"You were with him when he died."
He kept his face still, suppressing a tremor of surprise. He'd learned something about her impulsive nature and inclination to draw conclusions from fragments of data. He hadn't realized how good she was at it.
"Yes. I was with him."
"Tell me what happened."
From someone else this might have struck Conor as vulgar curiosity, but the compassion in Kate's eyes suggested a different motive. She had figured him out—seen more than he intended to show, heard more than he meant to say. Instead of being sensibly alarmed she was offering to listen to him, to be a channel for safely releasing the pressure he cradled inside himself like a combustible gas.
"I can't do that."
She nodded, unsurprised. "But, did you make peace with him before he died?"
"Jesus, Kate." A strangled hiccup—more sob than laughter—lodged in Conor's windpipe. The choking fit gave him time to harness the emotion she'd innocently ignited. "You're quite a skilled interrogator, you know." He dropped the fist from his mouth with a sigh. "Bloody ruthless."
"I'm sorry."
"No, you're all right. Sure it's the one good thing to come out of the whole business. It was okay between us. He was a decent man – simple, strong and loyal. Yeah, we were okay in the end." He stood up and moved back to the window, trying to put more space between himself and the temptation to go on testifying. "I'm sorry for all this. I ought to get out of here before causing you more trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" Kate asked.
Conor gave an evasive shrug, but the truth was he didn't know himself. That was the hell of it. "I can leave in the morning. If you want me to?" He studied her in the window's reflection. Her face was calm and utterly fearless. She smiled.
"If I said 'yes', where would you go?"
He turned to her with a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Good question."
7
After a day of fieldwork under the hot August sun, Conor entered the kitchen through the back door, weary, sore and ready for supper. He almost always came from work too ravenous to wash and change for dinner, but with his clothes redolent of the barnyard the inn's dining room was off-limits. An alcove off the kitchen was the only acceptable place for him, and his arrival had been anticipated. A bowl of gazpacho sat waiting and Dominic was coming forward with a basket of bread.
"Prego," he called out in his rolling Italian accent, gesturing for Conor to take a seat. A slender man in his fifties with a neatly trimmed mustache, Abigail's husband had negotiating skills that might have earned him a good living as a diplomat, yet he seemed content using them to manage the fragile alliance between the dining room and kitchen staff—and between all of them and his wife.
"She started asking where you were an hour ago. 'He works too hard,' she says. 'He doesn't sleep enough,' she says." Dominic clapped a hand on his shoulder, giving Conor a sympathetic smile. "She's got worries, amico. She's got questions."
"Oh, bloody hell. Thanks for the heads-up, Dom."
Conor had grown fond of Abigail over the past several months and was touched by the maternal interest she took in him, but her fussing sometimes strained his patience. This was the price to be paid, he supposed. With Kate's encouragement he'd remained in place, and only time would tell whether the decision was sensible or delusional. In the meantime, he'd become rooted in a community of people who cared—and worried—about him. He could hazard a guess at the source of Abigail's latest concern. A few minutes later she arrived with his dinner, and confirmed that he'd nailed it in one.
"Darla said she ran into you at Copley Hospital earlier today." She put the plate down in front of him—diver scallops on a bed of risotto with a side of hanger steak—and waited.
Darla Barstow was the inn's housekeeper, a petite high-strung woman of twenty-three who reminded Conor of some form of feathered wildlife, always twitching and chattering.
"I figured she wasn't likely to keep that to herself." He reached for the salt.
"That doesn't need salt." Abigail plucked the shaker from his hand. "So? Are you sick?"
"Of course not. Do I look sick?" Conor bent over the plate to hide his irritation.
"You look tired."
"Sure you're always telling me that."
"Because it's always true. You were at Copley once already at the beginning of May. I gave you directions."
"And didn't quiz me, as I recall. Keeping a diary now, are you?" Instantly, Conor regretted his ill-humored sarcasm. Abigail flinched as if she'd been slapped. She turned away and he caught her by the hand.
"Abigail, I'm sorry. Listen, they're just check-ups. I need to go once a month for a while to make sure my lungs heal properly. They take an X-ray, I spit in a cup and it's done. I'm fine, and I'm not as tired as you seem to think."
"I'll take your word for it." She allowed herself a grudging smile. "Baked potato?"
"Have I ever refused one?"
She brought two, and left him to finish his dinner, but returned later carrying a covered plate on a tray. "Since you're so fit and rested I'm sending you up to deal with Kate."
Conor hadn't seen Kate at all during the day, which wasn't uncommon given their divergent schedules, but in the evening she often took a minute to bring him a pint of something from the bar. Concerned, he frowned at the tray. "What's the matter? Is she sick?"
"In a manner of speaking. She's in her studio. I think she was there all night and the only thing she ate today was a chocolate bar—for breakfast." Abigail set the tray on the table. "Take this to her and make sure she eats. I'm holding you responsible."
Conor rubbed a hand over his mouth. "Listen, if she's in her studio I imagine she'd rather not be bothered. Artists can get pretty absorbed—"
"No, you listen, Conor. You've been here four months and you've been a godsend, but it's time to make yourself useful in a different way. Kate needs to talk about what she's going through to somebody who understands. She needs something I can't give her. You can."
"Jesus . . . " Conor squirmed under her gaze.
"I understand you're afraid," she added softly, "But this is what you need too, sweetie. Stop fighting. A second chance only counts if you recognize it when you see it."
He stopped fidgeting and grew still. "I can't start down this road, Abigail."
"Of course you can. It's the only road worth starting down. Now, go. Get out of my kitchen."
As always with Abigail, he had little choice but to obey. Filled with conflicting emotions he lifted the tray and left, threading his way through the busy dining room. On an intuitive level, he understood Kate's struggle. A few weeks earlier he'd ended his own self-imposed penance and had begun playing his violin again, practicing in a shed next to the barn. The initial effort had been excruciating. Consumed with self-doubt, he'd struggled with pacing and mechanics as well as memory. Entire sections of concerti he once could play in his sleep escaped him, or came out in the wrong order. The first session was painful and more than a bit frightening, but when finished he'd flexed hands that had not been stretched in such a way for nearly a year and felt their responding ache with a wave of contentment. It was like having a limb rejoined with his body—the point of attachment was tender and raw, but the parts knew they belonged together.
Unlike other aspects of his life the experience was one he could discuss without mystery or evasion, but he hesitated to open this line of conversation. Kate had shared few details about her own creative paralysis, and none about its cause. Given his own reticence he had no right to probe, and as a rule he avoided topics which might become too personal. As Abigail had clearly discerned, his friendly affection for Kate was threatening to spill beyond the boundaries he'd set, and the effort to contain it was taxing enough without further complications.
He reached the third floor and moved past her bedroom to the studio door at the end of the hall. With the tray balanced on one arm he took a few deep breaths and knocked. A muffled movement sounded within. He waited,
then rapped again more loudly.
"Kate? I've got a bit of supper Abigail asked me to bring for you."
"Thanks. I'm not hungry."
Her voice, just on the other side of the door, sounded tired. Uncurling his hand Conor rested his palm against the door and tried again, this time with some light banter. "Well that's fine, Kate, but listen to me. If you send me away my only choice is to bring this tray back to the kitchen and get abused for a feeble effort. So, in the interest of saving my backside will you ever just open up? I'll pass the works through like a hero and you can do what you want with it."
The door swung open. Kate stood aside and motioned for him to enter. He walked in and placed the tray on the only available surface he could find, a table littered with drawing paper. The room was larger than he'd expected and engulfed in clutter, but it held no interest for him as he turned to her. Dressed in jeans and an oversized white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Kate looked as deflated and miserable as he'd ever seen her. She frowned at the floor, her eyes hidden by a curtain of dark red hair.
"Are you all right?" Conor asked softly.
"Yes. I'm just not hungry."
He picked up a napkin and wiped a smudge of chocolate from the corner of her lip, resisting the alarming impulse to sift through the curls falling around her face. "Must have been some chocolate bar. Breakfast of champions, was it?"
A shadowy smile touched her lips, but faded under heavy weariness. She lifted the cloche from the tray and they both examined the plate underneath. Abigail had prepared a Caesar salad topped with grilled shrimp. A generous slice of raspberry pie sat on a separate plate.
"I can't eat all this," Kate complained.
"Hmm. I could maybe give you a hand with the pie."
"Oh, really?" Her smile lingered a bit longer this time. She passed over the plate and nodded for him to sit, then she sat down next to him and he handed her a fork. They began eating in silence.
The pie disappeared in four bites. Wiping his mouth, Conor swung around in his chair with awakening curiosity. The room was unlike any other in the house, infused with Kate's spirit in a way her tastefully correct living room was not. It had the evocative character of the classic "atelier"—long, narrow and high ceilinged, with three windows along its length facing the road. All were open to the evening breeze and between two of them an old sofa sat on a worn Persian carpet. The floor was wide planked oak and dotted with paint-stained drop cloths.
In the center of the room a large blank canvas balanced on two easels, partly obscured by a black cloth draped over its corners. Conor took it all in, along with the faint odor of turpentine mixed with the fragrance of old wood. The room was spectacular.
"I can imagine what you're thinking." Without looking at him Kate speared a shrimp and pointed her fork at the jars and paint tubes in front of the canvas. "You're thinking it's no wonder I get nothing accomplished in a mess like this."
The unfamiliar edge in her voice startled him. "Your imagination is pretty far off track."
"Well, you can't be thinking this looks like the studio of a serious artist," she insisted with heavy sarcasm. "More like a children's nursery. All it needs is a box of blocks thrown on the floor."
He shifted to address Kate's averted face. "You're making a lot assumptions about what I'm thinking and you haven't got one right yet."
"The place isn't usually this messy."
"So what if it was?"
"Excellent point." She huffed a bitter laugh and plunged the fork into another shrimp. "So what if it's messy, or clean? Doesn't make a difference, right?"
"Kate—"
"Watch the artist in her milieu, consistent output under all conditions."
"Kate, stop for God's sake. Bullying yourself isn't going to help. I've tried and it doesn't work, believe me."
She put the fork down and finally looked at him. "Are you sure? Because nothing else I've tried is working, either." Her blue eyes appeared darker than usual and the derisive glint had disappeared, leaving them full of sadness and exhaustion.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Kate gave him a dubious glance, then slumped against the chair. "I got an email yesterday from an art collector who bought one of my pieces at a juried show eight years ago. A painting called The Three Graces."
She pushed aside a pile of papers and picked up a large print from the table, handing it to him. Conor accepted it with a solemn nod, no stranger to the anxiety involved in the deceptively simple gesture. In the practice of any art there was such a fine balance between the desire to be heard or seen or understood, and the terror of exposure. He assumed an impassive expression and angled the print against the window for a better view.
The work was magnificent. The scene depicted three women, lithe and elegant, wrapped in long formal dresses, all so similar as to suggest the same figure arranged in different poses. They stood slightly apart, turned away from each other. Only one faced forward, wistfully staring out at him with an upturned head and a wise reserved smile. Set in a moonlit landscape the women appeared to float within the scene, and beneath the composition's visible brushwork the hue and texture of the canvas remained as an underlying glow. A sense of contemplative movement inhabited the work, as though each woman had been captured in the midst of her own slow, solitary dance.
"This is gorgeous," Conor began, before lapsing back into stunned silence. He didn't know what he'd expected, but somehow knew he had not guessed at this level of talent. He realized his thoughts were transparent when Kate's face relaxed into its first sustained smile.
"Such astonishment. You're surprised I was actually good at this?"
"Well, no, it isn't that, exactly."
"Oh, come on. You can admit it. I haven't been much of an advocate for myself, so why wouldn't you be surprised? You didn't expect it."
"I . . . no. I did not," Conor said reluctantly. "And it's a mortal embarrassment. I should know by now not to underestimate you."
Kate dismissed his confession graciously. "I almost wish I hadn't shown it to you. I'd prefer being underestimated. It's painful when people think you're wasting your talent—not quite so much if they think you don't have any. The art collector isn't operating under either impression. He wants to commission a companion piece."
"And you don't think you can do it." From her responding glare Conor saw he'd touched a nerve.
"I don't think I can do it? I know I can't do it. I believe I've mentioned this before, Conor. I can't paint." She flung an arm at the blank canvas across the room. "I can't even bring myself to put a mark on it. It sits there and I come in every few weeks to dust it, for God's sake. I've tried therapy, meditation—I even tried hypnosis, if you can believe that. Nothing works."
"What about focusing on art, instead of yourself?" Conor asked. "Have you tried that?"
"Have I tried focusing on art instead of myself?" Kate looked stunned, and then extremely angry. "I suppose to you this all seems like some self-induced, navel-gazing melodrama?"
"Ehm, no, that's not—"
"You insensitive bastard!"
She came out of her chair, gathering wits and breath for a withering explosion. Conor knew it would concuss any second and silently cursed Abigail for setting off this crisis. His question had been intentional, but not skillfully phrased. He didn't have a lot of time to get it right.
"Okay wait, wait. That's not exactly what I meant to say." He rose from his seat as well, hands waving in self-defense, and took a step backward. "Will you ever let me explain before you eat the head off me?"
With exaggerated patience Kate stood in front of him, eyebrows raised in wordless, hostile inquiry. He took another step back, collided with the arm of the sofa, and abruptly sat down.
"Holy Mother, what am I like?" He caught himself before he pitched over backwards. "Listen. I didn't mean to be insensitive. I actually do understand how it feels, when the one thing you thought you were born for seems completely out of reach."
The chilli
ness in her eyes warmed a degree, encouraging him to continue.
“You get the idea that everything has slipped away from you. You can't remember where it came from in the first place, or how to get it back, and then you start wondering if it's gone for good . . .” He trailed off, looking at the blank canvas. Enveloped in its shroud-like covering it presented an uncomfortably obvious metaphor. Struggling for composure, Kate finished for him.
"That's the most terrifying thought of all, isn't it?"
"Yes," he whispered.
Silently, Conor prayed for the moment to pass, not knowing what he might do this time if she cried, but she found a distraction, picking up wadded balls of drawing paper from the floor. With a soft groan he swung his legs over the sofa and sank into the cushions, knowing he was snared and that he'd half-consciously set the trap himself. He should have avoided coming close to her like this, but he couldn't; he should refuse now to be drawn in deeper but when she came and sat next to him, he knew he wouldn't.
"I don't know what to do."
Hearing the weariness in her voice Conor automatically circled an arm around her shoulders. "I'd say the first thing is to get away from this bloody canvas for a while. Gives me the fear, the way it's looking at us. Do you fancy a bit of music? I've something in mind that works best at sunset."
8
Squinting up at the setting sun Conor chose a spot for them, pointing his violin case at the top of the pasture across the road. They reached the picnic bench and sat with the case lying open on the grass in front of them, revealing a much older instrument than Kate had expected. Gleaming with a brandy-colored finish and nestled in a cocoon of green velvet, the violin rested inside like a rare antique, too brittle to be touched.
"How beautiful." She spoke as though cooing into the cradle of a fragile newborn.
Conor lifted the violin and began tuning, hands brisk and self-assured. As he ran a bow over the strings the instrument came alive with drones and animated squeaks, dispelling some of Kate's intimidated awe.
The Conor McBride Series Books 1-3 Page 40