by Terri Lee
Contents
Paper Castles
Copyright
Dedication
Part One
Games
Food is love
Sword Dance
Fridays
An ill wind
Everything's fine
Post Show
Russian spy
Baby steps
All that glitters
Struggle
Turn that ship around
My valentine
Collateral damage
Rabbit hole
Part Two
The proper thing to do
Bless her heart
A story half-told
Savannah Angeline Palmerton
Tilt-a-whirl
Same old song
Burnt offerings
True north
It's circumstantial
Pinky-swear
City boy
Little girl lost
Way out
High school
James Dean
Monsters
Tea and toast
Marching
Star stuff
Father Hannigan
Storm surge
Graveyard
Whatever this is
Pip-squeak
Friendly fire
Mt. Zion
Part Three
Knocking at the door
Eye of the storm
Couches
Bluffing
Russian roulette
Red Sea
Roller coaster
Plain as Day
Slipping Away
A penny for your thoughts
Rules
Tumbling
Venus Rising
North and South
A ticket to the future
Thank you for reading
Thank you
Dedications
Copyright © 2016 Terri Lee
Capricorn Publishing House
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means or stored in a database or retrieval system without the prior written permission of this author.
Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Design by: Write Dream Repeat Book Design LLC
Cover by: Nicole Spence of Cover Shot Creations
Author Photo: Paparazzi
Find me on Facebook at : Terri Lee, author
Twitter: @terrileeauthor
Website: terrileeauthor.com
For Rex, always.
SHE USED to paint with such passion. Now Savannah’s brush trembled above the canvas, bristles hovering over the swirl of colors as if her heart and hands were no longer connected.
It’s gone, she thought.
No muse to guide her ideas. Worse than that, she had no ideas.
She’d come to this classroom looking for a way to paint herself out of the picture she’d spent the last seventeen years creating. Hoping she could draw a new life and find the courage to step inside it. Closing her eyes, she turned her head into the soft autumn breeze coming through the tall windows. The air tasted of freedom, sweet and salty on her lips. Maybe it could carry her back to that place of inspiration.
“You’re too timid.”
Her eyes opened. For a moment, she feared the words were her own, tumbling out unchecked. She was only slightly relieved to realize they came from Adam.
“Don’t think. Paint.” Placing his hand over hers, he guided her brush to the project at hand. “Trust yourself.”
His hand was steady and strong. Easy for him to say trust yourself, with hands like that. Her hands used to delight her as they danced across a starched white canvas, creating whole worlds with nothing more than pigment and water. Now, her hands were mute, listening for that tiny, inner voice. The place where creativity lived. But all she heard were her own doubts.
Adam winked and moved on to the next easel leaving her staring at the empty spaces in her painting.
What in the world was she doing here? A community college art class open to the public had seemed like a bright idea to fill up her morning. The flyer waved to her from the library bulletin board and when she held it in her hands it reminded her of who she used to be.
She’d stuffed the brochure in the bottom of her purse, another what if to be left untried. Every month she’d dig out a handful of bright ideas from the bottom of her handbag and chuck them. Her purse was a graveyard of optimistic plans. No one was more surprised than she when she actually showed up to class. Not only did she show up, but she kept coming back. For what? The lessons?
Who was she kidding?
She watched Adam, as he moved about the room. He stopped to offer a bit of encouragement to a dark-haired beauty, one in a room of bright-eyed ingénues watching his every move as if he were an actor on a stage. Each one hoping he would hover over their shoulder for even a brief second. Eyes narrowing in jealousy when he moved on to the next easel.
Surely he was aware of the stir his attention caused, but his charm was in the way he wore the adulation. In fact the class was nothing more than a willing audience of giggling females. Like a buoy in a sea of youth, Adam bobbed from giggling female to giggling female, avoiding Savannah’s sedate thirty-nine-year-old presence. No one seemed to pay her any mind, which was just the way she liked it.
When she wandered into this space eight weeks ago, the hum of ceiling fans circulating the smell of paint and turpentine swept her back to her college years, when the art department at Georgia University had been her home and a paint brush was a natural extension of her hand. Lately, the feel of the brush leaning between her thumb and forefinger felt fraudulent.
It was 1963 now. She was out of place in this classroom filled with young women who had their whole lives ahead of them. Her choices had all been made. Savannah took a step back, trying to eye her painting with some semblance of objectivity. Chewing on her bottom lip, she had to admit Adam was right: she spent more time second guessing herself than she did painting.
Her family’s beach house, perched high on a sand dune, looked back at her from the canvas. The morning light over Tybee Island, although etched into her soul, eluded her attempts at capture. Dancing out of reach when she stabbed at it with her brush. She missed the days when the brush had a mind and spirit of its own. She only had to hold on as it splashed its way across the canvas.
“I’m afraid our time’s up for the day.” Adam’s voice resonated across the room and a groan of female disappointment swelled from the easels. Savannah grinned to herself as she took her brushes to the sink.
“Savannah, I’d like to see you after class if you can spare a moment.”
She looked up, the whirlpool of blue paint disappearing down the drain. Nothing in Adam’s demeanor hinted at anything out of the ordinary. She nodded casually aware the dark-haired coquette was wearing a perfect Scarlett O’Hara pout.
“Next week ladies.” Adam was laughing as he shooed his fan club out into the hallway like a flock of chickens.
Closing the door with its top half of thick wavy glass, he turned the lock.
“Hear that?” he said.
Savannah blinked at him.
He raised a cautious finger in the air. “Peace and quiet. If only for a few minutes.”
He walked over to her easel and stood still, arms folded across his chest, while Savannah took the moment to study the way his dark hair fell over his c
ollar. Slightly tousled, refusing to be tamed. She wanted to touch it, hold it up to the light. Her fingers itched to capture the color on her canvas.
There you are, she said to her muse. Not buried so deep after all.
“Why in the world did you stop painting?” he asked, without looking at her
“Oh you know... Life.” Savannah’s voice trailed off along with her composure as she busied herself with tightening the caps on paint tubes.
“That’s a shame.” He squinted as he bent closer studying a detail in her brushstroke. Looking back over his shoulder he asked, “Is this someplace special to you?”
“Yes.”
“I can tell. It’s good. Better than good, it’s excellent.”
Out of habit, Savannah shrugged off the compliment. “It’s not quite right, yet.”
But a small piece of her reached out for more.
What does he see? Inside she was one of the giggling girls who’d just strolled out the door.
“I’d say, it’s just right.” He turned around to face her.
“Are we still talking about my painting—?”
“Come here.” He beckoned with his chin and he didn’t wait for her to comply. His arm reached and encircled her waist, drawing her to him. Brushing a strand of hair off her face, he leaned into her neck, the warmth of his breath at her ear.
“I’ve been waiting all morning for this,” he said. “Do you know how hard it is to walk by, smell your perfume and not be able to touch you?”
“No. How hard is it?”
“It’s torture.” He threw his head back in mock agony.
She traced her finger over the collar of his shirt, then tugged on the end, pulling him in. “Maybe I should leave. I’d hate to be accused of torturing the teacher.” This was her favorite part of the seduction. The coy tango.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
He cupped her face in both of his hands, studying her like an artist memorizing his subject. And for a second she lost her equilibrium, the floor swaying as if it were dancing too. He kissed her, ending the dance. She leaned into him. Slow and unhurried and when his tongue found hers she let go and fell into the moment. Time and space contracted inward into a tiny universe of just her and him. Nowhere to go but here. Nothing to do but this. Only Adam’s body pressed close to hers and the shivers running up her spine affirming she was alive.
She didn’t have a name for this, nor a plan. It was simply an organic need and she reached for it like a thirsty traveler offered a cool glass of water.
From the beginning, at her first class with Adam Vincent she had felt the attraction. Glances that held too long. Complicit smiles. A warmth on her skin whenever he passed her easel. After the second session, he asked her to coffee. Their conversation flowed easily over the café table as they discussed art, compared artists, and argued schools of thought. He asked her out again after the third class. Then he stopped asking. Coffee after class became a given.
Only last week, at their same small table at the back of The Mud Lounge, chairs pulled tight together like always, over the usual coffee cups, sugar, and cream, some invisible line was erased. Their laughter hushed into something private. Their talk grew more flirtatious. Their fingers inched between napkins and silverware.
Taking Adam’s hand, Savannah examined each line and crease of his palm, looking for a clue to her future. Looking for an excuse to touch him. She glanced up to find him smiling at her. Brown eyes crinkled in amusement.
When those brown eyes swept over her, she felt beautiful and powerful. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her like that. It was intoxicating and she wanted to be drunk.
A delicious moment of anticipation hung in the air between them before he leaned in, his tentative lips barely bushing hers. Testing the moment. Tasting it.
Overcome with sudden shyness, Savannah sat back in her chair and looked around the café. A guilty pleasure swirled up from her toes as she and Adam grinned at each other—two kids who’d gotten away with a handful of stolen cookies.
Today’s kiss came from a different place. Nothing tentative about Adam’s mouth on hers and she reached to meet his lips with a level of confidence that surprised her.
I want this.
But eventually, reality knocked and Savannah had to let it in.
“This is wrong,” she said, pulling back. “On so many levels.”
“How many?”
“Don’t tease. You know you’d probably lose your position if the school found out.” She took a deep breath, avoiding eye contact. “And…other reasons, of course.”
“I know. Come here.” Taking her by the hand, Adam made his way to a long table at the back of the room, well away from the wall of windows. With one graceful move, he hopped up to sit on the splattered wooden surface and drew her between his knees.
“Let’s talk about those reasons,” he said.
“Let’s not,” she said. Her thoughts were moving too fast and his thighs pressing against her hips make it hard to keep up. “Let’s talk about my painting.”
“What about it?”
“How could you tell it was a special place?”
“The love in the brushstroke was obvious. You, on the other hand, remain a mystery.”
“Good,” she said. “That’s the way I like it.”
She took his wrist, checking his watch for the time. The innocent touch had their eyes connecting again.
“I should go,” she said.
“Why?”
“Because you have a meeting and I need to get home.”
“Must be exhausting.”
Savannah searched his face for sarcasm, but all she found was the gentle concern in his eyes that had drawn her to him from the start. The ease of his manner that invited her to talk and laugh over coffee as if she had a right to happiness.
“It is,” she sighed. “I’m so tired.”
The look in his eyes told he’d looked through a window in her heart and caught a glimpse of her vulnerability dressed up in flirty dialogue. She looked away and pulled the shade.
“Don’t go.” Adam reached for her hand. “I can’t wait another week to see you.”
“You’re going to have to.” She pulled him off the table with a playful tug. His feet trudged sulkily but he followed her across the room like an obedient puppy. She was in charge again. It was better this way.
“See you next week, Mr. Vincent —”
“Mr. Vincent is it? Oh and next week? You’re not getting off so easily.”
“I’ll consider myself warned.” Savannah picked up her purse and moved to the door. “Next week, then.”
Out in the parking lot, away from the distraction of Adam’s insistent hands, she toyed with the idea of not returning next week. It hadn’t gone so far that she couldn’t walk away and pretend she’d never met him. Better to leave while she still had her wits. She’d disappear back into her life and soon, Adam would forget about her and these afternoons over coffee. He certainly wouldn’t be lacking for company. He could have his choice of any female at any easel.
She opened the car door and slid onto the leather seat. As the engine purred to life, she looked at the art building facade in her rearview mirror, knowing damn well that she’d be back next Friday.
AS SHE NOSED her powder-blue Thunderbird into the driveway, her morning fell away like the blurred edges of a misty dream. She closed the car door with a decisive thud.
Back to reality.
The soundtrack of her life tumbled down the back steps to greet her, firmly relegating Adam Vincent to another time and place. Raised voices warned of another argument between Neenie and the new housekeeper. Savannah sighed, her hand on the banister, foot on the bottom step.
When Posey, who’d been the Palmerton’s housekeeper for years, moved to Mississippi to help with her ailing sister, Savannah knew she had an impossible task ahead of her. Good housekeepers were hard enough to come by without adding Neenie’s unattainable standards into the mix
. Neenie ran the house like a drill sergeant. Trouble was, Savannah was sure Claudia didn’t know she was signing up for the Marines when she took this job.
Savannah took a deep breath and entered the fray.
“Is the honeymoon over? Already?” The screen door thumped behind her as she sauntered over to Neenie and planted a kiss on a velvet cheek.
Claudia stood, arms across her chest, chin jutting out in a show of defiance. But she couldn’t hide the tremble in her bottom lip as she stated her case. “I don’t need to be told how to do my job. I know how to clean house. I don’t tell her how to cook. I’d appreciate the same.”
Savannah looked to Neenie, engrossed in stirring cake batter. It was obvious she’d said her piece and was now deliberating ignoring the newcomer.
“Ladies, you’re going to have to find a way to get along.”
“I’m trying, Ma’am.” Claudia wiped her hands on her apron. “I’m grateful for this job.”
“I know, Claudia. However, Neenie is in charge of the household. You do answer to her.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Neenie puff up. “But—” She turned to look Neenie in the face, sticking a pin in the balloon before Neenie’s big head could carry her away. “I’m sure Neenie can find a way to communicate that will feel a little less…offensive to you. Right, Neenie?”
Neenie was beating that cake batter like it was an obstinate child.
“Right, Neenie?” Savannah’s authority rose along with the tone of her voice.