The Art of Rivers

by Janet W. Ferguson

  “What?” The voice behind her sounded incredulous.

  On board, she spied the pad lying on the passenger seat intact. “I said thanks for putting my sketchbook someplace dry.” She stood there dripping while he vaulted onboard.

  “That is not what you said.” His brows furrowed under dripping strands of black hair.

  Rivers took in the angle of his nose, observed the contoured lips leaving a small shadow above the scruff on his chin. There was something familiar and almost mesmerizing about his bone structure.

  “Are you even listening?” The man snapped his fingers in front of her. “Can I call someone to help you? Have you taken something? Are you drunk?”

  “What? No. I don’t drink, and I haven’t”—she made air quotes—“taken something.”

  His chin jutted forward. “Then what in the world were you doing out there? Trying to get yourself killed? The tide comes in with a vengeance, and you can be under water in no time.”

  Had she been trying to...? No. She just hadn’t been paying attention. “I’ve never been here, and I was drawing. Now I know.”

  The furrows between his brows softened, and he breathed a heavy sigh. “Now you know. The difference in the water levels can be from six to nine feet, maybe the most extreme on the entire Eastern Seaboard. Be careful. People have lost their lives on these sandbars.”

  A wistfulness filled his expression until he made a sudden turn, reeled in the rope he’d used to save her, then another. An anchor landed in the boat with a clank.

  “You may not be so lucky next time.” His tone was sharp. “Where do you want me to take you?”

  “To that beach right in front of us.” Where else would she be going? Certainly not anywhere with him.

  “I can’t get the boat close enough to let you out on the beach. Your precious pad might get wet.”

  Her sketchbook. Rivers looked down and surveyed the water dripping from every square inch of her body. “Well, I... I don’t know. I’m staying there. My car’s there. How can I get back?”

  His dark brown eyes widened, the irises appearing almost as black as the pupils. “Exactly where are you staying?”

  “It’s none of your business exactly where I’m staying.” Her hands flailed as she gestured. “Just near this section of beach is all you need to know.” She’d met her share of creepers. No way she would announce the address of the house she’d be sleeping in. By herself.

  Dimples pressed in the center of his cheeks when he shook his head and sort of smiled— not a real smile, but one that said he was frustrated. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to stalk you. It’s just...someone I used to know had a cottage near that area. You caught me off guard.” Emotion seemed to twist his tongue for those final words. He cleared his throat and went to the driver’s seat. A second later, he tossed a ragged towel her way. “I can take you to the boat dock and drive you home or wait while you get an Uber or another ride.”

  The motor hummed to life, and she took a seat on the back bench. The farther away, the better. The boat leapt forward, and she took in his tall and lean silhouette against the dimming sky. Last year, she’d learned too late to trust her instincts. Too late to save Jordan. She’d do better this time. And something about this man—her rescuer—wasn’t safe at all.

  Chapter 4

  PAY FOR A RIDE WITH a stranger or accept a ride with the stranger driving this boat? Rivers debated her options until they reached the dock. The guy hadn’t spoken, except to announce they were nearing his slip. The Atlantic breeze caressed her face, and the blue sky melted to a palette of pinks and purples. The outing would’ve been almost enjoyable if the circumstances were different. Pelicans flew in formation against a heavy moon suspended on the horizon, and her fingers itched to draw again, maybe even paint. Except she hadn’t finished a canvas since...

  “You ready to get out?” A hand extended toward her, and she stared at the man offering to help her off the boat.

  The wind had swept up his black hair in the front, revealing more of his dark brows and tanned forehead. Like a sculpture, his features had been shaped into a pleasing form. The angles and contours nicely matched, but gloom shrouded the edges of his eyes and mouth. She knew how sadness lined the face, had seen her share of sadness mark the children she’d counseled. Twinges of compassion and curiosity stirred in her chest. What tragedy had this man seen?

  “Um, miss? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you need a doctor?” His brows met above the dark eyes. “I’m Cooper, by the way. I should’ve introduced myself before. It’s just seeing you out there with the tide...” His somber gaze drifted to another place. Maybe another time.

  “Sorry. I’m Rivers.” She took the hand. No wonder he’d thought she was on something. She was sitting there like a dumb statue, acting like a freak. His grip was strong but gentle, and his nearness almost soothing as she stepped onto the pier. Perhaps she’d been mistaken about him earlier. He seemed more damaged than dangerous.

  “Your paper survive unscathed?” One side of his mouth pulled into a slight smirk.

  Her fingers stroked the tablet, assessing it for moisture. Not even damp. Another survival story. “I know this doesn’t make sense to you.”

  “You can explain on the way to wherever I’m dropping you off. I’ve been told that I’m a good listener.” He retrieved a phone from his pocket and offered it to her. “Unless you’d rather call another ride.”

  Maybe he wasn’t a bad guy. He had rescued her, and her own cell was still in the cottage. “You can drive me.”

  “I can, huh?” An edge of gee-thanks sarcasm rumbled his low voice, but the tone seemed more amused than harsh.

  “If you don’t mind, I mean.” Her gaze traveled over his face again, searching the proportion and shapes, the slant of his nose, the slightest dimples in his cheeks, the square of his jaw, his Adam’s apple. Something burned in her chest, traveled down her right shoulder like an ember of a forgotten fire fanning to life. She pressed her fingers into the scar there, thankful she hadn’t changed into her bathing suit. If no one ever saw the ugly reminder, she didn’t have to contend with their probing stares and answer their inevitable questions.

  “I don’t mind.” His fingers raked across the scruff shadowing his chin. “Is there something on me?”

  Staring. She’d been staring. “I’m an artist, and sometimes I get lost in my own mind, taking a mental picture.”

  “Are you going to draw me in your pad?” Mischief brightened his solemn eyes for a split second as he nodded toward her sketchbook.

  “Who knows?” She shrugged. “I try to go where the Spirit leads.”

  “What spirit?” His gaze stabbed into hers, penetrating and earnest.

  “The Holy Spirit. I try my best to listen, anyway.” Or at least she used to. Her days as a volunteer worship artist seemed to be over. Or as any kind of painter for that matter. Some sketches here and there, but the colors had dried up in her mind when she lifted her brush, had turned into a hard lump of browns and blacks as she tried to block out the monstrous blood red of her nightmares.

  A siren wailed in the distance, and he stepped toward the parking lot. “I’m into art myself.” He clicked the key fob. “The tan Jeep is mine.”

  She followed while he rounded the vehicle to the passenger side.

  After opening her door, he made a grand gesture. “My chariot. Sorry about the smell. Got rained in a few times when I left the top off.”

  Sucking in a breath, she sat, and a small smile fought its way out. “Almost as bad as my Volkswagen Beetle, but not quite. Apparently the first owner left the windows down on it too.”

  “Man, that’s the worst. At least the Jeep airs out.”

  “Yeah, I bought the car in the winter, and the dealership must’ve put some really fresh deodorizer in there to mask the sour. Once the Memphis spring came, the Stink Bug reared its stanky head.”

  A chuckle spilled from his lips. “Stink Bug. I like it.” He clucked his tongue. “So we b
oth like art and smelly cars. A lot in common.”

  Was he hitting on her? Her smile faded into the black abyss. She wasn’t going to flirt with another man or let him flirt with her. Not with Jordan only gone a year. Not when she could still barely eat or sleep. Not when she couldn’t even manage in her regular position at work.

  Not with this guy, and probably not ever.

  The motor rumbled to life, and he backed out of the parking place. They zipped onto the street. The guy—Cooper—drove fast. Cooper... Cooper... Had he said his last name? She hadn’t given hers. Her abs tightened. Here she was in a car with a stranger, miles away from anyone she knew. No phone. Nothing. Hadn’t she learned anything about this dangerous world?

  Wind whipped through the open windows and top. At least she could jump out if she had to. Drop and roll, right? Then what? How would she even know where she was? Dusk quickly transformed into night, and her sense of direction was basically non-existent. “Where are you going?”

  “Back toward the beach you were on. Didn’t you say you were staying near that section, or you have the Stink Bug parked there?” At a stop sign, he glanced her way. “Right?”

  Oh. Made sense. He knew that stretch of beach. “Right.”

  “Did you say you were from Memphis?”

  “Yeah.” More ammo if he was actually a serial killer. Hi, I’m Rivers, all alone, family hours away, and I’m unfamiliar with this town. Didn’t some psychos act normal and helpful at first?

  Silence claimed the rest of the ride. Cooper-possible-serial-killer seemed to be lost in thought. Troubled even. Not the typical MO for psychopathic behavior.

  The overgrown shrubs came into the focus of his headlights, and he slowed.

  Finally something slightly familiar. “Turn here.” Rivers pointed to the street where the driveway connected.

  He complied and stopped, his high beams landing on her Volkswagen. So much for him not knowing where she would be spending the night. His eyes narrowed. “You’re staying there? That house? That cottage?”

  “This is my car.” She wouldn’t answer specifically. After all, he could think she was a guest.

  “Are you sure this is the right address?” His gaze bounced from her to the cottage and back. Now he was getting really weird.

  “I’m sure this is where I want to get out.” After quickly unlatching the seatbelt, she opened the door and exited. He hadn’t put the Jeep into park, but no need. He could leave.

  “Bye, thanks.” She waved him off, though he still stared, mouth gaping. Had he known Jordan’s family? Maybe that was it. The place had been empty for five years, and now she was parked in the drive. No way was she explaining, though.

  “Thanks, Cooper. I got it from here.”

  Her dismissal seemed to give him the hint he needed. He blinked hard and then focused on her. “Yeah. No problem. Stay off the sandbars.” The darkness in his eyes deepened, if that were possible, like thunder clouds against a night sky. “They’re really dangerous.”

  “Got it.” She waited as he drove away, but those eyes stayed with her while she collected her things from the beach, while she climbed the stairs onto the porch and reentered the cottage. Now that she’d almost drowned, maybe she’d have the motivation to do what she came for. She just needed to clean out this place and give the word to Jordan’s step-uncle, Shane Turner, to put it on the market. Then she could leave and move on with life.

  As if.

  A sob slipped from her chest, a sound that seemed to come from someone else. The memories closed in, and she braced herself for a fresh wave of grief.

  Lord, hold me tight. Give me strength.

  She hugged herself, eyes closed, for one more moment. After breathing deeply then releasing the air in a long whoosh, she opened her eyes, popped on the lights, and surveyed the room. Really took in the room.

  Tongue and groove walls, transoms over the doors, antique tables and cabinets, and chandeliers. Photos or paintings hung every few inches, even on the back of the doors. Pottery, of all sorts, adorned every shelf or furniture top. A nearby chest was topped with a dozen colorful ceramic fish beside four clay plates with children’s handprints pressed into them and painted yellow.

  Rivers took a step closer and lifted the plate that had Jordan’s name written on it with a sharpie. She ran her fingers over the indentions where his young fingers had once squished into the mud. Those fingers had been very much alive. Had he giggled? She pictured his dimpled smile, and her eyes burned. That black hole of sorrow reopened, engulfing her like a grave. Why? Why? Why was she alone?

  Grief clamped around her ribs and squeezed. Not again, Lord. Another deep breath.

  She placed the child’s creation back on the chest and stared at the other three. Savannah, Brooklyn, and Pearl were the names noted there. Jordan’s sister, his mother, and his aunt.

  No Jay.

  Jordan’s cousin’s banishment had been complete. Her stomach started that familiar gnawing. She’d always wanted Jordan to forgive and reconnect with Jay, let that part of his life be healed. Why had she even cared? It was none of her business. Especially now.

  Suddenly exhausted, she pivoted, grabbed her bag, and walked down the hall. The drive, the memories, getting stuck on the sandbar, had been more than enough for one day. In the first bedroom she came to, Rivers slipped into a clean T-shirt then plopped down on the white comforter covering one of two twin beds. Tomorrow, she could start again. Whether she wanted to or not.

  THE GIRL, OR RATHER the woman, Rivers, was from Memphis and staying in the cottage. Had the estate sold the cottage? Or could she be...? He pictured the strange woman riding on his boat, how the evening sun ignited in her pale hair, creating a sort of halo effect. How her pupils contracted in the light, which allowed him to study the fine textures of blue surrounding them.

  All night, Cooper had tossed and turned, fighting the urge to do an internet search. He stayed offline for good reason. He also found himself fighting the urge to use something to dull the memories drowning him. The yearning hadn’t been this strong in a couple of years. Sure, sometimes the smell of beer or smoke, even a song, would stir up the memory. Stress or anxiety could incite thoughts about how a couple of pills could make everything fade away into the numbing high. The triggers were so disturbing. He felt like a dog trained to salivate at the sound of a bell. The longing rarely raised its ugly head anymore, but when it did, he tried to use that feeling to remind himself what his clients went through on a daily basis.

  Groggy from lack of sleep, he’d barely gotten dressed and downstairs to the gallery in time to open the doors by nine. With the light rain, customers filtered in, those snowbirds unable to take their strolls on the sand. The morning brought a couple of sales, which was helpful since Shane acted as if they might not make the budget this month. Stormy days always helped. And tonight, he’d stay up and finish another beachy abstract. Vacation homeowners here couldn’t seem to get enough of them.

  Between the customers and the two workers from Re-Claimed, the coffee pot near the front of the showroom had been drained, so he started another while they had a quiet moment. The intoxicating aroma gave him a boost, despite the fact that he’d given up caffeine along with any other addictive chemicals. Most addicts didn’t go that far, allowing coffee and nicotine to be sanity savers. He didn’t judge. Those were legal, accepted, and not as mind-altering as the other substances they battled. For himself, he wanted to stay free of any habit-forming substances. He’d been a slave long enough.

  A few feet from where he stood, the bell on the door clanked, and he called a greeting over his shoulder. “Good morning. If I can help you, please ask.”

  No sound came of the door closing behind him, no sound of feet entering, no sound of a person followed his welcome. Cooper pivoted away from the counter where he’d been wiping stray spills of water and coffee to see who’d opened the gallery entrance.

  It was her.

  Rivers.

  “What are you doing
?” the woman gasped. “Here? What are you doing here?”

  “I-I-I work. Here. I work here.” Words stuttered and twisted on his tongue. Something about her undid him. Next his lisp would come back.

  “Why?” Her cobalt eyes rounded and shone in the track lighting. They reminded him of those swirly blue marbles he’d played with as a kid when he’d spent summers here with Jordan and Savannah.

  “They pay me to manage the gallery.” He tried to lift his lips into a pleasant expression and took cautious steps closer to her. “Like a job.”

  “Who is they?”

  This had to be her. It was the only thing that made sense. First the cottage, and now here at the gallery. “Shane Turner, the man who manages the esta—property.”

  How horribly he was failing in this conversation. Her expression twisted as if he’d been the one who shot her. Somehow he always managed to wound his family.

  “Oh.” Her long thin fingers ran through her bangs, causing a few light strands to stand on end. “Is anyone else here?”

  “Two volunteers from Re-Claimed are working. They’re in the back right now setting up.”

  “I meant Shane Turner.” Her blue gaze snapped up to him. “Re-Claimed? What kind of place is that?” Her voice became shrill like those small whistles in Cracker Jack boxes.

  The bell on the door signaled another arrival, and a gray-haired couple entered.

  “Hey, folks. Come in and look around.” Cooper placed a hand on her shoulder and neared her ear. “Let me give you a tour, and I’ll explain.” At least he’d try. She was likely as tolerant as the rest of his family.

  SHE HADN’T MEANT TO freak out, but Cooper didn’t have to touch her like that. He seemed to feel the need to hush her, to calm her. If he hadn’t been speaking in riddles, she wouldn’t have overreacted.

  But seeing him here, of all places. His dark hair about as careless as it had been the day before. Though he wore khakis with an untucked pale blue button-down and looked at home in this place... Did he know she’d come here? And Re-Claimed? It better not be what she was imagining. This was her art gallery. Had been for a year, and yet, she knew nothing about it. She hadn’t wanted to, hadn’t wanted it to be hers, hadn’t wanted to be here. Not without Jordan.