September Canvas (5 page)

Deanna glowered back at her for several seconds, and then her mouth curved up and she snorted. “Your ass?” She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table. “Really?” Faythe drew a deep breath, then burst out giggling. “Really. And honestly, Deanna, I have no idea about my ability as a reporter, I mean a real, honest-to-God investigative reporter. I haven’t worked as one for ten years. I’ve been doing morning entertainment.”

“You sound like you resent it.”

“I’m fed up. I meet a lot of celebrities, and some people claim I’m something of a celebrity myself, which I couldn’t care less about. The woman in the grocery store recognized me on the spot, and that’s why I figured you did too, but were too polite to say so.”

“I didn’t. I still can’t piece your name together with anything I may have caught on TV when I’ve visited my sister. So far, I draw a blank.”

“Good.” Faythe meant it. She liked the fact that Deanna had no preconceived ideas about her. “Does your sister live around here?”

“Yes.” Deanna spoke casually. “She goes to a boarding school just outside town.”

“Great that you can be near her.” Deanna’s tone spiked Faythe’s curiosity but she didn’t pursue the subject. It really wasn’t her business where Deanna’s sister got her education.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. “I apologize for coming on so strong about the whole reporter thing,” Deanna said suddenly.

“A sore toe?”

“Very.”

“Gotcha.” Faythe looked out the window but saw only Deanna’s and her own reflection. “Want some coffee?”

“No. I should get back. It was a lovely meal, but I have a deadline two days from today, and I need to get some things done.” Deanna rose and took her plate and utensils into the kitchen. “Oh, that’s right. Here. It’s just a small thank-you for dinner.” She handed Faythe the envelope she’d brought.

“For me?” Giddy, on top of all her other turbulent feelings, Faythe opened the envelope and pulled out a pencil drawing of a woman jogging between some trees. She stared at the familiar haphazard ponytail and the equally familiar leggings and sweatshirt. “It’s me.” She knew very little about art, but knew enough to see beyond the mere likeness. This was an artist’s rendition of her as she flew across roots and rocks on the forest path. Deanna had given her more than a fleeting glance, since the details were so accurate.
Even the way I tied my shoes!

“Thank you,” Faythe said quietly, looking up at Deanna. “I’m so flattered. Nobody has ever portrayed me like this. Just me running.” Feeling a little foolish, Faythe blinked to relieve the burning sensation behind her eyelids. This drawing was miles away from the glossy pictures in the tabloid magazines.

“Glad you like it.” Deanna studied her shoes briefly. “Well, I should go.”

Faythe rose on her toes and kissed Deanna’s cheek. “Thank you.”

“Oh.” Deanna gasped. “You’re welcome.” She lifted her hand halfway to her cheek, then murmured a barely audible good night before she stepped out into the darkness. Faythe stood in the doorway and watched the tiny light from Deanna’s flashlight disappear among the trees. She was bone tired after the eventful day and decided to take care of the dishes tomorrow morning. Tonight, she wanted to curl up in bed and think about the extraordinary woman who was her neighbor for the autumn.

Deanna stood on her deck and looked out across the calm lake. The moon’s reflection glittered in the water, and only a jumping fish disturbed the surface occasionally. Sipping another black coffee, Deanna didn’t care that it would keep her up all night. She was glad it would, since she had to work. She ignored the small voice that suggested she was afraid she would have heated dreams about Faythe.

As beautiful as her new neighbor was, the way she looked at Deanna was more appealing than her brilliant green eyes. Faythe seemed keenly interested in other people, but an opaque glossiness covered her real self.

Deanna had tried to peel this perceived layer off when she did the drawings of Faythe, working with a frenzy throughout the afternoon that surprised her. She even brought out her oils, which she hadn’t used since she did a painting of Miranda two years ago. She simply didn’t have enough time since one assignment followed right after another.

Deanna was grateful to have work. Many struggling artists had to find one or two other jobs to keep afloat financially. The fact that she lived in an inexpensive cabin and didn’t have any costly passions, except reading, made it possible to buy her materials and set aside money in a trust fund for Miranda.

Their mother, Angela, and her husband paid for Miranda’s school, but Deanna planned for the day when Miranda would be old enough to graduate. “Graduate. Huh.” Deanna took a large gulp of coffee.

“Calling it graduation doesn’t mean a thing.” Deanna had cried furious tears the day her mother and stepfather decided to send Miranda to a facility, which they glamorized by calling it a school. Their motive was obvious. Get rid of the autistic kid; make room for the new husband’s spoiled little preteen brats. “Damn them. They don’t know her anymore. Not like I do.” Their mother lived two hours from Grantville in the house where Deanna grew up. Percy, her husband, bought half of it when they sent Miranda off to school and Deanna moved out. Receiving a quarter of the value of the house, Deanna used the money to buy the lakeside cabin and put the rest in Miranda’s trust fund. She didn’t want anything else to do with her mother or Percy, and certainly nothing to do with what she regarded as their blood money.

Deanna placed the empty mug on the rustic wooden table on the porch and slid her hands up inside the sleeves of her sweater. The autumn days were still warm, but the nights were getting colder. Above her the trees swooshed and whispered as the wind played with the fire-colored leaves. Deanna didn’t know of any place where autumn could possibly be more beautiful.

She bent her head and found that the solid beating of her heart blended seamlessly with the cadence of branches clattering against each other. “Being one with nature” was a cliché she normally wouldn’t think to utter, but as she stood on the deck, feeling raw and strangely emotional from her dinner with Faythe, she knew it was a cliché for a reason. “This is insane,” she murmured to herself. She remained where she was for a few moments longer, then grabbed her mug and walked back inside. She had work to do.

* * *

“But darling, you can’t possibly mean that!” Faythe’s mother’s voice pierced the cell-phone towers from Manhattan to Vermont with surgical precision. “Why wouldn’t you have us out to the cabin?”

“Because I’m on vacation. I don’t want to see anyone.” Examining herself in the bathroom mirror, Faythe knew if she said that she
especially
didn’t want to meet her mother and Chester, all hell would break loose, but it was true. She had nothing against Chester, and on good days she could ignore her mother’s nagging, but right now, she couldn’t muster the energy to listen to Cornelia’s endless monologues about her own love issues.

“You can’t isolate yourself like this.” Cornelia Hamilton made her signature huff-turned-growl, which signaled that she was highly unsatisfied and wanted the world to know. “You know I love you, Faythe, but I would never have thought you’d be so stubborn. It’s one thing that you decide to put your career on hold, which no one does in the media business, especially at your age. You also isolate yourself from the people who love you.”

“People? You’re talking about you and Chester?” Faythe rubbed night cream on her face with one hand while pressing her cell to her ear with the other. “Unless he’s changed, he’s not that fond of me. Probably because I refused to let his firm do my personal PR.”

“Which was another mistake on your part.” Cornelia didn’t miss a beat, and Faythe regretted that she’d opened that particular can of worms. “All the Broadway crowd and the soap stars use Chester’s agency.”

“Then he doesn’t need me.”

“It wasn’t a matter of need. He was trying to do you a favor.”

“Favor. Huh.” Faythe got some cream in her left eye and blinked repeatedly. “He wouldn’t have hesitated to use me as a poster child for the ‘all-American girl next door turned overnight star.’ Or did I misunderstand when I overheard him telling his CEO that? He was obviously name-dropping.”

Cornelia was quiet for several seconds. “He said that?”

“Yes.” Lowering her hand, Faythe softened her voice. “I’m sure he meant well, Mom. He probably wanted to impress you too. I simply wasn’t interested in being anyone’s show-and-tell project, you know?”

“I see.” Cornelia’s frosty tone was unmistakable, and Faythe tried to guess if she or Chester would catch her resentment.

“And this is why you don’t want us to come?”

“It’s not that I don’t want you to come. I want to be alone.”

“Just over the day? Please, Faythe?”

Faythe sat down on the stool by the makeup dresser with a thud. A completely new, almost pleading quality in Cornelia’s voice, something Faythe could never remember hearing, made her give in. “All right. Why not? But just for the day, okay, Mom? Bring Chester. Bring the dogs. They’ll have a blast getting away from Manhattan.”

“You sure?” Cornelia sounded strong again, and Faythe wondered if her mother had played her for the umpteenth time. “We won’t overstay our welcome. I just want to visit you.”

“All right. See you in a few weeks.” Suddenly exhausted, Faythe said good-bye and disconnected her cell. She set it to mute, knowing her voice mail would pick up any missed calls. After brushing her teeth she slipped into a large T-shirt before climbing into bed. She tried to not overanalyze her mother’s state of mind, but the more she pushed the conversation out of her mind, the more her dinner with Deanna sneaked back in.

Faythe could easily picture her, so brooding and aloof. With her black bangs framing her stark blue eyes, Deanna’s strong features were enough to make Faythe’s heart thunder. The fact that it clearly wasn’t easy to get under Deanna’s skin—frankly, the woman seemed to have her fair share of
issues
—made her only more interesting. This was surprising, since Faythe’s normal rule was “no complications,” and she’d rather go without than set herself up for hassles and heartache.

Deanne could readily provide both. “Wonder if she even likes me?” Faythe whispered to the bleak moonlight streaming in through the small holes in the blinds. “Probably not. I’m so not her type.” It was only human to speculate if Deanna could possibly be gay, or even bi. Just because she was ruggedly handsome in a sleek, classy way and made Faythe’s thoughts travel down seldom-taken routes didn’t necessarily mean Deanna was sexually interested in her own gender.

Faythe thought back to her last relationship. It had been two years since she dated anyone more than a few weeks, and almost a year since she dated at all.
This can’t be true. Am I turning into a hermit?
Clearly Faythe wanted more than what she’d settled for so far. She wanted a career that fulfilled and challenged her, and she wanted a life outside of her career. A family.

Faythe shrugged at her own wishful thinking. Was it even remotely possible for someone with genes like hers to find love and have kids?

Her parents had blatantly switched partners after their divorce and had even cheated on them in between switches. Granted, her aunt Nellie didn’t act like her brother, but she was a confirmed bachelorette. As far as Faythe knew, Nellie had never entertained the idea of being in a relationship other than close friendship.
So, promiscuous parents and
a perpetually single aunt
. As role models went, Faythe preferred the eccentric Nellie’s example. But she didn’t want that lifestyle either.

Deep in her heart she knew she wanted…someone. Someone special.

A faint sob worked past her vocal cords and broke the silence of the dark bedroom. The long, festering yearning for change, for something more, had never made her become this emotional, and she tried not to read too much into the fact that her bout of vulnerability coincided with her dinner with Deanna.

She refused to cry and buried her face in the soft pillow for a few moments, which helped compose her. Then, utilizing the technique she’d learned years ago while suffering from terrible stage fright, she breathed slowly in and out with measured, even breaths. Eventually she became relaxed enough to begin to fall asleep. This time when images of Deanna surfaced, they only made her smile.

* * *

Deanna closed her tubes of acrylic paint, rinsed the brushes under lukewarm water, and glanced back at the picture she’d worked on until dawn. A fuzzy bunny sat under a mushroom, surrounded by a semicircle of mice and squirrels. This was her third children’s book in a series with this particular writer. With the publication of the second book, Bunny Buttercup had become a bestseller. The readers, which translated into the parents of the kids in the three- to seven-year-old demographic, were practically banging on the publisher’s door for the third book to come out. Deanna had two more major illustrations to finish, and four smaller ones. She was pressed for time, but the thought of bringing that kind of money into Miranda’s trust fund made her stress worthwhile.

Bunny Buttercup was a philanthropic rabbit who hiked through the forest helping any animal in need, often in hilarious ways, but always with heart and passion. Deanna delighted in illustrating the exploits of this furry little superhero. She had read the two first stories to Miranda, who couldn’t get enough of them. She had insistently brought the books to Deanna when she stayed until bedtime while visiting. Clearly Miranda wanted her to read. For her to be this focused was nothing short of a miracle, and in Deanna’s eyes, this was yet another of Bunny Buttercup’s accomplishments.

Bunny Buttercup represented goodness, and for Deanna, illustrating something so innocent, completely without dogma or moralizing sentiment, was very satisfying.

She placed the brushes on a towel to dry and stretched slowly, her neck crackling unpleasantly. Soft purple light crept through the windows and she stumbled into her bathroom. Unforgiving fluorescent light and a large mirror revealed that pulling all-nighters like this was perhaps not so clever. Dark circles and fine lines around her eyes told the tale of sleep deprivation. She rushed through her bathroom routine and fell into bed, exhausted. She couldn’t wait to show Miranda the illustrations of Bunny Buttercup. The expression on her sister’s face when she saw her favorite character was worth any loss of sleep, past or future.