The Colors of Love

by Grant, Vanessa

  Forever.

  No, only until Diana returned.

  How could Alex love her in the night, kiss her as if it hurt him to be separated from her, yet still plan to return to the woman he'd said was his idea of a perfect wife?

  Jamie closed the door and walked into her studio.

  Would she paint their inevitable parting in black and bleeding red? Brush strokes of Alex walking away from her; or perhaps only a deep swirl of pain too tangled to resolve into human shape? It frightened her that she might paint an endless series in the colors of loss, pushing each away when it was finished, unable to bear its truth and her own emptiness.

  Perhaps she should paint the leaving now, to prepare herself. She picked up a charcoal and began to sketch lines onto the canvas, dark lines slashed across the white canvas, cutting into her heart.

  She gasped and her fingers clenched painfully on the charcoal. Slowly, she stepped back from the canvas, blinking to clear her vision. Please, God, he wasn't going to leave, not after what they'd shared these last few days; not after the nights. He'd believed Diana his ideal woman, but it would be different now. They had weeks, at least three more weeks before Diana returned from Europe. Three more weeks to teach him to love her.

  By that time she would know if that first night's loving had created a child.

  She grasped the marred canvas in both hands and carried it to the wall. She had to stop this, must learn to take each moment as it came. The canvas pressed into her belly and she felt the fullness, as if his child grew within her, and her own hands cradled the new life through her belly.

  Her hands trembled as she set the canvas down against the wall. A child, suckling her breast, nestled against her naked body. Alex, entering the bedroom, discovering Jamie feeding their child. He would stop, his eyes filled with wonder and love.

  She grabbed a fresh canvas and began to sketch the man she loved in sure, graphic lines on the canvas.

  * * *

  Days ago, he'd asked Vanda to clear his schedule for the Thurston meeting. Now, half an hour before the meeting, he was tempted to try ringing through to Diana in Venice.

  If he did call, there would be no reason other than his own need for reassurance that the Thurston meeting would go well. Calling her seemed wrong, unfair now that he'd told her he was seeing another woman. Their meetings and conversations had concerned the children's treatment center he wanted to build, but he realized now how close they'd become, how much he'd fallen into the habit of ringing her at any time of day to talk about the latest complication, the newest uncertainty.

  He'd used Diana, taking up her time and her energies, letting her think there would be a relationship. He didn't like knowing he'd treated her unfairly, that he'd been guilty of carelessness with another human being.

  He picked up his attaché case and stepped out of his office.

  "Your mother called," said Vanda.

  He normally heard from Alisha perhaps once in three months, had no idea where she might be calling from. "Did she leave a number?"

  "Here." Vanda handed him a slip of pink paper, which he slipped into his pocket.

  "If she calls again, tell her I'll call tonight."

  He should have said tomorrow, he realized afterward, because he'd planned to go to Jamila's after the Thurston meeting. If the news was good, he intended to take her out to dinner somewhere with candles and music.

  The news would be good; it had to be.

  * * *

  When the well-groomed secretary showed him into the Foundation's board room, Alex found himself facing Cyril Thurston, who occupied the head of the massive mahogany board table, surrounded by three other men and a woman, all sporting dark suits and serious expressions.

  A sheaf of paper rested in front of each member of the board, presumably copies of Alex's proposal. He was barely seated when the inquisition began.

  "Meyersons have a residential treatment center in Bellevue. What do you have to offer that can't be found there?"

  "Affordable total care entirely focused on juveniles," said Alex, drawing his own papers from the attaché. "Meyersons focus on advanced cases; they don't offer total care for newly diagnosed kids. Most diabetic children get diet sheets, not real training. These kids need the kind of environment the lucky ones get in some of the excellent diabetic camps in Washington. They need to learn to live with their condition before it kills them, and they need facilities to help them year-round, facilities they can afford."

  "Hmm," said Thurston.

  The man wearing horn-rimmed glasses looked up. "Looking at your pro forma statements, I have to wonder if this couldn't be done at less cost. Perhaps seventy percent?"

  "If you're willing to sacrifice the opportunity for research," said Alex. "If this was a moneymaker, I'd be looking for financing at a bank, not a charity foundation. This center is for children and adolescents who need what I'm going to offer, who have no reasonable hope of getting it otherwise. It's also a prime opportunity for basic research into a number of areas, research that could save children's lives."

  "Research that could make money," said old Cyril Thurston.

  "Possibly," agreed Alex, "If we want all the possibilities on the table, I could also win the lottery."

  Over the next hour the five people around the table continued to question Alex intensively. Then the horn-rimmed financial whiz's questions turned financially detailed and probing, and Alex realized he should have brought Dennis.

  "I'm not sure about these needs figures," said the woman, and Alex pulled out another sheaf of papers, on certain ground here. He produced a number of letters, although he knew they'd already seen all of these: letters from the directors of All Saints' and two other hospitals, a letter from the dean of the university's medical school.

  Thurston frowned over the letters as if he'd never seen them before, then he said, "Dr. Kent, I'm sure you know we have many applications for funding. Unfortunately, we're unable to satisfy everyone." His eyes seemed to intensify as they glared down the table at Alex.

  "This is a good project," said Alex. "It's badly needed. Children are dying, and you could save them."

  "We'll let you know," said Thurston dismissively, and Alex realized he would only reduce his chances for the grant if he argued now.

  Damn! He'd been so certain, had believed Diana when she said the grant was all but in the bag. In his mind, he'd already given the builders the go-ahead, had peopled the unbuilt rooms of the treatment center with highly skilled professionals who would love and heal the children.

  "Thank you," he said. "I'll look forward to hearing from you."

  He wanted to ask when, how long, but saw in old man Thurston's eyes something personal, anger at Alex.

  Thurston was angry, and Alex knew it must be about Diana. She'd told Cyril Thurston something. That Alex had another woman? Had the possibility of grant money from Thurston always been a function of his friendship with Diana, with Alex so naive he didn't realize the truth?

  No. He knew Diana better than that. She would never bias her recommendation to the board for personal purposes. But Cyril Thurston might sway his board against Alex because of personal anger, and he could well know that Alex and Diana had been on the verge of an intimate relationship—and that it was over now.

  He found himself down on the waterfront without knowing how he got there, staring at a fishing boat steaming away from shore under brilliant late-afternoon sunlight.

  Would children suffer because he hadn't been able to stay away from Jamila Ferguson, because his lust got the better of him?

  * * *

  When he turned the corner and spotted Jamila's car in the drive, he felt a wave of emotion that had him jamming the brakes on and lurching to a stop.

  He gripped the steering wheel and glared at her back door.

  In a minute he'd knock, and she'd come—probably dressed in a colorful painting smock and leotard. She'd smile and he'd pull her into his arms, breaking her smile with a hard, needy kiss.
>
  Needy.

  He'd come here, to her, knowing there was nowhere else. He didn't want to need her comfort. He was growing resigned to his need for her body, but he didn't want to hunger for her this way—as if she were the only home he could imagine.

  He wouldn't tell her about the grant, he decided. He'd keep his disappointment to himself. He didn't, wouldn't let himself need her.

  He thrust himself out of the car and ran up the stairs to her door.

  Ran. Jesus, he had it bad.

  He hammered on her door, deciding he would get her a doorbell. He'd put it in this weekend, a soft bell that wouldn't intrude if it caught her painting. She should have a peephole too, so she could look out and see who wanted her before she opened the door.

  As the door opened, his arms began to reach before he realized she wasn't there. Young Sara Miller stood holding the door in one hand, her dark blue eyes massive in a pale face that hadn't seen enough sunshine.

  "Dr. Kent! Did you come to see me?" Her smile erased the impression of paleness. "I'm all better."

  "I know."

  It bothered him that she stepped back and let him in so easily. She'd met Alex as her doctor in the hospital, but he wondered if she might let a stranger in this easily.

  "Is Jamila here?" The little girl frowned at him and he said, "Jamie."

  As he said the name, he remembered carrying her, barefoot, from this corridor into her bedroom. Taking the sliver from her foot while she lay facedown on the bed.

  "She's cleaning brushes. C'mon." Sara spun and ran toward the kitchen.

  Surely Jamila didn't paint the whole time Sara was visiting, Alex wondered as he followed the child into the kitchen.

  She stood at the sink, her head bent over the chore of cleaning her brushes. Today she wore tight jeans and a short-sleeved reddish-brown sweater that clung to her breasts as she turned to the sound of Sara's entrance. She held a long paintbrush in one hand.

  "Sara, did you find out who—" Her eyes caught his and her smile grew. "Alex," she breathed.

  He wanted to cross the space between them, to pull her into his arms. He knew in that instant that the needing would not end today or tomorrow, that for better or worse this was the only woman.

  "Dr. Kent came to see me," announced Sara.

  Later, his eyes promised Jamila. Later, he would slowly strip that seductive sweater away from her creamy flesh, kissing every inch of soft skin as he exposed it.

  Her face filled with color.

  "Can I show Dr. Kent what I did?" asked Sara, squirming excitedly.

  "Of course."

  The girl dashed to the far side of the table and returned with the cat in her arms. "Squiggles wants to see, too. Dr. Kent, come see what I did!"

  Before he followed the child, he framed Jamila's face with his hands, indulging himself as he kissed her mouth. The kiss hung motionless on the edge of the world. When he drew back, her eyes were wide and sober.

  "The Thurston Foundation?" she asked. "They didn't give you the money?"

  He stepped back, breaking all contact with her body. How had she known? "They'll let me know," he said coldly.

  "Oh, Alex!" She touched his face with her fingers. "If they don't—We'll find a way. We'll find another way."

  When had he become so open to her that she could read his disappointment in the touch of his lips on hers? When had he learned to need her, so that there was no other place in the world he wanted to come when his day was over?

  We'll find a way. We. Together.

  Sara met him outside the kitchen door. "Come on!" she urged, grasping his hand with her small fingers.

  "Where's Squiggles?" he asked.

  Love, he thought. He loved Jamie, Jamila, couldn't help himself.

  "Squiggles got away. He's so squirmy, he's always getting away. Come see, come see, Dr. Kent! There! See?"

  The child stopped in the middle of the studio, pointing at the easel.

  Two easels, side by side, one adult height, bearing a painting of a child curled up on a wicker chair, an orange tabby cat sprawled bonelessly on the child's lap. The other easel, constructed for a six-year-old child, bore a small canvas on which Sara had colored a yellow caricature of a cat sleeping on the same chair.

  "You made a picture of Squiggles." He could easily imagine the child and the woman, standing side by side as they created pictures.

  "Jamie showed me how," said Sara. "It's hard to draw cats."

  "I'm sure it is."

  "It's because they go around, not just up and down and sideways. People, too, and—and everything."

  "You did a good job. It looks just like Squiggles."

  "I can take it home and show my daddy. Jamie says I can."

  When Jamila came into the room, Sara ran to her and stood, her back pressed against Jamila's legs. The child obviously worshiped this woman.

  "You went to some trouble finding her a child's easel."

  "It's one of mine. The legs are adjustable."

  He glanced at the easel and saw set screws on the telescoping legs. Still, he thought, she'd taken the trouble to set this up for Sara, had cared enough.

  "I gotta go now," announced Sara. "Jamie has to take me home."

  "Will you wait?" asked Jamila.

  "Yes."

  Her lips curved, a smile that felt like a light brush of her lips on his.

  He wondered what a daughter of theirs would look like, whether she would have blond hair as he'd had when he was young, or vibrant red curls, a gift from Jamila. It wasn't impossible that a daughter of theirs might look much like Sara.

  "You can come with us if you want," said Jamila, hesitating at the entrance to the corridor.

  "I'll wait." He wanted to be alone in her home, to walk through her rooms and let himself feel her, to know her again, freshly. He needed time before he was ready to be alone with her.

  Oddly, the house didn't feel empty when they left.

  Alex walked through the rooms slowly. So small, a miniature house, and yet it felt like home in a way his condo never had. He tried to remember a time, a place, where he'd felt this sense of belonging.

  The house was superbly ordinary except for its location on the edge of the ocean. Small—he paced through the sparse collection of rooms—bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, living room-studio.

  If they lived here, together, they would have to build on, add more rooms. It would be better to find somewhere roomier, a better neighborhood for the children, a—

  He jerked himself away from the window, from a contemplation of the ocean outside, his heart pounding raggedly. Slow down, he warned himself. One bloody step at a time. This relationship was new, untried. He had no way of knowing where it would end.

  He couldn't picture life without her.

  He shoved the patio door open and stepped outside, gulping air. Too fast, too damned fast. Forever was a hell of a big leap to take with a woman he'd believed was completely wrong for him until a week ago.

  He paced back into her house, through the tiny collection of rooms. Not enough room, too small for pacing. What would she think of his place? Sterile, he decided, she'd think it sterile and cold. If she brought an easel and her paints, would it still be sterile? He didn't have an ocean view, but one of his spare rooms had a big skylight.

  No, she needed the ocean. He'd find her a home hanging over the ocean; somewhere with a yard, grass, and room for children. Room for them to take a walk on the beach at night. Over on Bainbridge Island, perhaps, although he'd never told her about his dream of a house on Bainbridge.

  He felt something at his ankles, looked down, and found Squiggles rubbing against him. He picked the kitten up, and as Squiggles purred against his chest, he realized he'd have neither time nor money for new houses if the Thurston Foundation denied him a grant for the treatment center, as seemed likely now.

  We'll find, a way. We'll find another way. Of course it was a figure of speech, but her words had done something to his heart. Something that felt permanent
.

  Believing the Thurston Foundation was the answer to his fight for a treatment center, he'd let himself forget the alternatives. Tomorrow he'd call Gordon at All Saints' again. Maybe the hospitals couldn't give money, but they could damned well use their influence in other ways.

  His steps quickened, fueled by new ideas, the embryonic shape of a new plan.

  In Jamie's kitchen, he sat down and pulled out his pen and appointment book, flipped to tomorrow's date, and jotted down a series of names—telephone calls he'd make over lunch tomorrow.

  As he was putting his organizer back in his pocket, he felt a piece of paper and pulled out the pink slip on which Vanda had noted his mother's number. From the area code, she was probably in San Francisco.

  He picked up Jamie's phone and dialed the number. He wasn't surprised when a hotel switchboard answered. Alisha Kent had been living in hotels for years, ever since she divorced her second husband and decided to pursue her music career again.

  He gave his mother's name to the desk clerk, only to learn that she'd checked out an hour ago. Typical of his mother to give a number, then fail to be there. He shrugged and dropped the phone back into its cradle. She'd phone tomorrow, or perhaps there'd be silence for another three months. She'd always been unreliable.

  Restless again, Alex prowled into Jamie's bedroom. He was calling her Jamie again. She liked to be called Jamie, but he knew that when he loved her, she would become Jamila in his mind, a passionate and exotic mystery.

  What was taking her so long? How long could it take to drive a child across the bridge and over to Magnolia Bluff, to walk her to her apartment? She would walk Sara upstairs to her apartment, wouldn't she? Surely she wouldn't drop the child off outside the building assuming someone would be there to look after her.

  He prowled back into her studio and stared at the low easel where Sara's picture of Squiggles had rested only half an hour ago. Didn't this easel show that Jamie was different, that she took care, that her own desires and needs didn't swallow up her sense of responsibility?

  She'd done a lot for Sara, taking Squiggles into her home, teaching the child about the world of pictures.