by Patricia Fry
The officers hesitated, then Detective Reed said, "Okay, we'll come back when you're feeling better."
Savannah watched as they left, then she stepped toward the bed and said, "I'd better be going, too."
"No," Dawna said, opening her eyes and lifting her head off the pillow. "Stay. I want to talk to you."
"Okay," she said, sounding a bit wary. She walked around to the other side of the bed and sat down in a chair. "Is that what really happened?" she asked. "It kind of sounded like you were either making it up or you were trying to protect someone."
Dawna's eyes flashed in anger. "What do you mean? That's what happened, dammit!"
Savannah sat quietly, watching Dawna. She then asked, "How long will they keep you?"
"I think I can go home today. The sooner the better. I have a lot to do."
"So what's on your agenda first?" Savannah asked, trying to make conversation. "What's the most important thing you want to do when they release you?"
Dawna laid back and looked out the window at the sky. "Paint," she said, thoughtfully. "I just want to paint."
"You sound like a woman with a passion."
"Oh yes. I thought my passion was Peter and his art. But now I've discovered that my passion is my own art."
"Do you have time to pursue your art?" Savannah asked.
"Yes. I paint at night in that storage unit I told you about. I converted it into my studio."
"Gads, Dawna, how do you work by day and paint at night?"
"Coffee and stay-awake pills," she admitted.
"No wonder you're so…energetic," Savannah said. "Do you ever let your system calm down?"
"No," she said. "I might fall asleep."
When Dawna noticed Savannah smiling at the irony of that comment, she began to chuckle.
"Good to see you still have a sense of humor," Savannah said. She leaned forward and asked, "Where do you see yourself in five years?"
Dawna adjusted the pillow under her head so she could look at Savannah. "Well, that's an off-the-wall question."
"Yes. Can you answer it? I think we all should be able to answer that question at any time. If we can't, something could be wrong with the way we're living—we are destined to fail. Some people have goals with no real direction and their life can be crap."
Dawna stared at Savannah. "You're talking about me, aren't you? You think my life is crap."
"I didn't say that."
The women were silent for a moment and then Dawna said, "My life is crap!"
Savannah grinned.
Dawna looked at her and her mouth turned up slightly. Tears filled her eyes, but she began to chuckle. Her chuckle turned into laughter. Soon both women were laughing.
"Why would you say that?" Savannah asked.
"Because I can't honestly answer your question."
"It's not really my question, is it? It's something you should be asking yourself."
Dawna thought about that statement for a moment and then said, "So true. Where do I see myself in five years? In the cemetery?"
"No, let's not go there. Come on, Dawna," Savannah urged.
"Okay," she said, dreamily. "In my own gallery selling my own art. That's where I'd like to see myself—traveling to shows all over." She spoke more quietly now. "I want Peter's life."
After a long silence, Savannah said, "That's a great goal, Dawna—and an honest one. Now, how do you plan to get there? What's the first step?"
"Oh," Dawna said, as if caught off guard, "that's an efficient way to approach it, isn't it? I've been so busy running around trying to do what I think I'm supposed to do that I never really stopped to think about how to achieve my goal."
"That not exactly true, Dawna," Savannah said. "You've been making preparations by staying awake at night painting. How many paintings do you have?"
"Dozens…maybe three dozen that are show-worthy."
"How long does it take you to create a painting?"
"Not long." Her eyes widened. "I can complete one in, say, two days. Sometimes less, sometimes more. It depends on the mood and the project."
"Pretty fast, then," Savannah said. "I'd like to see your art."
Dawna looked at her. "Really?"
"Yes. After they spring you, let me know when you're going to your…studio again and I'll go with you."
Dawna smiled. "Okay. I'd like that."
"Do you need anything?" Savannah asked.
Just then a doctor walked in. "Dawna Paulson?" he asked.
"Yes," Dawna said, cringing a little.
He looked down at her chart. "How are you feeling?"
"Pretty good," she said. "Can I go home?"
"Well, let's see," he said, proceeding to examine her. When he finished, he looked at her chart again. "I can't see any reason to keep you. You didn't breathe in too much carbon monoxide. I hear the windows on the car were rolled up and the fumes were mostly outside the car—filling the garage. You probably don't have any rats or mice in that garage, though," he said with a chuckle.
Savannah noticed that Dawna didn't seem to appreciate the doctor's attempt at humor. She addressed him, "I can take her home. Is the paperwork ready?"
He thought for a moment, then responded, "Yeah, I'll take care of it." He glanced at his patient. "I imagine she'll be ready to go in thirty minutes or so."
****
While Savannah waited in the lobby with a cup of coffee, she called Michael to let him know she'd be delayed. In the meantime, Dawna took a shower and freshened up. An hour later, she directed Savannah to her studio in the storage unit.
"Here it is—no windows. It's quiet. I sometimes paint wearing ear buds and listening to classical music," she explained. She used a key to unlock the padlock, opened the door, and turned on the light.
Savannah's eyes were immediately drawn to a painting in progress on an easel. "Dawna," she said, walking toward it, "this is lovely." She looked around at other paintings that were leaning against the walls and lying on a long table. "She glanced from one area of the room to another, examining the artwork. "Well, you are versatile."
Dawna smiled.
"Look at this; it's quite similar to Peter's style, isn't it?"
Dawna moved in front of that group of paintings and pointed Savannah in another direction. "Yeah, I can paint like he does, but I'm not in love with that style. I prefer this," she said, pointing out a group of three paintings.
"Gosh, they're so light and free and…well, just lovely," Savannah said. "I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it, except maybe in high-class home-furnishing stores. It's so conducive to the home environment—as opposed to banks or that type of thing. This is private art, not public art." She looked at Dawna, who was smiling.
"I'd love to get in with a home-furnishing company. That would be my goal for…maybe six or seven years from now," she said. Suddenly, she looked at her watch. "Hey, I'd really like to make a few phone calls. Do you mind taking me home?" She crinkled up her nose. "I want to change out of these clothes—they stink."
"Sure, I'll drive you home," Savannah said. "Hey, thanks for showing me your studio. I'm impressed. Dawna, I'd really like to see you take the steps toward following your dream. There's no reason for you to continue helping Peter pursue his, is there? Isn't it time for Dawna to shine?" She turned to leave with Dawna when she suddenly stopped.
"What?" Dawna asked, when she saw the look on Savannah's face.
Savannah pressed her lips together and said, "I have an idea. I'll check back with you later."
It was close to noon when Savannah walked into the beach house and found Michael and her mother on the deck playing a card game. "Hi guys," she said, joining them.
"Hi, how is she?" Michael asked.
"She's okay," Savannah said, dropping into a chair at the table where the couple sat.
"Then what took you so long?" he asked.
"Just girl stuff," she said. "Lots to talk about."
Just then, Peter appeared from the beach wea
ring board shorts, flip-flops, and a t-shirt. "Hi all," he said, cheerily.
"No work today?" Michael asked.
"Yeah, I worked this morning. Kara and Charlynn are at the gallery now. I thought I'd take some time off this afternoon." He looked at Michael. "Wanna go surfing?"
"Surfing, you say? Me?"
"Come on. I know you used to surf. Did you forget how?"
"Gosh, I hope not." He looked from Savannah to Peter. "Do you have a board I can use?"
"Yup—in the garage."
"An extra wet suit?"
"Yup."
"Well, then, I guess I don't have an excuse." He looked out at the waves. "They don't look too brutal today. Yeah, let's try it." To Savannah and her mother, he added, "You ladies want a good laugh? Just stay out here and watch me try to remember how to surf." He headed for the house, shaking his head and mumbling. "Surfing…at my age? Am I crazy or what?"
"Peter," Savannah said, once Michael had disappeared into the house, "can I talk to you?"
"Sure," he said, sitting down across from her at the table.
"Oh, there's the baby," Gladys said, picking up the baby monitor. "I'll get her."
Peter watched as Gladys disappeared into the house, then looked Savannah in the eyes and said, "Thanks for taking care of Dawna today. She seems to have calmed down quite a bit."
"You talked to her?" she asked.
"Yes, on the phone. She seems…happier today."
"Well, that's what I want to talk to you about. Peter, have you seen her art?"
Peter looked confused. "Well, she showed me pictures of some of it when we first met. Why?"
"She has a whole studio full of wonderful art."
"She does?" he asked, furrowing his brow.
"Yes, she's been painting at night and I think it's really good stuff. I was just wondering if you could possibly give her a show at your studio some evening."
He sat silent for a few moments, obviously digesting Savannah's idea. Finally, he responded. "Uh, gosh, I don't know."
"It would help her, I think. She has dreams like you did and she doesn't quite know how to launch them into reality."
"What are you talking about? She's the most confident woman I know."
"Peter, she craves to be known as an artist. She wants to live your life. I'd like to suggest that you let her have a show in your gallery. What do you think?"
He sat back in his chair and ran his hand over the back of his neck. "Gosh, I can't think of any reason why not, but are you sure she wants that?"
"Ask her, would you? Just ask her."
"Okay," he said. "I will."
"Ready?" Michael asked as he returned wearing his board shorts.
Peter took one more look at Savannah and then said to Michael, "Yes. Come on, I'll show you where the boards are. You can have your pick."
"Be careful, hon," Savannah called after her husband.
****
Two afternoons later, Savannah and Michael walked to the gallery. When they entered, they saw Peter and Kara busily helping Dawna hang her paintings.
"You do some beautiful work," Kara said, standing back and looking at a panel of the art. "They would make really great note cards, too."
Peter nodded. "Yes they would." He looked at Dawna and said, "I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me?"
"Oh, I don't know. I guess I thought you'd…" she started. Suddenly, she noticed Savannah. She rushed to her, hugging her tightly. "Thank you," she said, choking up a little. She pulled back and looked into Savannah's eyes. "Peter said this was your idea."
"Well…uh…I…" Savannah stuttered.
"Thank you so much," Dawna said, hugging her again.
Savannah smiled. "Sure." She then held Dawna at arm's length and asked, "Hey, how're you feeling?"
"I feel wonderful," she said. "I'm so excited."
Savannah studied the woman. "Well, you look fabulous. She glanced around the room. "Now where are the refreshments? I'm in charge of refreshments."
"Everything's set up just around the corner," Dawna said. "But there's no need for you to hide out in there until we open. We're still hanging the art. Just browse and enjoy."
"These are really nice," Michael said, perusing the artwork. Different from Peter's, but attractive art."
"Thank you," Dawna said, with a smile and a slight bow.
Half hour later, Peter opened the doors to the public. The atmosphere was festive, with free-flowing champagne served in crystal glasses and a variety of attractive finger foods. The crowds were constant and jovial and Dawna's art was selling.
About halfway through the evening, a woman walked up to Peter and said, "This looks familiar; I've seen it in here before, haven't I?"
Peter shook his head. "No, this is the artist's first showing. It's nice, isn't it?"
The woman looked more closely at the paintings. Just then a man said to her, "We have one real similar to this. Hung it in our bathroom."
Savannah had overheard the man's comments. "Oh, that would be good in a bathroom, with the right color scheme." She turned to the man and asked, "Where did you get yours?"
"Right in here," he said. "My wife and I walked in one afternoon and found it."
Peter said, "Oh you must be mistaken. You're seeing this art for the first time."
"Who's the artist of your piece?" the woman asked the man.
"I don't recall," he said. "Must be confused about where I bought it, though." He looked around. "Sure thought it was here."
Just then, Peter saw another local gallery owner walk in and he excused himself, saying to the potential customers, "Enjoy the evening. The violinist will start playing in a few minutes." He pointed. "Refreshments are around the corner." He then greeted the new guest. "Hi, Sean. How's it going?"
"Good. Thought I'd come down and see what all the commotion's about. You have standing-room-only outside there." He glanced out the window. "…or, sitting room…" he said. "Nice touch, putting tables and chairs out in front. Did the city authorize that?"
"Yeah, of course," Peter said, laughing.
"So Dawna is showing her stuff, tonight, huh?" Sean asked.
"Yes, come in and take a look. The woman's got talent. She'll probably open her own gallery and put both of us out of business," Peter said, chuckling.
Sean stepped toward the exhibits. He squinted at the paintings and said, "I've seen her work before, but I didn't know it was your Dawna's."
"Really?" Peter said. "Where?"
"Some guy brought one to me for framing. He said he bought it unframed because it was cheaper and then couldn't find a frame that showed off the piece right, so he came to me." Sean turned to Peter. "You don't do framing, right?"
"Not after the fact and not for walk-ins," he said. "But where did the guy get Dawna's art? I thought this was her first show."
Sean shook his head. "I guess not," he said. "It was definitely one of hers."
****
"Tonight's sales came to $6,525.35," Kara reported to the small group that had stayed to help clean up after the show.
"Wow!" Dawna said, swooning a little. "I'm so stoked. What an evening." Turning to Savannah and Peter, she said, "Thank you." Before they could respond, she acknowledged Michael and Kara, as well, "Thank you all for making this possible."
"Congratulations, girl," Peter said, pulling Dawna to him and hugging her tightly. "You deserve it. Your stuff's good." He stepped back and asked her, "Now what?"
Dawna glanced from Peter to Savannah. "I'd like to…you know…pursue my own art," she said pouring her second-or third-glass of champagne.
"Well, I don't want to lose you. Do you think you could continue to run my business—do my bookings and all—and promote your art at the same time?"
"Really?" Dawna said. "You don't think that would be a conflict of interest?"
"No," Peter said. "It would be giving a leg-up to another artist, like a man named Henry Barton did for me many years ago. Just tell me what kind of help you need here a
nd I'll hire an assistant for you—someone to do the books, make the calls, fill out the forms…you can handle the promotion and negotiations and that would free you up to promote your own work, as well. I can see it working out, can't you?"
Dawna stared at Peter. Suddenly, she turned and darted through the back of the gallery and out the door into the alley.
"What did I say?" Peter asked, obviously stunned.
Savannah cringed. "I don't know for sure, but I have a sneaking hunch. I'll see if I can talk to her," she said, grabbing her jacket and heading after her.
"Not alone, you're not," Michael said, following along behind his wife.
"Where'd she go?" Savannah asked, as the couple looked around. "There," she said, walking toward the sound of a woman weeping. They discovered Dawna slumped over in front of a parked car. "Dawna, what's wrong?" Savannah asked.
"Go away. I should never have agreed to this," she said.
"What are you talking about? You were a smashing success and so was your art."
"Yeah, and Peter had to go and spoil it all," she wailed.
"How did he do that? I thought his offer was fair and it gives you time to pursue your art."
Dawna continued to cry.
"What are you afraid of, success?" Savannah asked.
"Nooo," Dawna said. "It's Peter. How could he…after all I've done to him."
"How could he what?" Savannah asked.
"How could he…sniff, sniff…be so niiiiice," she wailed.
Savannah looked at Michael. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged. She sucked in air, then reached out and took Dawna by the shoulders. "Okay, kiddo, time to come clean."
"Huh?" she said. "What are you talking about?"
"I want to know what you're talking about. There's something more you have on your conscience, isn't there, Dawna? Come on; out with it. You'll never get that opportunity you want if you don't clean the slate."
Dawna took a ragged breath and blotted her face with a tissue. She ran one index finger around her eyes, trying to wipe away any mascara smears. After sipping again from the champagne glass she still held in one hand, she started to speak. Suddenly something caught her eye and she called out, "Hello, kitty. Here kitty-kitty," she said, slurring her words a little. "Come here. You could probably use a handout. You and me, we're both friendless in California—or will be as soon as the truth comes out." She took another swig of champagne. "Come here, kitty. Tell me your secrets and I'll tell you mine."