The Colors of Love

by Grant, Vanessa

  He beat her to the passenger door of his car, opened it, and waited until she got inside to close it. Then he opened the back door and slid his briefcase in behind the front seat. He hadn't carried the briefcase when they arrived, so he must have got it from Dennis. A briefcase he planned to work on tonight. Important papers. Perhaps about the treatment center Paula had mentioned?

  She rubbed her arms with her hands through the fabric of her blouse. It was a chilly night, but fury tingled along her arms, not cold.

  Chapter 9

  When Alex stopped his car in front of her house, Jamie sat motionless, staring through the windshield. The ride home had been silent, without even the music he'd played earlier. He hadn't spoken, perhaps he hadn't wanted to. Jamie couldn't remember when she'd felt such a storm of rage swirling inside her, and knew that when she spoke, there would be no stopping it.

  "Don't get out," she said when he unfastened his seat belt. "I'll get my own door, unlock my own house."

  He turned his head and she turned hers, facing him.

  "Before I leave, I want to know exactly why you took me there." She felt her breath coming in short, shallow pulses she fought to keep silent. "It wasn't a date." She had thought it was, more fool she. "You certainly didn't want to talk to me, because you haven't said more than two dozen words all night. Why, Alex?"

  "Does there have to be a reason?" She recognized in his voice the tones he'd used to calm Sara in the emergency room, realized he'd been using that voice to her all night. Distancing himself.

  "Oh, yes, there is a reason, because you, Alexander Kent, do nothing without a reason. You plot every move, every strategy. I'm sure that makes you a good doctor, but it's far from your most attractive trait in my eyes!"

  She realized she was talking wildly, saying nothing. In a minute he'd throw cold reason on her like water. She gulped air, then said coldly, "You had a reason, and after putting in an evening that would have been unbearable if it hadn't been for Dennis and Danny, who acted like human beings, I'm entitled to know what the hell it was all in aid of."

  He rested one hand on the top of the steering wheel, the other along the back of the seat, too close to her shoulder. "I wanted you to meet my sister."

  She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Your sister? She hated me on sight. Is that what you wanted? Why on earth would you—" A reason flashed into her mind and she said, "You planned it that way? Paula, she's a model mother, isn't she? So organized, little Danny so obviously well cared for. Is that why you wanted me to meet her?"

  "I wanted you to understand what's involved in looking after a child."

  "To understand?" She watched his fingers close around the steering wheel, wondering if the inhibitions of a lifetime would be enough to stop her striking him. "You wanted to shove her in my face? To contrast us, because the moment you saw me, you decided I was unfit to be within ten feet of any child?"

  "You're hysterical, Jamila."

  "Hysterical?" Her laughter was wild enough to prove his point. "You're damned right I'm hysterical. And furious! How dare you! My relationship with Sara is none of your business! Sara's not really your patient, is she? Just that emergency visit. You're not her regular doctor, damn it! And you're not a social worker. You know nothing about me. Nothing!"

  "Jamila—"

  "Don't use your warped logic on me! I've had enough of you, Alexander Kent. I made the mistaken judgment that you were a nice man, a good man, if a bit stodgy. But, damn you, I may make unfounded judgments, but I can bloody well revise them when I realize I'm wrong!" She leaned forward and jammed her finger into his chest. "Can you, Alexander? I doubt it. You're made of the same cloth as your sister, assuming the worst on no evidence."

  His hand touched her shoulder and she jerked away. "Get your hands off me!"

  He froze at her shouted words, giving her time to tumble the door open. Her seat belt snapped back as she unfastened it and she backed out of the car, her eyes on him as if she thought he'd reach for her again.

  With her feet on the pavement, she found her breath and leaned down to shout though the open car door, "I've had enough of your judgments and prejudices, Dr. Alexander Kent! Get off my back!"

  She swung the door, slamming it closed. Then, somehow, her keys were in her hands and she ran to the front door, opened it, and escaped inside.

  When her breath had quieted enough, she listened through her locked door for the sound of his car driving away. She would not let him catch her peering out, checking if he'd gone yet.

  Damn him! Damn, damn, damn!

  She'd been a terrible fool, thinking he'd called her because he couldn't forget the feel of her lips any more than she could forget the way his hands had burned her flesh, teaching her the meaning of hunger. Believing—against all reason—that an invitation to dinner with his family meant something.

  Oh, it meant something, all right. It meant he was a complete bastard, a man who would stoop low enough to humiliate a woman simply because he disapproved of her, because it was the next move in his campaign to keep her away from Sara.

  For God's sake, why? Why should he hate her so? How could his kiss—Oh, God! Could his kiss have been somehow plotted? Part of some terrible plan of humiliation that went beyond tonight's dinner?

  She tore into her studio, grabbed the still-wet painting on her easel, and carried it to the wall, where she placed it on the drying rack with caution that was automatic even in her turmoil.

  She grabbed a canvas with a gray wash and carried it to the easel. She heard a meow and bent to pick Squiggles up. The cat felt uncomfortable in her arms, purring loudly but restlessly.

  "Food," she muttered. "I'll get you food," and she carried the squirming kitten to the kitchen. When she saw there was still kitten chow in the bowl, she forked out a small amount of tuna, then left the cat eating and returned to the canvas.

  Dinner, she thought. Dinner, all of them at that table. She uncapped a tube of paint—not oils tonight, but quick, hard acrylic colors—and began to mix the colors of white oak darkened with an emotional storm.

  Why so many abstracts lately?

  Because she was afraid to paint Alex. Because whatever she felt or learned in painting each canvas, the truth of it would be concealed from others.

  Tonight, she would paint people.

  She worked timelessly into the night, mixing colors with quick, angry strokes, applying brush to canvas in a frenzy that held her tight in its compulsion. The people she drew around the table were surreal, unrecognizable in terms of skin and bone, cruelly accurate in temperament and manner. Above them, a storm waged, a hot swirl of unspoken accusations.

  The paint flowed in a rage, and finally, sometime near dawn, left her empty and exhausted.

  She stepped back stared at the painting blindly, uncertain what she saw, knowing it was complete—for now at least—because there was nothing more inside her.

  She dropped her brushes into solvent, for once too tired to clean them. Nothing mattered except sleep. The painful emotions were gone, emptied onto canvas, and in their place she felt nothing. Nothing at all.

  Squiggles lay on the chair he had adopted, apparently asleep. Jamie picked him up and felt him stretch without waking, then settle in her arms. She carried him to the bedroom and set him on her bedspread. Then she stripped, leaving her clothes to lie where they fell on the floor, and fell into bed.

  In minutes, she was asleep.

  * * *

  By eleven o'clock at night, the children's ward at All Saints' General Hospital was shrouded in shadows, only one bulb burning in each section of corridor, enough to guide the nursing staff to any child or adolescent who needed tending.

  The nurse typing on a computer behind the counter looked up as Alex stepped up to the chart storage racks.

  "Dr. Kent—?"

  "It's all right. I just stopped to check in. Go back to what you were doing."

  She shrugged and turned back to the computer, leaving Alex to flip through the charts fo
r his kids. Jason had seen both a counselor and a dietitian this afternoon, and his blood sugar levels had tested in the safe range. He'd be discharged tomorrow, although both Alex and the counselor were uneasy about the boy's attitude.

  Jason needed the treatment center's services now, not a year from now as projected by the pro forma statements Alex had emailed Diana earlier this evening. The boy needed constant medical monitoring, extensive counseling, life skills training, and regular contact with other children who shared his special needs.

  What he really needed was at least a month in a residential treatment center where he would receive all of these things, but Jason didn't have wealthy parents, or medical insurance generous enough to cover such a center, Somehow, he would have to get through with visits to weekly groups, and whatever other services Alex could arrange.

  Alex knew it might not be enough. He felt the familiar frustration that the needs were so clear, and the solutions so difficult to create. If only his treatment center were here, now.

  Quietly, he moved along the darkened corridor and slipped inside Jason's room.

  Three sleeping adolescents, the fourth bed empty. It would probably be filled by morning. Jason slept in one of the beds by the window, his mouth slack and peaceful, showing none of the surly attitude that signaled yet another careless risk taken with his health and his life.

  * * *

  When Alex left the hospital, he went to his office and spent two hours clearing up paperwork, then another searching out journal articles he wanted to study before he finished the paper he'd been asked to do on juvenile diabetes for the American Journal of Medicine.

  Eventually he arrived home, exhausted, and found his message light flashing. He stood in front of the machine, emptying his pockets as the messages played.

  "It's Paula. Call me."

  Paula would want to ask questions about Jamila, and he was doing his damnedest not to think of Jamila's rage as she'd stormed at him earlier that night.

  Had he been harassing her? Misjudging her?

  Diana's voice filled the room with clear, crisp tones from across the ocean.

  "Alex, we need to talk. Call me."

  He glanced at his watch. Two-thirty in the morning. In Venice it would be... He frowned and calculated, deciding that Diana would be halfway between breakfast and lunch about now.

  He dialed the overseas number for her hotel, ended up telling the hotel's voice mail system, "Sorry I missed you. I just got in and I'm heading for bed now. It's two-thirty here. I'll try to get through tomorrow."

  When morning came, Diana was out again, probably dining somewhere. It would be midafternoon Seattle time before he could call her again. Since it was Friday now, that meant another weekend before the proposal went to the Thurston Foundation.

  Three months ago, when Diana Thurston told him she was willing to put her efforts behind his proposal, he'd envisioned a decision within days. He should have known the wheels of the Foundation would move as slowly as every other bureaucratic organization. With every day lost, children were at risk, yet he knew of no way to speed the process. So he'd gone through the paces: charity events, projecting the future with pro forma financial statements, sending emails and making phone calls, attending endless dinner meetings with the board members.

  Diana called while Alex was seeing a patient midafternoon. He returned the call just before six, missed her again. He checked his voice mail and found she'd left a message.

  "Darling, we seem to be playing telephone tag. I have to go to Rome for the weekend. I haven't had time to go over the document you emailed me yet, but I had a brief talk with Grandfather. He wants you to meet with the board next Wednesday at five. His secretary will get in touch with you about that. I'll talk to you at the beginning of the week."

  He hung up the phone in his office, went out to the reception desk, and found Vanda had left. He looked at his book for next Wednesday, then left a note for Vanda asking her to shift everything from after four o'clock Wednesday to another day.

  Meanwhile, there was nothing he could do to influence the outcome. He picked up the phone to call Dennis, changed his mind, and dropped it into the cradle.

  Normally, he'd be glad to talk to Paula if she answered the phone, but he didn't want to be questioned about Jamila. A year ago he would have called Emma to tell her the news—more likely, he would have dropped over to her house. Of course, Emma and Gray would welcome him, would listen with sympathy for his impatience, but tonight he was in no mood to sit in their home, witnessing marital bliss.

  If Diana weren't away somewhere, he would phone her.

  No, perhaps not tonight. He wanted a clear head before he had a lengthy conversation with Diana. The last few days his head had been anything but clear.

  He left the office and got into his car, thinking he'd go somewhere for dinner. He felt oddly disconnected, aware that his condo was waiting for him, empty and sterile, that he didn't want to go home to sit alone and restless, watching the evening light fade.

  He wasn't on call this weekend, but found himself wishing he were.

  He drove to Eduardo's, saw the pack of people at the door, and realized he hadn't made a reservation and was in no mood to sit alone at a table waiting for dinner. He'd go to Paula's after all, he decided. Paula would grumble and offer him pot luck, then he'd field the inevitable questions about Jamila and enjoy some time with Danny, shoot the breeze with Dennis a bit. Relax.

  Fifteen minutes later, his car stopped outside Jamila's door. He couldn't remember making a conscious decision to drive to Ballard instead of his sister's Laurelhurst home. The car seemed to have come of its own volition.

  He turned off the engine, but didn't get out. Her porch light was burning although it wasn't fully dark yet. She'd be in her studio, the evening light streaming through windows from the harbor.

  He got out of the BMW and approached her door slowly. Last night she'd been furious, and he had no idea how she'd greet him when she answered the door tonight. If she was painting, she might not hear the door. If not...

  She'd be angry.

  He raised his fist and knocked on her door. He should have rehearsed something to say, but he hadn't intended to come here at all. He didn't know what he wanted, what he expected to achieve by hammering on her door at seven on a Friday night when she'd told him she never wanted to see him again.

  He knocked again, louder. She'd be painting, of course, buried to the world, creating uncomfortable images.

  He swung around to glare at the street, wondering how long he'd stand here pounding on her door, why the hell he'd come in the first place. He'd ended up on her doorstep too often this last week. He felt deeply uneasy, waiting for her to answer, no clear plan in his mind, his car parked carelessly in her drive as if he'd driven up without thinking and had just—

  His car.

  Her car wasn't there.

  He descended her stairs and walked around the corner of her house all the way to the front edge. Three steps more and he could see in through her window. The sun hung low enough in the sky that the studio was all shadows, just one faint light burning near the basket chair he'd never seen her sit in. Her easel stood in shadow, the chair occupied by a sleeping orange cat.

  What the hell was he doing, prowling around her house like a sneak thief? He walked back to the front of the house, suddenly certain that she'd drive up and find him staking out her house, and that she'd put the worst interpretation on it.

  Where the hell was she?

  He returned to his car and yanked open the door. Inside, he reached for his cell phone and dialed her number, although he knew now that she wasn't home. It was a measure of how much she'd been on his mind that he'd already committed her number to memory.

  After five rings, her voice announced, "I'm either painting up a storm, or out looking for inspiration. Leave a message."

  He pressed the END button on the cell phone. He needed to see her, not talk to a damned machine. At eight, darkness had dropped
over her home like a blanket, but she still hadn't returned home and he found himself growing angry. Where the hell was she?

  By nine, his anger became overshadowed by worry. Living alone as she did, who would know if she had an accident? Driving that old green car, she might have broken down and become stranded. She didn't have a cell phone, didn't want the distraction, she'd said. If she had car problems in a bad area of the city and had to walk—

  What the hell was she doing, anyway?

  Sometime before ten he realized the obvious solution for her absence.

  Friday night. She'd gone out on a date.

  While he sat, waiting for her, worrying that she'd driven into a concrete wall or been attacked by a rapist, she'd been out dancing with another man. Dinner and dancing, and she would be wearing something colorful and drifting, the fabric making a mystery of her body as she moved, his hand spread out on her back, fingers touching the naked flesh above her low-backed dress. She would look into his eyes and hers would narrow as if the weight of her lashes, the desire pulsing in her veins, made it impossible to hold lids and lashes up. As if—

  Damn it!

  He flung his car door open and burst out of the car, pacing the sidewalk in front of her door. He had it bad. The sickness had been driving him mad for days now, turning him from a rational man into some kind of madman. Until tonight, he hadn't even considered there might be other men. She hadn't mentioned anyone and he'd been too busy telling himself he didn't want her, didn't give a damn about her except for Sara.

  He stopped his pacing abruptly and went back to his car. Ten o'clock. If he remained here, parked outside her home, waiting to confront her when she returned, she'd be justified in accusing him of stalking.

  He turned the key and shoved the car into gear.

  At home, he tried to work on the journal article, but his mind wouldn't focus. He went to bed and slept badly, waking frequently.

  * * *

  Alex located the gallery at ten-thirty Saturday morning.