Love Lies Bleeding

by Jess McConkey

  Sam pulled on her bottom lip. “I suppose you’re right. It could be that the talk about Blanche filtered into my subconscious and it came out in the dream.”

  Anne breathed a sigh of relief. Sam had enough problems without becoming obsessed with a woman who was long gone from the lake. The next time she ran into Fritz, she’d drop a couple of hints about not regaling Sam with any more stories about the “good old days” and specifically any dealing with Blanche Jones.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Sam’s fingers tapped a rapid beat on the car seat as Anne drove back to the lake. Bags of art supplies, which she hadn’t purchased in years, filled the trunk. The small store hadn’t had a great selection, but she’d bought more than enough to get started. If she found that she needed more, she’d call down to the Cities and have additional supplies shipped to the cabin. It had been exciting wandering around the store and making her selections. The lingering aroma of turpentine and oil paints had carried her back to happier times and college days spent lost in her work. The world had seemed full of possibilities back then. In those days, she’d dreamed of exhibitions, not meeting ad campaign deadlines. She’d envisioned having her own studio, one she had designed. As she thought about it, her fingers stilled and curled into a fist. But those dreams had died in the face of reality and the need to earn a living. Was it too late to see them reborn? It had been so long since she’d created anything. What if she’d forgotten every technique she’d learned in college? What if—

  Anne’s voice broke into her thoughts. “What’s wrong?” she asked with a quick glance toward Sam. “You looked worried. Aren’t you pleased with your purchases?”

  Sam’s fingers resumed their tapping. “It’s not that.” She looked down at her restless hand and swiftly tucked it under her leg. “I just haven’t painted in years.” Turning her head, she stared at the tall pines whizzing past the car window before returning her attention to Anne. “What if I’ve lost it?” she finally asked in a small voice.

  “Lost it?”

  “Yeah.” Sam shook her head, trying to put her thoughts into words. “When I was a kid, all my mother had to do to keep me occupied was hand me a box of crayons and a piece of paper. I’d spend hours drawing whatever struck my fancy, and I grew up taking that ability to create for granted.”

  “And now you’re worried that it might have disappeared? I’m no art expert, but Fritz was really impressed by your work.”

  Sam brushed away Anne’s words. “I did those two paintings straight out of college and haven’t worked on anything since.”

  Anne frowned. “It seems to me that talent isn’t something that goes away from lack of use. You may be a bit rusty at first, but I would think either you have it or you don’t.”

  “There’s a little more to it than that,” Sam answered in a wry voice. “It takes practice to learn how to use light against dark, to create emphasis, to—” She broke off with a frustrated shake of her head. “There are a million tricks that an artist uses to get his point across.”

  “Okay,” Anne answered reasonably, “so maybe you won’t be happy with your first piece, but in time, I’m sure you’ll remember those tricks.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if I can’t remember? Thanks to that crack on my skull, what if that part of my brain’s been damaged?” Sam’s voice rose in desperation. “What if I’ve been robbed of more than just the strength in my leg?”

  Pulling into the yard at the cabin, Anne stopped and shut off the engine. “There’s one way to find out,” she said, reaching into the backseat and grabbing one of the bags. She plopped it on Sam’s lap. “Here. Let’s get everything inside, and while I’m putting it away, you can sit on the couch and sketch.”

  Keeping her hands clenched at her side, Sam fastened her eyes on the sack lying in her lap. A sketch pad. It might have been fun buying all this stuff, but the reality of using it terrified her. Unless she made the concessions he wanted, her father wouldn’t let her eventually come back to the agency. And things were dicey with Jackson. All she had left was her artwork that she’d abandoned years ago, she thought, staring at the sketch pad in her lap.

  Anne’s sudden nudge startled her. “Oh, stop—that sack isn’t a snake, and quit being a wuss.”

  Sam’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon,” she exclaimed. “I’m not a wuss.”

  “Then tackle your fear head-on.” Anne opened the car door and stepped out. “Get in there and get going.”

  A few minutes later, Sam sat curled up on the couch with Roxy next to her while Anne stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips.

  “Where do you want the easel?” she asked.

  Sam’s eyes scanned the room, noticing the play of light throughout the cabin. “I think over there,” she said, pointing, “close to the French doors.”

  “Alrighty, then,” Anne replied, rubbing her hands together.

  While Anne went to work setting up the easel, Sam opened the sketch pad and, picking up a piece of charcoal, gazed at the pure white paper. Her hand, poised above the sketch pad, trembled. Where to begin? Let your mind go, she told herself. Taking a deep breath, she made a swift line then softened it with the pad of her thumb. After glancing up at Anne, who was now studiously reading the easel’s assembly instructions, she made a second line, followed by another, then another. Her shoulders relaxed and the world fell away as an image began to appear on the paper. She paused and rubbed her nose. No, too harsh—more shadow. Sam smeared the outline. Another swoop of the charcoal, and the image gained definition. A smile tugged at her lips. Not bad—the focal point is good, but the balance is a little off. She concentrated on adding more emphasis on the left. She was adding detail when a shadow fell across the sketch pad. Tearing her eyes away from the pad, she looked up to see Anne towering over her.

  “Here, have some iced tea,” she said, extending a glass. “You look like you could use it.”

  Like a diver emerging from the ocean, Sam needed a moment to get her bearings. With glassy eyes, she scanned the living room. An easel sat in the corner with brushes laid out neatly on the tray. Other art supplies were arranged within easy reach on the shelves next to it. She noticed the shadows creeping across the floor. What time was it? Her eyes flared as she noticed the clock. She’d been at it for over an hour. Dropping the charcoal and flipping the sketch pad shut, she flexed her fingers before accepting the glass from Anne.

  “Thanks,” she said, and drained the tea in one long gulp. Uncurling her legs, she groaned softly as blood rushed to cramped muscles.

  Anne shook her head. “You can’t stay in one position for so long. You need to stretch every so often.”

  Placing the glass on the coffee table, Sam slowly rose to her feet and arched her back. “You’re right,” she replied, but Anne wasn’t listening. Her attention was focused on the sketch pad lying on the couch.

  With a chuckle, Sam lifted it. “Do you want to take a look?”

  “May I?”

  Sam tugged on her bottom lip and hesitated. She wasn’t completely happy with the piece, but for a first attempt after such a long spell, she supposed it was okay. Flipping the pad open, she handed it to Anne and waited nervously for her reaction.

  “It’s me,” Anne said in a hushed voice.

  Sam let go of the breath she didn’t know she was holding. “I’m glad you think so,” she said lightly.

  Anne took her eyes off the drawing and looked at Sam in surprise. “Are you kidding? This is terrific.”

  “Here,” Sam said, taking the sketch pad away from Anne and picking up a pencil. With a flourish, she signed the drawing and, removing it from the pad, handed it to Anne.

  “Seriously? I can keep it?”

  “Sure,” she said, flushing with pleasure. “It’s the least I can do. You’ve paid me the highest compliment an artist can receive. You’re happy with—”

  Roxy’s loud bark as she shot off the
couch interrupted her. Running to the door, the dog stood on her hind legs and peered out the window. Her fur stood in a ridge along her spine while a soft growl rumbled deep in her chest.

  “Looks like someone’s here,” Anne said as she placed her portrait on the easel. Crossing the room, she grabbed the dog’s collar and used her knee to ease Roxy away from the door. “It’s Dr. Van Horn,” she said with a glance over her shoulder at Sam.

  “He wasn’t supposed to come until Friday.” Sam sank to the couch. “Dad called him.” She buried her head in her hands. “Great—now I’ll have to listen to his lecture, too.”

  Not letting go of the dog’s collar, Anne reached over to the counter and picked up Roxy’s leash. “Why don’t I take her for a walk and give you some privacy,” she said, snapping on the leash.

  Sam lifted her head. “Coward,” she said in a wry voice.

  “You’ll be okay. If you can handle your dad, you can handle Dr. Van Horn.”

  Anne swung the door open and Sam heard her greet Jackson over Roxy’s barking as she stepped out onto the porch. With a sigh, she settled back on the couch and waited for the inevitable.

  Without speaking, Jackson strode into the cabin and walked over to the couch. Sitting next to her, he gathered her in his arms in a tight hug.

  “Samantha, I’m so sorry,” he murmured into her ear.

  Stunned, Sam pushed away from his hug. “For what?”

  “Lawrence talked to me. I’ve been wrong about so many things and I can only hope you’ll forgive me.”

  “What things?”

  He pulled his fingers through his hair. “Where do I begin? I misjudged what happened at Fritz’s party . . . I allowed your father to convince me that you should be in residential treatment . . . I’ve ignored all your concerns and treated you like a child instead of the woman I love.” He gave her a wry grin. “How’s that for starters?”

  “Pretty good,” Sam replied, and held up her hand, “but let’s back up. You said that the residential facility was Dad’s idea?”

  Jackson drew back. “Yes. Why?”

  “He claimed it was your idea.”

  “He must have misunderstood. He did ask me about such places and I told him what I knew, but he was the one who brought it up and suggested that a facility might be the best place for you.”

  Sam’s eyes narrowed as she studied him. His expression was guileless. He could be telling the truth. It wouldn’t be the first time in her experience that she’d seen her father twist the facts to suit his needs.

  Picking up her hand, Jackson planted a soft kiss on her knuckles. “You believe me, don’t you?” His voice rose on a hopeful note. “Please say you forgive me.”

  “Jackson, I—”

  He lightly touched her lips with his finger, silencing her. “No, there’s something else I need to explain . . . I thought about it driving up here.” He dropped his hand and leaned back, giving her space. “In my desire to keep peace between you and your father, I haven’t been as supportive of you as I should have been. I can see now how it must’ve appeared that I was always siding with your father.”

  “Well, I know Dad—”

  “It was a mistake,” he interrupted. “And all I can say in my defense is that I let my own family’s dynamics overrule what should’ve been my main priority—you and the life we can build together.”

  She felt her heart soften as she thought about the stories Jackson had told her about his childhood—stories about how his parents had used him as a weapon to hurt each other. About how they’d treated him more like a prize to win in their battle with each other than a child to love in his own right. About the demands that they had placed on him.

  When Sam said nothing, Jackson tentatively scooted closer. Just like Roxy did when she knew she’d been naughty. She relaxed against the couch as memories of what her life with Jackson had been like before her attack came flooding back. They’d been so good together. Shared interests, shared passions—he had been not only her lover, but her best friend. Since the attack, though, the dynamics of their relationship had shifted. Instead of partners, they’d been playing out the roles of caretaker and patient. Somewhere along the line, mistrust had crept in. She glanced over at him. So handsome . . . so sincere. She felt the love she’d been unable to show for so long flicker back to life. Could they go back to the beginning? Without her father’s constant interference, she felt that maybe they could.

  “Jackson,” she began, leaning toward him.

  “Sam!” he suddenly exclaimed, and stood. Walking over to the easel, he picked up her charcoal drawing of Anne. “This is wonderful.” He held it at arm’s length as his eyes roamed over the portrait. “You’ve captured Anne’s strength, her determination, yet at the same time shown the vulnerability she tries to hide.” Shaking his head, he propped the portrait back on the easel and returned to the couch. “I’ve always thought it was wrong for you to give up your art.”

  “Really? You did?”

  He nodded. “It’s a shame for a talent like yours to go to waste. I’d love to see your work shown at a gallery someday.” He dipped his head shyly. “It’s always been a secret dream of mine for you, but I knew how your father felt, and didn’t want to interfere.”

  Moved by his confession, Sam threw her arms around his neck. She felt the old passion for him begin to spark. It had been so long. Staring into his eyes, she lifted her mouth to his and pressed it firmly against his lips. He gave a start of surprise, but then relaxed into her, deepening the kiss. Sam’s belly clenched and her grip on his neck tightened. Leaning back, she pulled him down on top of her while his hand stole up her side. A long sigh escaped.

  Abruptly, footsteps on the porch made him jerk away, ending the kiss and the embrace. Sam sat up quickly just in time to see Anne and Roxy stride through the door. She felt her face flush in embarrassment, but smiled when Jackson gave her a conspiratorial wink.

  “Later,” he mouthed.

  Later never came. Thanks to an incident involving Roxy and one of Jackson’s Gucci loafers. He’d been furious to find it lying on the bed with teeth marks marring the expensive leather. He’d yelled at Roxy, at Sam, and had insisted he’d had it with the dog. He’d frightened the dog and she cowered at Sam’s side during his entire tirade. When Sam had refused to accede to his wishes, he’d stormed into the guest room, slamming the door behind him.

  How could he be so unyielding and arbitrary? Sam fumed to herself as she paced her bedroom. Roxy was just being a dog—he shouldn’t have left his shoes out where she could get to them. Sure, they couldn’t have her going around eating shoes, but hadn’t Greg said it takes time to train a dog properly? She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains back. If he really loved her, he’d understand how much Roxy meant to her. How Roxy gave her back the feeling of security that she’d lost that day in the parking garage. She’d tried to explain it, but he wouldn’t listen. Dropping the curtains, she crossed to the bed and sat next to Roxy, who’d been watching Sam pace with a bewildered look in her eyes.

  “It’s okay,” she said, burying her face in the dog’s fur. “I won’t let him send you away.”

  Roxy’s tail thumped the bed in response.

  With a smile, Sam stood and patted the dog’s head. “Let’s go to bed. We’ll sort it all out in the morning.”

  Hours later, a crash of thunder had Sam bolting upright. Instinctively, she reached for the dog, but Roxy wasn’t on the bed. Leaning sideways, she fumbled with the bedside lamp. Once it was on, the room filled with a soft glow and Sam noticed the door to her room. It was open and a stiff breeze was blowing through it, whipping the curtains.

  “What the hell,” she muttered, struggling out of bed. Throwing on her robe, she stumbled out of the room and down the hall. As she did, she heard a thumping sound above the storm raging outside the cabin. Rounding the corner, she gasped. The kitchen door stood wide open, and the thumping was caused by the screen door hitting the side of the cabin. Her easel lay on
its side and papers were scattered across the floor. Tightening her robe around her, she crossed the room and shut both doors against the pouring rain.

  “Roxy? Roxy!” she called, her voice rising with apprehension.

  She went back to her bedroom. Maybe the storm had driven the dog under the bed in fear. Using the side of the bed for balance, she knelt and peered underneath. No dog. Shoving herself to her feet, she went back to the living room.

  “Roxy,” she shrieked.

  Jackson, his hair tousled, suddenly appeared behind her. “What’s going on?”

  Sam whirled on him. “The door wasn’t locked and the storm blew it open. Now Roxy’s gone,” she cried, emotion choking her. “We have to go look for her.”

  Jackson walked past her and threw the lock. “Don’t be silly. Just because your dog’s stupid enough to go out in a storm doesn’t mean we are.”

  Sam stamped her foot in anger. “You won’t help me find her?”

  Jackson’s hands fisted on his hips and he shook his head. “We’ll find her in the morning.”

  “That might be too late,” she exclaimed.

  He shrugged. “Samantha, sometimes things work out for the best. If we find her, we find her. If not . . .” His voice trailed away as he held his hands wide in a helpless gesture.

  Turning away, Sam marched down the hallway. “That is not good enough,” she called over her shoulder.

  He followed. “I’m not going to let you go out in this storm.”

  Pulling on a pair of sweatpants, Sam hiked up her nightgown around her waist and used the elastic waistband of the pants to hold it in place. She grabbed a sweatshirt and shoved her arms into the sleeves. Sliding her feet into her tennis shoes, she picked up the flashlight from the dresser and shoved passed Jackson, down the hallway toward the kitchen door.

  He beat her to it. Standing with his back against the door, he crossed his arms and stared down at her. “I’m not letting you out in the storm.”