“The final choosing will be. But why not let each student pick, say three of his or her best pieces. Then you decide from those which should be shown. That way the best pieces will already have been sifted out. All you’ll have to do is choose the best from the best.”
“That’s a great idea. I’m going to feel kind of bad taking all the credit, though.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you will,” Tom remarked, seeing the mischievous grin that contradicted Jason’s words.
Jason laughed and pointed to a white Lexus sedan parked at the curb. “That’s my sister’s car. Come on. I want you to meet her.”
Tom followed Jason to where the woman waited. He watched his student lean into the open window and found himself frozen to the asphalt as the petite woman stepped from the car.
She wore form fitting jeans and a V-neck sweater the color of peaches. Her long auburn hair was pulled up on each side and secured by jade combs leaving the rest to hang in silky waves down her back. She removed her sunglasses and flashing green eyes met his gaze.
“Kelly, I want you to meet my art professor, Mr.—” Jason’s voice trailed off with the look of recognition on his sister’s face.
“Mr. Shear, it’s a pleasure to see you again,” Kelly Stafford said, offering her hand.
Tom’s mouth had gone dry. “Miss Stafford, this is a very pleasant surprise. I had no idea you were Jason’s sister. Now I see the resemblance.”
“I take it the two of you have met,” Jason said.
Kelly’s smile was bright. “We sure have. I completed the sale of Mr. Shear’s new home.”
This has got to be fate. Tom couldn’t help but admire her sparkling green eyes and flawless skin. He watched her cheeks tinge with a slight blush then took in her straight, pert nose before letting his lingering gaze fall to the sensuous curves of her mouth and the kissable mole at the corner.
“How’s the house coming, by the way?” she asked.
“It’s shaping up great,” he answered, managing to ease his eyes from the teasing fullness of her lips, and the beckoning mole, to meet her gaze. “As a matter of fact, I’m planning an art exhibit in a couple of weeks. A sort of formal grand opening for the gallery I’ve created.”
“That’s wonderful,” Kelly said, obviously impressed. “Let me know when you’ll be open to the public. I’m sure with your schedule here at the university it’ll only be open on selective days?”
“That’s right. But why wait until then? Why not come to my private showing? I’d love to show you around,” Tom suggested, subduing his enthusiasm.
“I’d love to. Should I bring a date?” She held his gaze in a subtle challenge.
Tom’s lips twisted in a rakish grin. “Well now, that’s entirely up to you,” he said, “but I’d be happy to offer my services and pick you up if the need arose. I might even be persuaded to give you a lift home, if necessary.”
“Why, Mr. Shear. Are you asking me for a date?”
“Would that be so terrible, Miss Stafford?”
“Oh, not at all.”
Her soft southern accent was like music to his ears. “Then, I take it, you accept my invitation?”
“With pleasure, Mr. Shear.”
“You’ll have to promise me something.”
“And what would that be?”
“No more of this Mr. Shear stuff. My name’s Tom.”
She smiled and her low, lascivious laughter seemed to caress him. He lingered in its effect.
“I’ll have to let you know about the details.”
“I’ll be waiting for your call. Tom.”
She slipped back into the car and he closed her door. He looked up to see Jason’s ear-to-ear grin, receiving a thumbs-up.
“Here, you might need this.” She handed Tom a business card.
“Most definitely.”
“My cell’s on the front.” She started the engine. “Home’s on the back,” she stated, smiling at him like they’d just shared a secret. “Oh, and Tom?”
“Yes?”
“No more of this Miss Stafford stuff. My name’s Kelly.”
He grinned as she pulled away, already beginning to memorize the number written in blue ink across the back of the card’s white surface.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The light outside was draining into night as Tom tossed the remains of his microwave dinner into the trash while thinking of the paintings that still needed to be hung. Each gallery room contained boxes of battery operated display lights that would have to be mounted above each painting after the paintings were in place. Once these things were done, his gallery would be ready. He grinned ruefully, a mingling of excitement and apprehension warring in the pit of his stomach, as he got to work.
Instead of letting his past eat away at his sanity, Tom had discovered a way of transferring his feelings, passions, and heartaches onto a simple white canvas. His paintings were his release for all of the emotions he kept buried inside. This was his dream, his life. Everything had to be perfect.
Three hours later, he stepped back and looked with a critical eye at the painting he had just hung. Yellows, gold, and lavender bled into one another toward the center where streaking reds and a darker gold led the eye to a woman with outstretched arms twirling, absorbing the magical spontaneity of living, of being alive. Seven others with the similar abstract style adorned the walls. Nodding his approval, he turned to survey the room.
Two bright yellow sofas sat facing each other in the center with a low glass and chrome table in-between. The fireplace represented warmth and light. The windows had been installed with indoor shutters that could be opened at will to let in the splendors of light and life thriving outside. The only other furnishings were the eight paintings he had chosen for the yellow walls. These best portrayed the feelings of free spirit and passion. This was his room of “Life.”
The blue room down the hallway on the right of the staircase had no fireplace, unlike the two rooms at the front of the house. It held paintings of cold heartache; paintings that reflected the chill of rejection and loneliness. The stark white of a straight-backed, slatted chair facing an unadorned alabaster pedestal, helped to signify the starched and frozen atmosphere created within, as did the two long windows in the back wall with retractable, ice-blue shades. In one painting, cold colors blended to draw the eye to an un-detailed man crouched in the corner of a room filled with shadow people interacting with one another. The man’s face was a white mask melting into a sagging display of a distorted mouth and black eyes. The painting, along with six others, gave the impression of the self-inflicted isolation of a wasted existence. This he called his room of “Ice.”
In the white room on the left of the foyer across from the Life gallery, he had created a haven of virgin emotions. Like in the room of Life, the windows had white shutters to either let in the sunshine and the wonders outside waiting to be explored, or to shut out the darkness of night. The fireplace lent the feeling of warm comfort and contentment. Giant, white velvet throw pillows encircled a low, cut crystal table that had an open coloring book and a box of Crayola crayons in its center. A deck of Go Fish cards and a game of Chutes and Ladders lay on the floor waiting to be played. Huge beanbag chairs, blending like chameleons against the white of the walls, waited for the young at heart. He had instilled the playful, uninhibited atmosphere of childhood splendor, emotions of the young, still untainted by the cruel lessons of life. In one painting, pastels were splashed upon the canvas, color overlapping color, with tiny hand and footprints pressed into the paint and walking across the surface. This room, with its naïve beauty and charm, he named “Innocence.”
The only room he had avoided completing was the room with the crimson walls. Soon, the deadliest emotion of all would be contained there—an emotion so powerful, it could turn the meekest of people into ravagers of hatred. This emotion was one Tom knew well, one he held deep within—“Rage.”
He hesitated in the doorway of the dark room and the image of his bleedi
ng, unconscious mother lying on the kitchen floor pushed forward in his mind. He remembered the twisted smile on his father’s face as he stepped toward him, unzipping his pants, and a familiar, paralyzing anxiety swelled within him.
Tom shook off the unwanted memory. He walked into the room with its red walls and switched on the overhead light. As he scanned the bare interior, he was suddenly overwhelmed by the sadness and furious heartache of the cloth-covered paintings still sitting in his studio. He had created eleven altogether, only a few of which he actually remembered painting. With the others, it was almost like someone else had guided his hands to create the intense horror the paintings displayed, the appalling reality of abuse and torture.
You can’t keep putting it off. They were the best work he’d ever done, and the most important. People had to wake up and become aware of the atrocities going on around them. Maybe this was one way of getting their heads out of the sand and opening their eyes.
Tom left the room of Rage and climbed the stairs to his studio. He uncovered two of the paintings and carried them down. He then retraced his steps until all eleven paintings leaned against the base of the red walls.
He picked up the first painting and found himself staring into the solemn eyes of the little girl whose image he carried within him; the very image that mirrored his own.
“Where shall we hang you? It’s got to be somewhere very special. You’ve got to be the first people see when they enter the room.”
Like the gallery of Ice, this room had no fireplace to offer comfort. But unlike the other three rooms, the double French doors of the red room had been curtained with rich, thick red velvet on the outside to enhance isolation. The two windows in the back wall had been concealed by thick, black walnut paneling with doorknobs and slide-bolts to represent the dark, confining space of locked closets. There were no pillows, beanbag chairs, sofas, tables, or games to instill hope, safety, comfort, or to stimulate imagination. Only fear and despair resided here.
He scanned the walls and decided on the space directly across from the curtained double doors. After installing the hanging hooks and wire, Tom secured the painting, then stood back to check its position.
Suddenly the light flickered and the air grew thick. The temperature dropped and his breath came out as shallow, misty puffs. Tom froze as the hair rose on the back of his neck and arms. His scalp crawled. The nerves beneath his skin began to tingle with the sensation of being watched. He whirled, his muscles tense, and found himself immobilized with mind clenching fear.
His eyes widened and a silent scream lodged in his throat. Then his fear slowly transformed into an overwhelming sense of humbled grief and Tom sank to his knees. He ignored the tears that filled his eyes and drank in the sight of the little girl standing a few feet away. He could see her clearly and knew without having to look at the painting behind him that it was the same little girl who had cried out to him on his first night in the house.
She wore the same stained and torn blue dress. Socks, that had at one time been lacy white, were discolored with grime, sagging around delicate ankles. Her starved little body held the marks of purple-black bruises and vicious cuts crusted with blood and the sight made his heart sink.
She looked up at her portrait hanging on the wall then slowly shifted her haunting gaze back to Tom. He watched her mouth lift into a fleeting smile and thought his heart would burst with the whirlwind of emotions that surged through him.
“Are you real? Have you been real all this time?” he asked, his voice strangled. “How can I help you? Tell me what to do.”
She lifted her tiny hand and pointed to the portrait. It was then that Tom understood.
“What’s your name, sweetheart? Can you tell me your name?”
Her child voice was a mere whisper, but it was one Tom would have recognized without question. “Emmy. My name’s Emmy.”
“Emmy. That’s a very pretty name,” he said, his trembling voice growing stronger. “Everything’s going to be alright now. I promise I’ll make everything alright.”
Tom watched as she took a silent step closer and stretched her arms out toward him. Welcoming the embrace she offered, he reached out his hands and felt the loving warmth of trust envelop him as she stepped into his arms before she disappeared.
He remained kneeling and let his empty arms drop to his sides. Even though she had vanished from sight, he could still feel her presence. He could smell her child’s sweetness in his nostrils and feel her soft touch against his soul. He knew she had entered his being and he welcomed her with all of the love he possessed.
Slowly, he stood and faced the portrait. The pain and sorrow she felt would be his to relive. Feelings he had kept at bay for years could now be shared and understood as long as her presence remained.
He turned and left the room, returning minutes later with a brush filled with white paint. With gentle strokes, he wrote the name Emmy in the bottom corner and felt the sorrow around him lessen, the air around him warmed.
A heavy sigh escaped him as he turned and picked up the next painting. With each painting he hung, the vivid memories of the nightmares he had experienced while painting them lashed back with blinding reality. Were they really only dreams? Or are they all as real as Emmy? Could all I’ve seen actually have happened? He shook his head at the thought. I don’t know, but I’ll find out.
Two hours later, Tom stepped back to survey his room of Rage. He was glad to see that Emmy wouldn’t be alone, and yet, he was remorseful to see that others had had to suffer as well. For hanging beside her were seven others; seven once happy, beautiful little girls with the same tormented, tear-stained faces.
Turning away, the sorrowful room was veiled in darkness as he turned out the light.
CHAPTER NINE
The automatic headlights of Jonathan’s Mercedes flicked on as the lowering sun sank behind the tress. Traffic on Sandy Plains Road was thick as commuters headed home. Nickelback sang about photographs and coming to terms with the past, and Jonathan’s head bobbed along with the beat of the song. He wondered if any of the other homeward-bound commuters noticed and grinned. He didn’t care if they did. He liked the song.
When he finally made it to his subdivision off Wigley Road, Jonathan could see the gas light in front of his house illuminating the driveway and sidewalk. It was a single story, contemporary brick ranch the warm color of apricots. The lot was landscaped in front with aged gardenia and camellia bushes, azalea hedges, and a couple of tall, wide spreading dogwoods.
After stopping by the mailbox at the curb, Jonathan pulled into the garage and closed the door behind him with the remote. He got out and stepped through the door into the mud-room. When he entered the kitchen, he found Marsha waiting, her body swaying seductively to the Eagles’ “I Can’t Tell You Why.” He stood a moment taking in her faded, well-worn jeans, baggy yellow sweater, and bare feet. Her toes screamed with bright red polish. Her soft, brown hair hung to her shoulders, shining like satin under the overhead lamp. Her smile was warm and her hazel eyes sparkled.
“Hey there.”
“Hey yourself.” He sat his briefcase down, tossed the mail on the counter out of the way, and gathered her in his arms to return the welcoming kiss she offered. “Mmm, something smells good,” he said, giving her a tight squeeze.
“It’s called dinner. Why don’t you change out of that suit,” she suggested and wiggled out of his arms. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”
“I won’t be long,” he promised, sneaking a nibble of her ear.
Marsha’s grin softened as she watched him saunter from the room, then she turned back to the stove. She loved to cook and her spacious kitchen was her favorite room in their cozy home. Oak cabinets of every size lined the walls. The countertops were black granite and plentiful, giving her unhindered work-space and elbow room to be creative.
After checking the chicken baking in the oven, she filled a pot with water to boil. She lifted the lid to stir a simmering pot and smile
d as the aroma of home-made marinara wafted up to fill her nose.
“Is that a look of ecstasy?” Jonathan asked from the arched doorway. He was now dressed in an old UGA bulldog sweat-shirt and faded jeans. His grin was appreciative and teasing.
“Absolutely,” she replied, replacing the lid.
“I’ve seen that look before, but it had nothing to do with spaghetti sauce.”
“Is that a fact?” she asked, trying to hide a grin. Boston’s “More Than a Feeling” encouraged the mood.
“Definitely.” He stepped closer. “Shall I remind you?”
She pulled a knife from the butcher block and couldn’t contain a giggle when he took on a look of horror and threw his hands up in self-defense. “Jerk,” she said, laughing. “Like I’d actually do something to hurt my playground.” Grinning, she shook her head and began slicing tomatoes for a salad. “Tell me about your day.”
“My day was terrific.” He ran his hands beneath her sweater, up her bare ribs, then wrapped his arms around her waist. “I won the Petry case today. And guess who was the presiding judge?” he asked low against her neck.
“Don’t tell me—Judge Hartwell,” she said, laying the knife on the chopping block and turning in his arms to face his smug expression. “You won a case with Heartless Hartwell while you were defending the husband in a custody case?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve got to hear this,” she stated, returning to her chopping block and vegetables.
“Actually, it was an open and shut case,” Jonathan replied, releasing her from his hold and turning to the refrigerator. He reached in for a bottle of ale. “We had a substantial amount of damaging evidence against Mrs. Petry to prove she’s an unfit mother. All Hartwell had to do was look at what was presented. No one in their right mind would have allowed those kids to continue living under the conditions she forced on them.”
“Such as?”
“For one thing, she lives in a pigsty,” he said, removing the cap with a bottle opener. He took a drink then leaned his hip against the counter. “The house, if you can call it that, is nothing but a three-room shack. And the yard is a disgrace. Its main purpose seems to be a dump for the empty beer and liquor bottles discarded by her and the many guys she screws around with.
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