Nightsong

by Karen Toller Whittenburg

  “I’m going to open the gate now, A.J.,” Phillip said cautiously, and advanced two steps until he could lift up the latch. The gate swung back with a squeak, giving A.J. a bumpy ride and winning Phillip a split second, and not unappealing, grin. But with that glimpse of little-boy humor, A.J. dashed to the house and left Phillip to close the gate and conduct his own way to the front door.

  As Phillip walked up the steps onto the veranda, he heard Elleny’s voice and paused outside the open doorway to listen. She was scolding her son for not wearing a coat and for getting dirty when she’d expressly told him not to. It wasn’t really what she said that kept Phillip quietly eavesdropping, it was the tone, the husky tension. As if she were uncertain about having company for Sunday dinner, as if it was more important than usual that A.J. behave. The thought brought a confident tilt to the corner of Phillip’s mouth, although he would have been hard pressed to explain it.

  “Oh, you’re here.”

  Phillip looked through the screen door and felt the doubts return like rain on parade day. She looked ... enchanting. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a more appropriate word. He noticed the complementary cling of her clothing, the upswept Gibson girl style of her hair, and the soft charm of her smile.

  Elleny stepped forward to push open the screen door and hold it as he walked into the house. “A.J. never closes a door if he can help it,” she said. “But on the bright side, at least he didn’t slam it shut in your face.”

  “He led the way from the gate.” Phillip paused to observe the interior of the house, although his instinct was to continue his observation of Elleny. “I had to pay him….” Realizing that in this situation, diplomacy was called for, he altered the sentence. “…a closer look before I decided he belonged to you.”

  She laughed quietly as she closed the door. “He favors the Damons in appearance and just about every other way as well.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I thought he seemed a little shy ... like you.” Phillip hadn’t thought anything of the sort until the words left his mouth, but with the gentle pleasure that touched her lips, he decided the result was worth the invention.

  As Elleny steered her smile and her gaze toward the living room, he took the opportunity to appreciate the simplicity of the dress she wore. It wasn’t particularly trendy, he supposed, but the deep cranberry-red suited her. And the way the dress fit, not tightly nor too loosely—well, that suited him. Still, Phillip thought, it would be foolish to enjoy her innocent charm too much. As foolish as it would be for him to ignore the distinct attraction he felt.

  “Let’s go in here.” She moved away from the dim entryway. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

  Phillip followed slowly, and when she sank gracefully onto the sofa, he sat in the wing-backed chair opposite. The house and furnishings seemed much more modern than the exterior would indicate, and he wondered if Elleny had had a hand in the remodeling. “Nice house,” he said. “You must be very comfortable living here.”

  A noncommittal nod was the only agreement she offered. “I’d prefer to have more of Mark’s paintings.…”

  With an ill-concealed movement, Phillip lost the rest of Elleny’s comment and swung his gaze in search of a canvas. He’d been so wrapped up in her that he’d momentarily forgotten his reasons for seeking her out in the first place. It wasn’t like him. There, on the wall next to the window. Was that…? But suddenly Elleny was standing, blocking his view, and of necessity, he stood as well.

  “It’ll take just a second to check on dinner. I’ll be right back.” She walked past him, and he tried to maintain a politely interested expression. But as soon as she was gone, he discarded pretense and moved to the framed watercolor.

  It was a scene of a dying summer, beautiful and poignant, sensitively done as only Jesse Damon could do it. Phillip’s gaze dropped to the artist’s signature, and his heart pounded with the exhilaration of discovery. There was the symbol, the shamrock, before Mark’s name.

  It was what Phillip had hoped to find — a painting stolen from the father, claimed by the son. A painting that provided the first real link to the stolen artwork Phillip had been hired to find. In itself it wasn’t conclusive, but he felt confident now that he was on the right track.

  Unexpectedly, Phillip experienced a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d known he would find this sooner or later, hadn’t entertained any doubts that time and persistence would pay off. But with the evidence before him, with the knowledge that his hunch now had a basis in fact…? Well, it wasn’t quite the thrill he’d thought it would be.

  Elleny, of course. He hated it for her, but then perhaps she knew already.

  Phillip frowned as he studied the picture. How could she not know? He found it hard, almost impossible to believe that she didn’t, and yet he wanted to believe it. And that thought was the most disturbing of all.

  * * * *

  Elleny checked the table setting one last time. Her mother’s china sparkled like a television commercial, the crystal reflected the amber tint of iced tea—she hoped Phillip liked tea, she hadn’t thought to ask—the silver gleamed in mute testimony of a recent polishing. Everything was ready.

  Everything, except her.

  She couldn’t understand the inner core of tension that had been with her since she’d awakened that morning. There really was nothing special about having a guest for dinner. It had been only simple courtesy to invite Phillip into her home.

  Simple courtesy? Elleny raised her eyebrows and laid her palm against her cheek. Even A.J. knew better. Why else would he disregard her every request and behave like the wild child he so often pretended to be? She’d sent him upstairs to wash – for the second time in the past half hour – and exchange his Mickey Mouse tee shirt for something more suitable. Not that she truly expected him to accomplish such a feat on his own, but there was always a faint hope.

  Just as she had harbored a faint and obviously impractical hope that seeing Phillip today would prove to be a mundane and largely unexciting experience.

  “Everything’s ready, Elleny.” Tessa Honeycutt stood in the connecting doorway between the dining room and kitchen.

  Turning, Elleny smiled her thanks to Dan and Dora’s teenage daughter. “I’m so glad you came a little early to help with the last-minute preparations. The morning just didn’t go as planned, and I really was running behind. I’m accustomed to having Mrs. Sanders’ help during the week, and today nothing seemed to go right.”

  “No problem.” Tessa shrugged and gave Elleny a metallic grin. “I’ve fixed a tray, and A.J. and I will eat in his room.”

  Elleny consented and made a silent pledge to increase Tessa’s standard babysitting fee. With a last inspection of the table, Elleny went back to the living room and found Phillip standing before Mark’s painting. Quietly, she crossed the room. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she asked, her attention on the picture, her senses tingling with a different type of appreciation.

  “Beautiful.” Phillip turned his slow gaze to her.

  A sweet rush of awareness skimmed through her, and she drew a quick breath of composure. “This is my favorite of all his work. Mark captured something in this painting. A haunting depth of feeling.” She tilted her head and met Phillip’s dark eyes. “I did warn you that I’m sentimental.”

  “So you did.” His smile was like the taste of fresh cream, rich and wonderful. “And you’re right. This canvas is haunting. It’s the work of a true artist.”

  He was watching her so closely, standing so near, and it seemed suddenly difficult to breathe, as if she were in a small, airless room. She was uncomfortable, her thoughts a confused jumble of impressions.

  “Dinner’s ready,” she said finally, taking a step back to give her mind and her lungs a little space. “It’s just the two of us. Jesse never leaves his part of the house after noon, and A.J. is upstairs with the baby-sitter, Tessa Honeycutt, Dan and Dora’s youngest daughter.” The explanation flowed with the monotony of
a dripping faucet, but Elleny couldn’t seem to quell the need to say something, regardless of how inane.

  In the dining room she moved to the table and seated herself, gathering both perspective and her sense of humor. It was becoming apparent that she needed a lesson in best behavior too.

  Elleny waited until Phillip sat across from her before deciding that she was overreacting to a simple physical attraction. “I hope you like chicken.”

  “It’s my all-time favorite Sunday dinner.”

  With his smile she relaxed. “Where are you from, Phillip? I’ve been trying to figure out by your accent, but so far all I’m sure of is a trace of New England with maybe some underlying southern influence as well. Am I close?”

  “Boston, now. New York, before that. West Virginia, originally. You’re an observant listener.” He placed the napkin on his lap and began to serve himself. “As many times as you moved during your childhood, though, it’s no wonder you developed a good ear for dialects.”

  Elleny lifted her brows in puzzled question. “How did you know that?”

  Phillip hesitated in mid-motion, and the pause felt strangely awkward. “About the moves during your childhood? Mark mentioned it. Why? Isn’t it true?”

  “Well, yes. I only thought....” She let the sentence trail into nothing. There was no secret about her vagabond youth, and it really made little difference how Phillip had known about it. “My father was transferred almost every year,” she continued. “Consequently my mother, my two brothers, and I moved with him. People were fond of telling me how fortunate I was to live in so many different places, but it took a long time for me to realize the benefit.”

  “A great deal depends on your point of view, I guess. Personally, I’d have traded places with you in a minute. I grew up in the same city in which I was born, and I promised myself that one day I would travel whenever and wherever I chose. Of course, nothing ever is that simple.”

  “So you didn’t get to keep that promise?” She absently studied the food she’d spooned onto her plate before lifting her gaze again.

  “Oh, I kept it,” he said in a voice noticeably lacking in enthusiasm. “I’ve lived in more countries than most people can name.”

  “I hated moving from state to state, but I’ve always wondered what it would be like to live abroad.” Elleny sipped her tea. “I suppose you spent most of your time studying.”

  “Studying?”

  “Art. Didn’t you say you were an artist?”

  “Yes. That’s right.” Phillip lifted his glass, then set it back without taking a drink. “I’m afraid I didn’t make the best use of my opportunities, though. And I didn’t begin to take painting seriously until recently.”

  Elleny concentrated on her lunch to keep her surprise from showing. She would have sworn that Phillip Kessler was the type who’d been born knowing what he wanted. And that he made the best of any and all opportunities. “So you’re not like Mark, who grew up with a paintbrush in one hand and a vision in the other?”

  Phillip smiled at that. “My hands were too busy stocking the shelves of the family grocery store. It’s pretty hard to envision colorful landscapes when you’re stacking cans of tomato paste.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I have the time and the opportunity to search for....” He stopped to choose a word and Elleny leaned forward.

  “…inspiration?” she suggested.

  “Something like that. Whatever it is, I know Mark and Jesse Damon both found it here.” Phillip lifted his shoulder in a modest shrug. “I never argue with success, so here I am in Cedar Springs, looking high and low for a studio.”

  “No luck so far?” She knew his answer would be negative even before he shook his head. If he had found a place to rent, the news would have gotten back to her by now. Dora Honeycutt was better than a dozen grapevines.

  Phillip ate in silence for several minutes before he caught her gaze. “I’ve been hoping you might change your mind about renting Mark’s studio. It would mean so much to me.”

  “Even if I did reconsider, you wouldn’t want it. That room has been closed ever since Mark died. It would take an army and fifty bottles of Lysol to clear the dust.”

  “Could I see it?” He leaned forward eagerly. “I’m not allergic to dust, and I’d be more than happy to clean the whole place for you.”

  “Phillip....” The explanation, coupled with the words of refusal, crowded together and wouldn’t come out.

  “At least let me see the studio. If only because Mark was my friend.”

  It was the best possible tack to use, and Elleny realized that Phillip used it deliberately. Yet she couldn’t take offense. In his position she might have done the same. She hesitated for only a moment more. “All right. We’ll go after dinner, but just to look.”

  “I understand, Elleny. Thank you.” Sincerity firmed the angle of his jaw, and he seemed pleased. Despite the sudden shadows she thought she glimpsed in his eyes.

  “Tell me about your bookstore, Shamrock Secrets.” Phillip’s tone was easy, his smile disarming.

  Elleny let him lead the conversation simply because she liked talking about the store, liked sharing her love of reading and didn’t mind explaining how it had seemed a natural step to take in order to keep from drowning in the emotional aftermath of Mark’s death.

  From time to time during the course of the meal, Phillip asked questions. Trivial questions for the most part, but phrased in such a way that Elleny felt the answers were important to him. His interest gave her confidence, and she responded naturally by inquiring about his career ambitions.

  All in all he revealed little more than she already knew, but Elleny was intrigued all the more by his reticence. She knew he was eager to see the studio, yet he never revealed a moment’s restlessness. When finally she suggested that they walk the short distance across the back yard to the garage, he seemed almost reluctant to leave the cozy atmosphere of the dining room.

  Elleny took a jacket from the rack by the kitchen door, but Phillip ignored the possible need for a coat and followed her outdoors into the winter sunshine. “Don’t you use the garage?” he asked casually.

  “Only for storage. I prefer to keep the car in the drive because it’s closer to the house.” Elleny looked up and thought that he seemed impossibly tall. Much taller than Mark had been.

  A tiny frown caught her unaware. She would not, under any circumstances, fall into the trap of comparison. Her acquaintance with Phillip was new, the awareness he evoked in her was untested—something to consider, but not to become fanciful about.

  Still, it was difficult when he walked beside her not to notice the physical differences between him and her late husband – the clipped brown hair that touched his forehead and was brushed back neatly at his temples, the lines that experience and laughter had sketched onto his face, the decidedly alluring shape of his mouth, the broad, determined set of his shoulders.

  Elleny brought her errant thoughts to heel and climbed the steps to the studio.

  “We keep it locked.” She stood on tiptoe and ran her hand along the upper doorsill until her fingers found the key. Taking it down, she inserted it in the lock. “Although I honestly don’t know why.”

  “It does seem risky.” Phillip spoke quietly and close behind her. “Even a novice would think to check the sill.”

  “A novice what? Burglar, you mean?” Elleny laughed over her shoulder and pushed open the door. “Anyone who enters this room, with or without the key, is taking his life in his own hands.”

  Phillip stepped forward and stopped, his gaze traveling on into the room. After a second’s pause, Elleny drew a deep breath, smelled the musty odors of disuse and steeled herself to look inside.

  The late afternoon sun penetrated the accumulated dirt on the skylight and reached into the corners where sheeted objects maintained a pointless vigil. Cobwebs clung to the ceiling in spidery traces, dust covered the floor and everything else with faded layers of neglect.

>   She hated this place, hated to open the door and see the deterioration that misguided sentiment had brought. Jesse had closed the studio, forbidden her to clean the memories away, and because she knew he suffered, she had honored his wish.

  “You left everything untouched?” Phillip pushed aside the edge of his jacket and placed a hand at his hip. “Didn’t you go through the canvases he left?”

  “There aren’t that many out here. The most recent paintings are in the house, most of them in Jess’s studio, I really don’t remember which pictures were left to gather dust beneath those sheets.” Rubbing the back of her neck, Elleny recalled the hours she’d spent assuring and reassuring her father-in-law that she wouldn’t sell any of the canvases. And all for what?

  So they could remain in an airless room?

  “It must seem odd that I’ve left the studio like this for so long.” She paused, reluctant to share emotions that were not strictly her own and wondering how Phillip felt about this room that had once breathed with Mark’s creative energy. “Grief does strange things to perspective sometimes.”

  Phillip turned, bringing her gaze to his by the compelling intensity of his nearness in the doorway. His eyes were dark, seeking answers that she did not have, but some unnamed emptiness inside her reached out to him. She sensed his hesitation, knew intuitively that whatever conflict was warring within him had more to do with her than with his long-ago friendship with Mark.

  “Elleny, I wish there was something I could say that….” He couldn’t seem to complete the sentence, but she saw the sympathy in his eyes and accepted it, although she felt dissatisfied.

  She didn’t want Phillip’s sympathy. She didn’t want him to think of her as a widow in need of comfort. Mark was dead, and her love for him had been pressed between the years of her past and the ongoing present like a rose that is pressed between the pages of a book until it becomes only the cherished memory of a fragrance that has long since faded.