Rainbow's End (12 page)

“Okay.” She rose and joined him at the door, expecting him to exit at once. Instead he stood there, looking down at her with an expression that was hard to read. She saw gratitude in his eyes. Colored with some other emotion she couldn't quite identify. But it was deep and rich and full, and it reached inside her heart, nudging to life a flame she'd thought had long ago
died. Her own eyes widened in surprise as their gazes locked—and held. Mesmerized, she watched him swallow. Hard.

Several eternal beats of silence ticked by as a storm of emotion swirled in the still air. Then all at once he turned and fumbled for the door. “Sleep well, Jill. I'll see you tomorrow.”

His voice was as rough as the outer layer of bark on the madrone trees that thrived on the island. As unsteady as a newborn black-tailed deer. As confused as a sailor set adrift on the open sea without a compass.

Her hands trembling, Jill shut the door behind him and slid the lock into place, leaning against the hard wood as she closed her eyes. She knew that Keith Michaels had been tempted to kiss her—for reasons neither of them seemed to understand. Sympathy, maybe. Or pity. Or perhaps to comfort her after the story she'd just told him. Whatever the motivation, she was convinced he'd considered it.

And she was even more convinced that she'd have let him.

Another surge of longing rippled through her, and she struggled to subdue it. She couldn't let herself get carried away. Okay, so maybe Keith liked her. Even cared about her as a friend. Enough to kiss her out of compassion or consolation. But she didn't want kisses motivated by pity.

Unfortunately, since those were the only kind she was ever likely to get, she'd best learn to do without. Even from a man who touched her heart in a very special way.

“K
eith! It's good to hear from you, son.”

The affection in Bob Michaels's voice was unmistakable, and Keith smiled. “Thanks, Dad. Sorry it's been a whole week. I've been busy with the studio.”

“How's it coming?”

“Great. Things move a little slower on the island, though, so it takes a while to get some of the other crafts people out to the property. But we're about halfway there.”

“Glad to hear it. Everything else okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

Two beats of silence ticked by. “Want to tell me about it, son?”

The man had an uncanny ability to pick up on the most subtle vibes, Keith acknowledged with a shake of his head. In fact, there were times when he was sure his father was a mind reader. This was one of them. And, in all honesty, hadn't he hoped for such a question? His father had always been a good sounding board, and Keith could use some feedback about now.

“I never could get anything past you, could I, Dad?”

The older man chuckled. “Oh, I expect you managed to slip a few things by me through the years.”

A grin lifted the corners of Keith's mouth. “Not many. And not this time.” He stopped, trying to figure out how to put into words the jumble of emotions he was feeling. In the end, he decided to start with God. “I've been…I've started to pray again, Dad.”

On the other end of the line, Bob Michaels closed his eyes.
Thank you, Lord.
“Tell me about it.”

“Well, it's not really prayer. At least not in a formal sense. Nor is it even a conscious decision. It's just that I've started…I don't know…I guess
talking
to God is the way to describe it. Sort of a spontaneous thing.”

“That's the best kind of prayer, in my book. Is He talking back?”

“Not yet. But I…I'm starting to think that He might be listening.”

“Then it won't be long before you hear His voice, son.”

“That's how it worked for Jill.”

Interesting. It seemed his landlady had had a hand in Keith's change of heart, Bob reflected. Even better.
Another thank you, Lord.
“She sounds like a godly woman.”

“She is. Someday I'll tell you all about her.” But not today, Keith suddenly decided. He needed to sort through his feelings first.

“I'd like that.”

“I'll call again soon. God be with you, Dad.”

“And with you.”

As Keith hung up the phone, he realized that he'd reverted to their traditional sign-off, with him initiating the blessing. And he realized something else, as well.

It felt good.

 

“Keith! Wait up!”

Still deep in thought from his conversation with his father, Keith didn't realize at first that he'd been hailed. But when the voice at last registered, he halted his trek toward the Eastsound side street where he'd parked his car. Turning, he saw Larry Miller heading his way. With his long, graying hair tied back in a ponytail and his propensity for tie-dyed T-shirts, the electrician always reminded Keith of a hippie. But despite his laid-back manner, the man knew his stuff. He'd been out to the studio twice already, and was scheduled for one more visit to do a final hookup.

“Hi, Larry. What's up?”

“Listen, I was talking to some folks over in Deer Harbor yesterday. They're getting ready to put an addition on their house and asked me to recommend a good carpenter. I thought of you right away. You interested in the work? They aren't going to start until November or December, and I figure you'll be done with the studio long before that.”

A job. He was being offered a paying job. But Keith hadn't thought that far ahead yet. Would he still be here in November? Did he still
want
to be here in November?

“I'm not sure what my plans are yet,” he told the man.

“That's cool. Just think about it. They won't be deciding on contractors for a while. Let me know when you need me to come out to the Whelan place to finish up.”

With a wave, the man sauntered off down the street.

Was this a sign? Keith wondered. Was there a message in this unexpected job offer? And if so, what was it?

No answers presented themselves. But instead of feeling overwhelmed or panicked, as he had so often during these past
two years when uncertainty plagued him, Keith followed Jill's example. He took a deep breath and put the issue in the Lord's hands. Perhaps, in His time, the answers would come.

 

“Morning, Jill. I was passing by and thought I'd drop in to check on the progress of your studio. It's looking good.”

At the sound of Madeleine DeWitt's voice, Jill turned away from the forest. She'd taken to scanning it several times a day from the back porch, hoping to spot Kyle. But since his grandfather's visit the week before, there'd been no sign of him. And she was worried.

“Hello, Madeleine.” As always, the gallery owner-artist rep's attire was stylish, with an unmistakable flair that Jill had always admired. Today, her jet-black hair was caught at the nape of her neck with a beaded clasp that Jill was sure reflected the hand of a local jewelry designer. Black slacks and a black turtleneck were offset by a fuchsia-pink blazer, while the hand-painted scarf draped around her neck added an elegant touch.

“Sorry to drop in unannounced, but I brought some cinnamon rolls from Café Olga to make amends.” She lifted a large white bag.

It was the same conversation they always had. Madeleine never called. Not even for her first visit, when she'd followed up on a letter Jill had sent with some photos of her paintings. Madeleine had been interested in displaying them in her gallery in Eastsound, but Jill had declined her invitation to come into town to discuss it. Nor had she invited Madeleine to her home. So the woman had just shown up one day, with apologies—and Olga's cinnamon rolls.

Never once had Jill invited her inside. They'd always chatted on the porch, Jill's hat pulled low. But today she'd been caught
without it. More and more, she was forgetting to wear it around the house. Suddenly self-conscious, her hand fluttered to her cheek and she angled her body away from the woman.

When Jill didn't respond, Madeleine lowered the bag to her side. “Are you working on anything interesting?” Her tone remained bright and friendly.

Jill risked a glance at her. The woman wasn't paying a bit of attention to her scars. In fact, now that she thought about it, other than a brief flicker of surprise when they'd met, Madeleine had never given any indication that she noticed them. Her reaction had been much like Keith's. And Cindy's.

Perhaps Deb had been right, Jill conceded. Maybe some people could get past her disfigurement and treat her as a normal person if she gave them a chance instead of shutting them out by retreating behind a wall of aloofness.

For years, she'd told herself she'd withdrawn from the world because she was weary of being treated differently. But all at once, with jarring insight, she realized that wasn't her only motivation. Or even the main one. In truth, it was just safer when people felt ill at ease around her. Their discomfort ensured that she never had to talk to them long enough to reveal anything about her past. That, in turn, allowed her to keep all her grief and traumatic memories buried deep in her subconscious, surrounded by thick, impenetrable walls.

In other words, for the price of isolation, she got insulation.

It seemed Deb wasn't the only one whose insight was sound, she acknowledged, as a second truth hit home. Keith's comment over pizza that day had been on the mark, too. She
had
been hiding.

But now that she'd shared some of her memories with him—and survived—they seemed to have lost their power to trigger
the wrenching anguish that had once twisted her stomach into knots. Armed with that knowledge, she had the courage to risk breaking down the protective walls a little further.

“Yes, I've got a few new pieces in the works,” Jill responded. “Would you like to come up and see them?”

Surprise flashed across Madeleine's face, followed by a warm smile. “I'd love to.”

As they passed through the kitchen, Madeleine deposited the white bag on the counter.

“Maybe we could…if you have time…it might be nice to have a cup of coffee and sample those before you leave,” Jill offered in a halting voice.

Madeleine's smile widened. “Now that's an offer I can't refuse. It's impossible to say no to Olga's cinnamon rolls.”

A few minutes later, after Madeleine had silently perused Jill's in-progress works wearing her serious “art expert” expression, she turned to her client. As always, Jill's nerves kicked in as she waited for the woman's evaluation. She'd come to respect Madeleine's judgment, and she knew the gallery owner would be honest and fair in her assessment.

“I have only one word for these new pieces…wow!” Crinkles appeared at the corners of Madeleine's eyes as she smiled.

Relaxing, Jill smiled back. “Thanks.”

“Your seascapes and landscapes are always great, Jill.” Madeleine turned back to examine again the three works in progress. “But I'm glad you're starting to include people in your paintings. I love this one of the little boy looking straight at us, half in and half out of the shadows. It's evocative, and it raises questions—as all great portraits should. And this one…” She gestured toward a canvas showing two young boys intent on their task of feeding a baby bird. “This one
speaks of friendship and childhood innocence and nurturing. I love it. And even this landscape…it would work without the man in the far distance, looking toward the heavens. But the inclusion of that figure gives it humanity. And hope, somehow. This is stellar work.”

Flushed with pleasure, Jill smiled. She'd thought the pieces were good, too. But it was nice to hear her own assessment confirmed by an expert. “Thank you.”

“I'm just being honest. Now how about that coffee?”

Ten minutes later, after both were seated at the kitchen table—which, it seemed, was fast becoming a gathering place—Madeleine took a bite of her cinnamon roll and closed her eyes. “Ah. Fabulous.”

“I agree,” Jill seconded.

When she finished chewing, Madeleine leaned forward and rested her elbows on the table, tapping one perfectly manicured nail—in the exact shade of pink as her blazer—against the mug she held in her hands. “I have some good news. A rep from a very prestigious gallery in Seattle stopped by a few weeks ago. He was quite taken with your work and bought a couple of pieces. Both have been sold, and he's interested in more. Not only that, he'd like to host a show of your work at his gallery in December. And he'd like you to attend the opening.”

Up until the last sentence, Jill had been excited. But a public appearance? No way. She opened her mouth to decline, but Madeleine spoke first.

“I know you don't get out a lot, Jill. In fact, I almost didn't bring it up. But when you asked me in today…I don't know, I had a feeling things might have changed. In any case, please
think about it, at least. It would be great promotion and a real boost for your career.”

Torn, Jill stared at the woman. She hadn't gone into painting to become famous. The insurance settlement had been substantial, and it was invested wisely, ensuring her a good living for a very long time. Still, it would be nice to have her work receive some recognition. For self-satisfaction, if nothing else. But appearing in public, being the center of attention at a gallery opening…it was too much of a stretch. She hadn't even ventured off the island in two years.

“I appreciate the opportunity, Madeleine. And your support. But I don't think…”

The sound of footsteps on the wooden back porch interrupted them, and Jill turned to find Keith framed in the doorway.

“Oh. Sorry. I didn't realize you had company.”

He started to turn away, but Jill rose. “It's okay. Come on in. I'd like you to meet Madeleine.”

The other woman also rose, extending her hand as Keith stepped inside and Jill made the introductions.

“So you're the man who's building that great studio,” Madeleine commented.

“Guilty.”

Tilting her head, she studied him. “I've been around here long enough to know most of the faces, and I don't recognize yours. You must be new to the island.”

“Yes. I came in July. Jill took me in during the storm, when there wasn't a room to be had over the holiday weekend, and I ended up staying to build the studio.”

“You're staying here?” Madeleine's eyebrows rose, and she shot Jill a speculative look.

“In the cabin,” Jill interjected quickly as her neck grew warm.

“Of course. Well, Keith, I want you to know you're supporting the work of a very talented artist. Who would be on her way to fame if she'd accept an offer from a gallery in Seattle for a show. But I'm not having any luck convincing her.”

It was as if Madeleine had sensed an ally in Keith, Jill thought, giving her a shrewd glance. But the other woman's expression remained innocent.

“A gallery in Seattle wants to feature your work?” Now it was Keith's turn to look at her. There was no wondering about
his
expression. It was genuine pleasure. “That's great! How come you don't want to do it?”

“They want me to come to the opening.”

“Okay.” For an instant he seemed puzzled. As if he'd forgotten about the way she looked and couldn't figure out why a personal appearance was a stumbling block. Then comprehension dawned. “Oh.”

Reaching for her purse, Madeleine took that as her cue to exit. “See what you can do to convince her, Keith. We have a star in the making here. Jill, I'll be in touch. Let me know when those paintings you're working on are finished and I'll swing by and pick them up. Or you could deliver them to the gallery and we'll go to lunch.” Without waiting for a reply, she waved and pushed through the screen door.