber, then of course, I’ll listen. But stop calling these your boots. I claimed them long ago, and the statute of limitations has clearly expired.”
“See? This is why I wear mismatched shoes around you.” Deb sighed. “If we’re going to talk about me and Mr. C, we need some music. Alexa! Play some Marvin Gaye!” They both froze and waited for something to happen. When nothing did, Deb cupped a hand around her ear. “Do you hear any sexual healing happening?”
Ren leaned in and lowered her voice. “I’m not sure I know what that sounds like. Is it like regular sex, or is there more cr
ying?”
“Crying?” Deb whispered. “The only time I’ve ever cried during sex was when Colby decided to perform a lap dance as foreplay, and those were tears of laughter.” She took her hand from her ear and slapped it on the arm of the chair. “That woman is never there when I need her.”
“Who?”
“Alexa. Colby probably has her in the garage reciting sexy poems while he works on his snowmobile.”
Ren tapped her chin. “Hmm. I wonder how one would ask Alexa to recite a sexy poem. Are you like, ‘Alexa, read Song of Myself, but read it extra sexy’? Also, maybe we need to think this one through. Is Colby really the sexy poem type?”
“He’s more evolved than you’d think.”
“I guess you’re right. I mean, only an evolved man would think he could lap dance his way into his wife’s masterpiece.”
“Hey, Number Two was born nine months later. I may have laughed hysterically at first, but the fact that he’d even try was a total turn-on.”
Ren laughed and put her hand up. “Okay, subject change. I have the floor. I want to talk about hot women. Tell me about the woman in the coffee shop. Is she your first fainter?”
“Are you kidding? That’s a regular thing with me. I keep smelling salts in my purse because sometimes, the scent of my cookies overwhelms the senses, and people drop like flies.”
Ren shook her head and shouted, “Alexa, how do you smack the smartass out of your former friend?” She waited and turned toward the detached garage. “Alexa!”
“Soda Pop, stop shouting. We don’t actually have Alexa.”
“What? You just asked her—” Ren gave Deb’s foot a little kick. “You’re such a dork sometimes.”
She laughed. “Oh, please. Imagine the chaos if my kids had the ability to shop on command. Alexa, order some Skittles!”
“Alexa, I ran out of Lucky Charms. Order five cases, please.”
Deb raised her voice an octave. “Alexa, like, I’ve run out of mascara, and like, I want the best kind. Is that, like, Sephora or MAC?”
“Oh, let me do Number Two,” Ren said. “Awexka, I need five hundwed and two bananas, and a million fwoot snacks. And no socks. I don’t wike socks.”
Deb pointed at Ren. “You killed it. Except he would order two million fruit snacks, but you absolutely killed it. Now do me.”
Ren cleared her throat. “Alexa, I need two packs of cigarettes I won’t ever smoke but need to have close by so I know they’re there if I want them. No, Alexa, I don’t smoke, but that’s not the point. Yeah, don’t ask, Alexa. It’s a thing, okay? Just order the cheapest kind. Pall Malls or whatever. You know what I’m saying, Alexa? Okay, good. Thank you for having my back, Alexa. If you need any baked goods, maybe my sticky buns or my famous muffin, just let me know, k? I got you.”
Deb leaned in and whispered, “You are a horrible person and also, my kids still don’t know I ever smoked, and I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Deal.” Ren made a zipping motion across her lips. “Now tell me about the fainter.”
Deb leaned back and narrowed her eyes. “Alexa, why is Ren asking about the fainter, aka Lindsay Hall? Aka Corey’s best friend’s mom.”
“I was just wondering if she’s okay. It was a pretty hard fall with the hot coffee and all.”
“Uh-huh.” Deb crossed her arms defiantly. “You think I didn’t see whose painting you bought? What gives, Soda Pop?”
Ren didn’t want to say it out loud. It would sound arrogant. “I don’t know,” she said. “It seemed like she went down after she saw me. Like, our eyes locked and then, boom.”
It was a quiet laugh that came out of Deb at first, but it soon turned into a full-on belly laugh. “Boom?” She bent over and wheezed, she was laughing so hard. “You’re cute, Ren, but not that cute.”
“Okay, yuk it up. I’m just saying, it seemed like—”
“You made a woman faint at the sight of you? No, I get it. I mean, I get light-headed every time you roll into town too.” Deb bent over again in a fit of laughter. “You know they have to staff up the urgent care clinic when they hear you’re coming? No, really. They bring in extra staff from Fairview just to meet the demand.”
Ren rolled her eyes. “Could you please tell me a little bit about her? I’m having coffee with her and the lady who took her to the doctor tomorrow.”
“Mrs. Stokely? Oh God. Don’t be late.”
“I plan to be five minutes early. She seemed like a stickler for time.”
“Mrs. Stokely is a mixed bag. She’d do anything for me, but at the same time, she has no problem letting me know if there’s even one crumb left on the table she sits at, she…what? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Has Mrs. Stokely ever fainted in your shop? Because I made it pretty clear I’d like to know more about the fainter, not Mrs. Stokely.”
“I told you what there is to tell, Casanova. She’s an artist. Kind of a big deal artist. Corey’s best friend’s mom. Nice girl. Got divorced last year. Anything else, you’re going to have to figure out on your own.”
* * *
Lindsay stood on the sidewalk at 189 West Center. It seemed funny that after all these years, the woman who’d encouraged her art so fiercely had remained a mystery to her. As she walked up the cobbled path toward the perfectly manicured rosebushes that flanked an oversized front door, Lindsay realized that walking over the threshold of her former teacher’s home would be a first. Mrs. Stokely was nothing if not extremely private.
Sure, she’d stood on the doorstep many a time. There was the trick or treating every year when Mrs. Stokely reminded the children of good oral hygiene and handed out toothbrushes. When Christmas caroling came around, Mrs. Stokely watched politely with a tight smile. And then there was the candy at least three generations had sold to raise funds for their field trips, marching band uniforms, and in Brooke’s case, a show choir trip to Europe. Eager to find the one thing in a box of candy that wasn’t actually candy, Mrs. Stokely always bought two packs of the raisin and nut bars.
It was amazing how fast seventeen years could go by. Lindsay’s thoughts turned to Brooke walking this same path to sell whatever fundraising novelty the choir had going that week to fund their trip.
The only reason Lindsay was there now was because her excuses for not going seemed silly compared to the regret she’d feel one day if she hadn’t responded positively to the invitation. Even if it was originally Ren’s invitation, Mrs. Stokely was not someone who looked favorably upon a poorly thought-out excuse. Lindsay told herself the fact that Ren would be there was irrelevant.
She’d dressed up just enough to avoid a disapproving look from her hostess. She told herself it had nothing to do with impressing Ren. Mrs. Stokely didn’t care for the faded, ripped jeans fad. Black jeans, black boots, and a gray V-neck sweater would make the grade. At the last minute, she’d thrown a black and white houndstooth scarf around her neck to shake things up a bit.
“I see you survived the Batmobile yesterday.”
Lindsay’s breath caught, and her heart rate quickened at the sound of Ren’s voice behind her. She was slow to turn and make eye contact. If she’d had the presence of mind to think about it at all, she would have hoped it came across as being a bit shy, coy even. When their eyes met, she tried not to react. She tried to remain stoic and in control of her emotions, but when Ren flashed that smile that surely disrupted the town’s power grid, Lindsay felt her knees go weak and her throat dry up.
So much for Ren’s presence being irrelevant. But Lindsay was determined to not let it show this time. She wouldn’t faint. She wouldn’t break out in a cold sweat, even if she did want to rip the scarf from her neck so she could breathe. No, she would smile and reply in a calm voice. “I call it the Mistmobile. Batman’s got nothing on Mrs. Stokely.”
Ren gave her a curious look. “Mistmobile?”
“It’s just, you know, the color of the car. It’s called Saffron Firemist, so we’ve always. Just. You know.”
She just let it end there. Not a sentence exactly. Not a statement or proclamation either, since those would be sentences. Lindsay had simply placed a random assortment of words together. On the upside, she was still conscious, so that was something.
She leaned against the door. She wasn’t going to faint, but she didn’t feel steady on her feet either. Not with Ren standing there looking so amazing in tight jeans, a white T-shirt, and a cropped tan jacket. She didn’t know whether to warn Ren about her jeans or stare at them for hours. Slivers of skin were visible through the subtle rips on the faded denim. She swallowed hard before she made eye contact again. “I should probably warn you…”
The door opened, and Lindsay stumbled back until Mrs. Stokely caught her and swiftly pushed her upright. “What in the world is wrong with you, dear? Do we need to find an old fainting couch and follow you around with it?” Mrs. Stokely might have been pushing eighty, but she was surprisingly quick to react.
“So sorry.” Lindsay kept hold of her shoulders. “I hope I didn’t hurt you.”
“Don’t you worry about that. I come from sturdy stock. But you’ll hear from my lawyer if it turns out I pulled a groin muscle.”
Mrs. Stokely turned and went back into the house. Lindsay grimaced at Ren, who seemed to be holding in laughter. “It’s not funny.”
Mrs. Stokely turned back around. “I’m just teasing about the lawyer. My groin muscle has been giving me trouble for years. Now close the door before I lose all my heat.”
Heat? There was barely a chill in the air. Lindsay hadn’t even turned on the heat in her house yet. Why in the world had she worn a sweater?
Ren had obviously thought things through by layering. She’d be cool as a cucumber while Lindsay sweated to the oldies she could hear playing on Mrs. Stokely’s radio.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Mrs. Stokely opened the door wider and made a grandiose wave with her hand. “Get in here.”
Ren gave Lindsay a smile. “After you.”
Her voice. Her smile. Her entire being seemed to pull Lindsay in like a magnet. Resistance seemed futile. Lindsay would be assimilated into the Ren Collective. Maybe the fainting couch wasn’t such a bad idea after all.