Her arms were hugging her body again, her eyes wide and... innocent, like a child's.
"You think I'll bring Sara in here and forget her, neglect her?"
"You let me in and started painting, then forgot I was here. I could have done anything, been anywhere in this house, and you wouldn't have known or cared while you had that paintbrush in your hand."
The breath she took filled her body with visible tension. "I didn't realize I needed to supervise you. I certainly didn't expect you to snoop through my cupboards, looking for evidence."
"Somebody has to."
Her head tilted back, eyes narrowed. "Have you come to forbid me to see Sara because I'm an artist and there's no rail on my front landing?"
"If it's in Sara's best interests, I'll stop you. The nurse said you mentioned references to Mr. Miller. I think that's a good idea."
Her chest betrayed her rapid breathing. Anger, he thought, surprised at the tension he sensed in her body. He hadn't expected her to control it.
"You want me to give you references?"
"Exactly." What the hell was he going to do with references? Go around asking questions about her, like a private detective?
"No. I don't believe you have any right to ask. You're not Sara's parent or her guardian. For some reason you've decided I'm unsuitable, but that's your problem, not mine."
She shook her hair back. "Sara's coming Wednesday after school. I invited her, talked to her father about it. He's entitled to references from me if he wants them. You're not."
"Perhaps not," he agreed, his jaw aching with tension. "However, if you won't give me references, expect a visit from a social worker between now and Wednesday."
He felt something at his ankle, looked down, and saw the orange cat rubbing against him. Had she fed the animal? Probably not, he decided irritably.
Squiggles rubbed against his ankle again, emitting a long meow.
"I don't suppose you've thought to take the cat to a vet," he speculated grimly. "He's been living on the streets. He needs to be checked for disease, parasites."
"I think that can wait until Monday when the animal clinics have regular hours, unless you want me to call one of the emergency numbers in the phone book?"
What he'd really like was to grab her and shake her, hard.
"I'd like you to take this seriously, show some sense of responsibility." My God, he sounded like a frazzled parent coping with an adolescent. What the hell was he doing here?
"I think you'd better leave," said Jamila. "Bill me for services if you like." She smiled, inflaming his temper even more. "For changing the lightbulb."
Chapter 5
"I met a man," Jamie announced as she stepped into Liz's office the next morning.
Liz looked up from her desk, frozen in the motion of signing a check. "That's an odd thing for you to say."
Jamie felt laughter bubble and knew it must be insanity, not mirth. She kept thinking flashing back to last night, staring across her kitchen table at Alexander, seeing his tension, his anger, his eyes—and remembering their kiss. She could have sworn that kiss was tangible, a tempting presence between them through his entire visit.
"What do you mean, odd?" she asked Liz.
The older woman signed the check with a flourish. "You've been struggling for years, learning your craft, honing your skills, working for the moment when you could support yourself as an artist. And now"—she tore the check out of the checkbook and held it out to Jamie—"you've just had a successful opening, you're here to collect a check for a significant amount of money..."
Jamie stared at the check. "You said eight paintings. This is—"
"We sold three more yesterday."
Three more paintings, and a check in her hand that she really hadn't believed in.
"Which ones?"
"Friday Afternoon, and the two night studies of the Port Townsend lighthouse."
"I'll miss the lighthouse night scene." She remembered how the moon had turned the world to enchantment as she sketched, how magically the tall white lighthouse had stood at its post, sending its beam to fishermen and yachtsmen.
"You'll always miss the ones you sell."
She smiled at Liz's frown. "I'm not going to turn into a prima donna, I promise. I'll sell them. You know how much I've dreamed of this ever since I first came into your gallery on my twelfth birthday."
Liz slipped out from behind the desk to give Jamie a warm hug. "You've been so dedicated I worry about you. I must have introduced you to a dozen eligible, attractive men over the years, and not one distracted you from your painting."
"I'm not distracted. I've finished a new canvas—a man walking home in a midnight rainstorm."
"Him?"
"It wasn't intended to be him in the beginning, but yes—him."
"I need a coffee—herbal tea for you, then we'll sit on the sofa and you'll tell me all about this man."
But Jamie couldn't settle on the sofa. Instead, she went to the window, where she could see the blazing sun announcing spring, a woman hurrying along the street carrying an awkward bundle.
"He doesn't like me." She spun, placed her back against the window, and said, "The chemistry is amazing. I've never felt it before."
Liz gripped the coffeepot with one hand, the other suspended in midair. "What do you mean—it?"
"Sizzle, heat, lust." Jamie laughed, emotion bubbling up from memory.
"You didn't—you and he didn't—?"
"I kissed him. Or—" She brushed words away with one hand, the feeling zinging in her veins. Could she paint this feeling? It would have to be an abstract, swirls of motion in the colors of awareness.
"Or—?"
"Or he kissed me. I'm not sure exactly, but—"
"—but you say he doesn't like you? Are you going to see him again?"
"Oh, yes." She remembered her anger last night, the way he'd stood in her kitchen, his voice harsh as he listed her deficiencies. "He wants me." She knew it was true, would have known even without the kiss that had stripped his mask away.
"He dislikes you? Jamie, be careful. I don't think—"
"He doesn't know me yet. The antagonism—it's chemistry, I think. His name's Alexander. I looked it up, it means defender of man." She laughed, couldn't contain the joy. "I don't know about man, but he's certainly a defender of children."
She couldn't remain inactive, confined in this room. "I have to go. I've got a cat to take to the vet, and I have to get back home, but—Liz, I need a sketch block and some pastels. I need to get something down, now, before I lose it."
"You know where they are." Jamie was at the door before Liz added, "Please be careful."
Jamie turned back and saw Liz's perfectly made-up face frowning with concern. She felt a wave of affection for this woman who had befriended her when she was a twelve-year-old child grieving the loss of her mother. Liz had given her the world of art, and over a decade of friendship and support.
"I'm not going to be careful. I'm twenty-eight years old, perhaps the only twenty-eight-year-old virgin in Seattle, and for the first time in my life I've met a man I—a man I want as a lover. It isn't about choosing or being careful. It's going to happen, I can feel it."
Alexander. What did his friends call him? Alex? Zander?
"Bring him here. I want to meet him."
"Yes, when I can. Don't worry, Liz. He won't interfere with my painting. You'll have your canvases."
She imagined Alexander walking through the gallery with her, looking at the paintings. Did he enjoy art? She knew so little about him... nothing, really, just the feel of him. In the hospital he'd been contained, confident, soothing to Sara's panic, touching her gently. Healing hands, she thought. What would it be like if he brushed her cheek with the back of one hand, the tingle of awareness racing across her face, down her throat?
Blue, she thought, but not cobalt or royal blue, or even aquamarine.
In Liz's back room, Jamie grabbed a sketchpad and pulled an easel to the wi
ndow. Pastels... The colors weren't right, too weak, but she needed the shape in her mind, that tangle of sensation and apprehension like a wave from the sea, fearing itself as the tide swept: inevitably... blue, green tangled underneath, shades of black. The color of awareness riding on fate.
She worked intensely for fifteen minutes, then tore the page off. She needed paints, pure colors mixed with bold quickness. Not acrylics, but the brooding layers of oils, purity and sensation.
She put the pastels away and replaced the sketchpad. In twenty minutes she was due at the vet's. She felt the familiar panic, the fear that somehow in those twenty minutes the vision, the colors, and the heart of the picture she'd begun would be lost.
No. She had the sketch, the shape of the wave, the feel.
In the gallery, she could hear voices, Liz's carefully modulated tones discussing color and form with a customer. "...exciting new talent... Jamila's vision of..."
Jamie felt guilty, as if she'd concealed herself to eavesdrop. Heart beating, she slipped past the entrance to the gallery and out the front door. As she hurried toward her car carrying the rolled sketch, she spotted Squiggles pawing at her passenger window as if attempting escape.
This morning Squiggles had tipped over a jar on her paint table, spilling acrylic colors and solvent onto the hardwood floor. Thinking of claws and kitten mischief, she opened the trunk and laid the sketch inside, then unlocked the driver's door and managed to get behind the wheel without letting Squiggles escape.
He immediately climbed into her lap and curled into a soft, furry, purring ball. She let herself enjoy him for a moment, the softness of his orange fur on her palm, the soothing sound of his purr, the way his rumble of contentment seemed to squeak as it cycled.
Alexander wouldn't approve of her driving with the cat unconfined in the car, and he'd be right. Driving to the gallery, Squiggles had mewed loudly, prowling in circles from the dashboard to the back window while Jamie fought to concentrate on driving. She could stuff him back into her pack, but although he'd seemed content to ride there yesterday when she was walking, today he'd dodged away when she opened it.
She needed one of those cages, a pet carrier.
She found one in the pet store next to the veterinary clinic, paid seventeen dollars and ninety-one cents, then rushed back to the car for Squiggles.
When she opened the door of the cage, Squiggles stepped inside cooperatively, sniffing the plastic. But twenty minutes later, when the vet had finished poking, prodding, and giving Squiggles a vaccination over protest, the kitten ducked away when she picked up the cage. Luckily, the vet had a firm, gentle hold on the kitten, and slipped him into confinement.
"You'll want to bring him in next month to be neutered," reminded the vet. "We'll do his second series of injections then."
Squiggles had been treated for worms and fleas, then given a clean bill of health. Jamie had written a check, in return for which she'd received a cardboard folder containing the kitten's medical record. She slipped it carefully into her purse. She'd show it to Alexander, she decided, the next time she saw him.
Sara was coming on Wednesday. Would Alexander return before then? To criticize? To check up on her? The anger she'd felt last night over his criticism had become tangled with expectation now.
She'd seen him in the hospital, walked with him in the rain, searching for the kitten. She'd felt his lips on hers, and last night in her kitchen, she'd seen him angry, agitated in the way of a man who wasn't used to being disturbed.
What would it be like to have a lover? She hummed as she drove home through Seattle's streets, enjoying the memory of his kiss.
* * *
Alex had cleared a two-hour slot beginning at one-thirty Wednesday afternoon, giving himself time to drop in at Jamila Ferguson's while Sara would be there. Just to check, because Sara worried him.
But at one-ten, the ER attending at All Saints called to say Jason Patterson had been admitted, unconscious. Alex ran across the street to the hospital, getting there in a record two minutes, his mind filled with images of the diabetic Jason pale and lifeless.
Twelve-year-old Jason lay in an ER cubicle, unconscious but alive, skin pale and lips parted, an IV drip connected to his right hand.
"Five percent glucose," said the attending. "Lab's running blood sugar now. Mom's outside."
Alex checked the boy's pulse. Jason's unconsciousness could be a symptom of either diabetic coma or insulin shock. The attending had correctly administered a mild glucose solution against the possibility of diabetic shock, which could quickly lead to brain damage and death. If the blood work showed Jason was hyperglycemic instead, the mild glucose dripping into Jason's veins could quickly be counteracted with an insulin injection.
Alex checked the boy's pulse, noted that his skin felt damp as if he'd been sweating, that his breath lacked the sweet smell typical of hyperglycemia.
A nurse entered caring a clipboard, and announced, "Blood sugar's 1.9."
"Okay. Twenty-five percent glucose," ordered Alex.
Twenty minutes later he was in the Chief of Medicine's office, saying, "One of my juvenile diabetics has just been admitted with insulin shock. His mother's been packing him rabbit food for lunch every day, but the kid has a massive chocolate Easter egg stashed in his room. He's been skipping the rabbit food, saving up for the damned chocolate. He keeps up with his insulin shots, but with no food, the insulin works on his blood sugar instead. It takes a nosedive, and the patient goes into insulin shock. It doesn't matter how much literature I hand his mom, Jason's twelve years old and he thinks he's bloody well immortal! Gordon, it's time you got me some dollars to start a group for these kids."
"Where the hell am I going to find that kind of money?" Gordon lit a cigar despite the hospital's complete smoking ban. "I'm not the villain here. You know damned well I'm fighting to keep the services we've got. Send the kid to diabetic camp."
"Camp doesn't start until July. My kid could be dead in July."
"I'd help you if I could, Alex. You know that."
Alex leaned forward despite the cloud of smoke. "I've got a needs study on your desk. If you can't give me money, give me support."
"I can't—"
"A letter, Gordon. You know we need a free-access treatment center. This hospital can't provide one, but you'll be referring patients." He pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. "I drafted something for you. Take a look. If you and I don't do something about this, we'll be responsible for kids like Jason dying."
"I'll think about it," said Gordon.
Alex spent fifteen minutes arranging a barrage for Jason when he regained consciousness—visits from both a social worker and a nutritionist—then he returned to his office five minutes late for his three-thirty with Jenny and Brad Stakeman's new baby.
The baby gurgled and rammed a fist into his mouth while Alex listened to his heart. The scar on his little chest was already only a pale pink line.
"Perfect," said Alex, and both parents broke into smiles. "He'll be sliding to first base in a few years. The incision's healed, the heart's healthy, and you can relax, stop worrying."
An hour later, between an anorexic thirteen-year-old and a six-month-old baby with measles, Diana called.
"Have you got the pro formas?" she asked, her voice distorted by some weird effect of the satellite telephone transmission from Europe.
"I'm picking them up from Dennis tomorrow night."
"Thursday? Okay, but email them to me Thursday night, earlier if you can. I was talking to Grandfather today. Could you send a copy around to him once I've looked them over? He refuses to use email, so you'll have to courier them. We're close to a decision, Alex."
"Good. I had a twelve-year-old in a diabetic coma this morning."
"Is she all right?" He could hear Diana's concern, even with the satellite distortion.
"Stable now. Yeah, he'll be okay this time."
"We'll get your treatment center," promised Diana.
* * *
It was six before Alex got away from his office, seven before he finished talking to Jason. For the moment, the boy seemed to be taking his condition seriously. He looked scared, and Alex pushed down the urge to soothe the fear.
"You're diabetic, Jason. With proper diet and care, you can live as long as anyone. If you're careless, if you let yourself resent the fact that the other kids can eat chocolate when you can't, you could die tomorrow."
Jason nodded, his eyes dark and disturbed.
"Your health is under your control. If you look after yourself, you can prevent this from happening again. I'm sending the dietitian up tomorrow morning."
"I saw her last time," protested the boy.
"Yeah, but this time you need to listen, and when she asks questions, be honest. It's your life, Jason. Look after it."
* * *
Alex pulled down his visor against the glare of the setting sun. This scare might have been a good thing, showing Jason the seriousness of his condition. No point wishing for the power of a peer group of juvenile diabetics to help Jason see himself in perspective, for regular counseling and dietetic consultations. For now, Jason would have to make do with the resources available, and hopefully it would be enough.
Outside Jamila's house, the lightbulb he'd installed Sunday night illuminated a freshly constructed, un-painted safety rail on her landing, and rails on either side of the five stairs leading to it.
Somehow, between Sunday and Wednesday night, she'd managed to get someone out here to build her a porch rail. So that Sara would be safe? Or because she thought Alex would return to harass her if she didn't?
There was nothing overtly unfit about Jamila, nothing he could have pointed to when he talked to the social worker Monday morning. Mrs. Davis, the baby-sitter, would fall under scrutiny, as would Wayne Miller himself. But Jamila—what could he have said? We need to stop Sara from seeing this woman. She struck the child with her car—no, it wasn't her fault, but afterward she found the girl's kitten, offered the kitten a home, and now wants the girl to visit. I don't trust her.
The Colors of Love Page 6