“I painted it while I was on the tour bus. Quite the challenge to paint in a moving room. I created it from a photo I snapped of the crowd anxious to get inside. When we arrived at the venue, the staff told us some of the fans had slept outside the entrance. They didn’t need to have a good spot in line to secure their seats. They had their tickets. They were just so excited to see their favorite band. I wanted to capture their excitement for the guys.” I twirled a lock of hair around my finger, a nervous habit I thought I’d shaken years ago.
“Why don’t the guys have this painting?” he mused.
I shrugged. “Things happened.”
His eyes searched my face, examining me like I was a painting whose meaning had to be deciphered. Good luck. I hadn’t been able to figure it out myself the past couple of years.
He turned to the next piece. It was the largest one and was propped on an easel. “Ahh, the one I’ve been dying to see in person.”
The piece that meant the most to me.
I painted it after one of my most perfect days with Dawson. Spring in Paris the first time I went there with Dawson. The most romantic city in the world, with the most romantic guy in the world. All the flowers and the butterflies and the Eiffel Tower.
Dawson convinced a lady walking by to take our picture kissing in front of the iconic tower. The photo became the painting Charles now examined.
“I might want to buy this one for myself.” He gripped the edges of the canvas, careful not to touch the front.
“We can include it in the display, but it isn’t for sale. There are some pieces I’ve created I just can’t bear to part with. I’m sorry.” No one would ever be able to pay me enough to let it go.
“I understand.” He moved to the moonrise over the ocean. It was a peaceful creation. Even now, it soothed me. Dawson had sat on the beach with me for hours while I painted it.
“Very good,” was his only comment.
Next up was the tornado of butterflies. He moved closer, then back, tilted his head this way and that. The colors swirled. “I love how, depending on the perspective, a different butterfly becomes the focal point.”
Finally, he stood in front of the oldest piece I’d brought. I painted it when I was fourteen.
In it, a young teenaged hand held out a bouquet of wildflowers to a hand with pink fingernails. Wrapped around the wrist holding the flowers was a friendship bracelet, primarily red with a little pink twined in it. A matching bracelet that was mainly pink adorned the girl’s arm. I smiled as I recalled making those bracelets for me and Dawson. My eighth grade history teacher was teaching about a legend from her culture. The invisible thread. I could still hear her in my mind.
“Legend has it that when two people are destined to be together, fate ties an invisible cord around each of their ankles. This invisible cord links those two people to each other and ensures that they’ll find one another one day. It also means these two people stay bound together despite space and time differences. The red thread may have to stretch the world over, and it might get tangled up, but it will never break.”
It was such a romantic notion. I had told Dawson about it over the phone that very day. I fully expected he’d think it was ridiculous. But he didn’t. He actually thought it would make a cool concept for a song. I’d been feeling extra distant from my best friend, so I bought some red and pink thread. Red for Dawson’s favorite color, and pink for mine. I made us matching friendship bracelets. At his next visit, I’d tied his on his wrist. He’d smiled and said, “The red thread legend?”
We both wore the bracelets for years. Mine had to be removed when I got sick. By the time I was released from the hospital, it hurt too much to put it back on. The stupid legend was a fraud anyway. But the painting represented a time when I still viewed love so innocently.
“Isabelle, I have to say, your work is very good. I see a lot of potential sales hanging on this wall. I’m very excited about the prospect of displaying more of your work in Charleston and here. As an art lover though, I have to point out, there is a distinct divide in your pieces. Every piece, from your earliest piece up to your Eiffel Tower painting, illustrates not just more color, but more passion, more emotion. Your later pieces, with the exception of the cavern painting and your abstract self-portrait, are sterile. They’re very good technique-wise. But they lack the emotion you poured into the other pieces. Now, I don’t think that will hinder the sales of these other pieces. But for your well-being as an artist, I think you need to examine yourself and figure out what the difference is.” A sad smile tipped up his lips.
I nodded at him. I knew what the difference was. Dawson. I just didn’t know how to get back the love of life I had when he was a part of mine without getting him back. And it was painfully obvious from the tabloids that my heart couldn’t handle having him back in my life.
♪ Collide by Howie Day
CHAPTER 20
DAWSON
♪ Things Will Go My Way by The Calling
A fter a restless night, I was no more ready to tackle the photo puzzle in the light of day than I was the previous night. But it had to be done. With a sigh, I sank down in front of the pile of scraps with a cup of coffee and an apple. I spread the pieces out and made sure they were all right side up. As I took a bite of the crisp apple, my eyes roved the fragments. With one finger, I began to slide the pieces with a straight edge over to one side. I also noticed several of the pieces had a pattern like lattice work on them. I shifted them all together.
Two hours later, I had one long side and both the top and bottom assembled. The bottom was just green grass. The side was a line of trees planted in a symmetrical row. It could be anywhere. The pieces with the crisscrossing pattern didn’t seem to fit together just yet. A few of the pieces seemed to indicate a metal framework in the shape of an arch. But with all the places I’d been in the world over the past three years, there were at least a dozen locations this could be. And there was nothing to say the photo was from a place I’d been.
I had this sense of urgency inside me, demanding I figure out the clues. But I couldn’t explain it. The letters had apparently been coming for years, and there’d never been an incident that raised alarm with my security team. My palm slammed against the table as air huffed from my lungs. The chair scraped against the tile when I shoved away from the table. I needed to get out of here for a while.
A quick trip to my room had me ready to go to one of three places where I found peace. Making music wouldn’t bring me tranquility at the moment, since my musical ties created the situation currently frustrating me. Breathing in Izzy wasn’t an option, for obvious reasons. So, seeking serenity on the sea was all that was left.
Detouring through the garage to grab my favorite board, I decided to try the waves in my own backyard rather than waste time driving to a better location. There’d be no point breaks, but with any luck the beach breaks would be long today. The weather indicated strong offshore winds, so that should help. Even if the surfing sucked, the salt and water would help clear my head.
My toes sank into the cool sand as I trudged through the dunes to the rolling water. No matter how many times I’d surfed over the years, especially in recent days, sixty-degree water wasn’t something I’d ever get used to. I sucked in a sharp breath the moment the water washed over my feet. Knowing the best course of action was to go all in, I dove into the approaching wave, embracing the chilly sea as my board floated behind me. Strong strokes as I broke the surface pulled me past the breakpoint to wait for some ridable waves.
I sat astride my board, bobbing up and down. The beach was virtually empty. With the late winter wind and morning hour, the picturesque scene wasn’t exactly inviting for more than the diehard surfers. I waited through a series of waves until finally a decent one approached. I paddled hard to meet the wall of water. Counting the seconds between swells used to be necessary to get my timing right, but now my pop-up was second nature. Shortly after the takeoff, I slipped into the barrel and lo
st myself in the churning tunnel of water. The foam chased behind me as I rode the tube for a while. It was a rush.
I managed to catch a couple more good waves before I noticed someone hanging out in the dunes. For some reason, my heart rate shifted, and unease filled me. Squinting, I tried to make out who it might be. I knew most of the people who frequented this stretch of beach since it was accessible to only those of us who lived here. And I’d lived in the neighborhood for a while. Even before I bought my house, my apartment was a few streets up from the area. Long hair floated in the wind. A hint of black and pink. It wasn’t one of my neighbors. The woman held a pair of binoculars to her face, and she seemed to be watching me. When I threw up my hand in a wave, she turned and hurried away.
I allowed the rolling water to carry me back to shore. My peace was shattered.
When I arrived back at my house, I noticed the guys’ vehicles were in my driveway. They were early. We’d arranged to practice “Dear Universe” so we’d be ready for Elle’s show. Standing under the spray of the outdoor shower, I washed away the bulk of the sand and salt, then went inside to find the guys lounging in my living room and kitchen.
“Glad to see you made yourselves at home,” I teased as I made wet tracks across the floor on my way upstairs to shower and change.
“Thanks, dude. And tell your mom thanks for the yummy cookies,” Brooks shouted at my back.
I flipped him off over my shoulder and took the stairs two at a time. “Order some pizza. Menu’s in the drawer by the stove. I’m gonna shower and change. Be down in a bit,” I shouted down to them.
Since the guys were downstairs, I locked my bedroom door before I made my way into the bathroom. Reaching in, I twisted the knob to just shy of lava setting. As the room filled quickly with steam, I peeled my wetsuit from my torso and down my legs, nearly breaking a sweat at the effort to remove the second skin. With a plop, it landed beside the hamper where I tossed it.
I stepped beneath the hot spray and sighed as the water pounded my muscles. With my eyes closed, I reached for a bottle of shampoo from the shelf. Blindly, I squirted some into my palm. As I lathered it into my hair, the sweet aroma of strawberries filled the air.
Damn. I’d grabbed the wrong bottle. Though Izzy had never even visited my house here in LA, let alone set foot in my shower, she had left a bottle of her shampoo on the tour bus during her last visit. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out. During some of my lowest points after she left, I’d used her shampoo. And I’d worn her flavored lip balm. And sprayed her perfume on my sheets. Eventually, I stopped doing it every day. But I hadn’t been able to bring myself to discard the reminders of her.
As the scent of berries wrapped around me, my mind drifted to the first time Izzy had showered with me.
♪ Impulsive by Wilson Phillips
It was the second semester of Izzy’s sophomore year. Since I’d moved to New York to record our first album, Izzy and I were back on the same coast again. I’d been surprised when she texted to ask me for a favor.
One of her assignments for art school was to paint a nude portrait. A model was available for the students to use, or they could find their own subjects. Izzy had been all nervous when she called and asked. She’d been so cute on the video screen, twirling her hair around her finger like she always did whenever she was anxious about something. We hadn’t hooked up since the summer before our senior year in high school. So, I understood her nerves, but I also understood why my sweet Izzy couldn’t bring herself to paint a stranger’s naked form. I happily agreed to bare all for her…
♪ The Like in I Love You by Brian Wilson
TINGLES RAN up and down my arm from holding it in the same position for too long. A couple hours ago, Izzy had posed my naked form artfully on her bed with the sun streaming in from the window to my right, casting shadows on the rough brick wall behind me. When I first lay down, the sheets were cool against my skin. But as time passed, being naked in front of Izzy heated me. Lying in her bed, with my head on her pillow, I was surrounded by her scent—strawberries and something softer.
She’d arranged my guitar on the bed next to me like a lover. The neck of it resting in the curve of my arm, and the body propped at a slight angle against my thigh. My other arm, she’d draped over the smooth wood and strings possessively.
The concept she was trying to convey with the pose was very accurate for many of the guys I’d met in the industry over the past couple of years. Hell, it had been true for me the past couple of years. Music was my one constant companion, the owner of my heart. But staring at Izzy, I knew it was a lie. Music didn’t own my heart at all. She did. She always had.
Though she kept scolding me, I couldn’t help watching her as she worked. Her body moved fluidly as she transferred what she saw onto the canvas. The tip of her tongue was captured between her teeth as she concentrated on getting each of my features perfect. I couldn’t wait to see the finished piece. To really see how she saw me.
With anyone else, the hours-long silence might be awkward. But not with me and Izzy. I could stare at her all day and not have to say a word. My mind was busy working out lyrics, and my fingers resting on the strings were itching to snatch notes from the air to capture my feelings in this moment of watching Izzy create something beautiful from looking at me. But I knew one twitch might spark her ire. And I didn’t want that.
“If you can hold the pose for just a little longer, we’ll be done for the day. I only have a little longer with the light just right,” Izzy finally whispered, breaking the silence.
“Sure. I think all my limbs are asleep anyway,” I joked.
“Sorry about the long session. I kind of lost track of time. You’re… um…” Her cheeks flushed as her voice trailed off.
“I’m what?” I was curious as to what thoughts were making her blush so furiously.
“Nothing.” Her eyes darted back to her work.
“You can’t do that to me, flutterby. Am I doing something wrong? I swear, I’m trying to be still.” I huffed out a deep breath.
Her gaze flew up to meet mine. “You’re doing fine. More than fine. You’re doing wonderfully. What I was going to say before was you’re a beautiful subject. But I know guys don’t want to be seen as beautiful.” Her skin pinkened even more as her eyes darted away, then back.
“Thank you. If you, a creator of beauty and the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known, thinks I’m beautiful, then I’ll take it as the highest compliment anyone has ever given me.” I winked at her, then forced myself to shut up before I said anything more revealing. Her head dipped back to the canvas.
After a few more silent moments, she spoke again, “I really appreciate you doing this for me. I can’t thank you enough.”
“You don’t need to thank me. You’ve supported me so much over the years. Posing for you is the very least I could do. I will always be here for you whenever you need me.” And I would. I’d never let her down. Not as a friend or… more if she ever wanted more.
♪ I Will Be There for You by Bon Jovi
“Ditto.” With that one word, she stood and stretched her arms over her head. “Light’s gone. You can move now. I’ll need a few hours tomorrow, and maybe a little more on Sunday.”
I flopped onto my back and stretched my achy limbs. She bent down and scooped my shirt off the floor, then tossed it to me. With one hand I caught it, but I didn’t bother to put it on. She’d seen it all already. She didn’t notice when I got off the bed and strode over to stand behind her. She’d already sat back in front of the easel.
I recognized the look on her face. She was in the zone, dabbing and smudging paint here and there on the canvas with her fingers and the brush in between them. When I yanked my eyes from her and bothered to look at her creation, I was impressed with just how much work she’d managed to get done in the few hours she’d worked on it today.
“Wow,” I whispered.
She turned and shoved me backwards, brush still in hand. “You can�
�t look at it yet. It’s not ready to be viewed.”
“I think I get special privileges since I’m your muse,” I argued.
♪ (You’re My) Soul and Inspiration by Righteous Brothers
Her hand still rested against my torso. Heat spread from her touch on my skin.
“You didn’t get dressed,” she whispered.
“As an artist, you’re very observant.” I smirked at her.
“Crap, I got paint on you.” Wet, red paint covered several of her fingertips and the tip of the brush.
I took the palette out of her other hand and dabbed my fingers into the puddle of blue before dropping it to the floor. I tapped a dot of paint to her nose. “Oops. Now I got paint on you.”
Laughter exploded from her small frame as she smacked my chest, effectively smearing more paint on me.
“Oh, you’re gonna pay for that.” I sunk to my knees in front of where she still perched on her stool. With a shaky finger, I drew music notes on her thigh, right up to where the hem of her cut-offs had ridden up high enough to ignite all my fantasies and memories. My other hand gripped her hip.
Goosebumps peppered her skin beneath the trail of the blue melody I was creating. “What are you doing?” she whispered.
“Creating something beautiful for you.”
I looked up from where I’d been composing on her skin. Her eyes were filled with heat. And all the words we’d spoken years ago about why we shouldn’t be together evaporated in the inferno raging between us.
“Sing it for me when you finish it?” her words a soft request.
“Always,” I vowed.
I wedged myself between her knees as our lips drifted towards each other. When our lips finally melded together, it was the most intense kiss I’d ever experienced. Izzy and I had shared a lot of kisses over the years. And I’d kissed quite a few groupies in the years since Izzy and I had put ourselves firmly in the friends only zone. None of those kisses ever felt as monumental as this one. This kiss changed everything. Shifted every thought in my mind. Every feeling in my heart. This was it. I just had to figure out how to tell her without scaring her away.
Notes of the Heart: Book 2 of the Lyrical Odyssey Rock Star Series Page 24