Waters Fall (11 page)

“I'm good, Jake.” She didn't expound.

“Okay. Um, do you want me to pick up the kids while I'm out?”

“Nope.
I'll get them.” She was getting impatient.

“Are you sure? I can plan picking them up around the grocery store, and you can get some more time in at the office. You were saying you needed more time last night.”

“Jake, you're not driving the kids around. Is that all you need?”

Now he was miffed; she could hear it in his voice.
“Yep. That's all I need.” He spoke in a clipped tone. “I'll let you get back to whatever it is you're doing that's so important. See ya.” He hung up without waiting for her to answer. Nora stared at the flashing screen on her phone, rolled her eyes, and dropped it back into her purse
.

1
3

N
ora slid out of her seat, stretched a little in the
open door of her car, then headed inside Paradise Lost. The name sounded more like a cheesy lounge than an art gallery to her, but somehow it worked. Once again, she was swept away by the intensity of the artwork around her, but her eyes instantly scanned the room for
Isolde
. Things had been moved around, but she still easily recognized Tristan’s work.

Isolde
, however, was nowhere to be seen.

“Welcome. Let me know if you need any help, okay?” It was Janelle, the same woman manning the desk the last time.
“Oh, hello! You were here several weeks ago! Welcome back, then.” Nora caught a hint of a slight Scottish accent, something she'd not noticed before.

“You remember me?” She was a little surprised the woman recognized her. They’d barely spoken; she’d spent most of her time wandering the gallery with Tristan, and she hadn’t even said goodbye when they left for Tristan’s studio.

“I try to remember everyone who comes in here.” Janelle smiled warmly, her eyes studying Nora in a way that made her feel like she was being measured. “Usually once you've been, you keep coming back, and I want to make sure you feel welcome. Remembering faces really helps. Names, now, that's a bit of a different story.”

The curator waved a clutch of receipts in her direction.
“But yours, I remember. Nora, right? Tristan asks about you all the time, wondering if you’ve been back in. He’ll be thrilled to find you here today.” She said it so matter-of-factly that Nora couldn’t tell if she was teasing her or not. But she was secretly flattered to hear that he’d asked about her.

“Oh. Well, yes, I’m Nora. And I’m still surprised you remembered.” She reached into her purse to for the card she’d received from
Suzi, prepared to ask Janelle about them. She hesitated when she saw the way she was still being studied, as though Janelle was trying to find some answers. Then she spoke, slowly at first, carefully choosing her words.

“Well, I’m not surprised to see you again, but I must admit, I did think it would be sooner than this. He’s quite a charmer, our Tristan, isn’t he?”

“Um. Yes. Charming.” She was beginning to be embarrassed in a way that wasn’t quite so flattering. “That he is. But I didn’t really come to see him.” Now she just sounded silly, but at least she had evidence. She handed the beautiful card to Janelle, who took it, glanced at it quickly, and looked at her with questions in her eyes. “Did this come from your gallery? I thought I recognized the artwork.”

“I’m fairly certain it did. We periodically put out card sets, especially around gift holidays like Christmas, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s and Father’s Days, you see? If you look around, you’ll notice our Christmas sets are on display, featuring all new artwork. They’re dispersed around the gallery, near the corresponding pieces. They are lovely, aren’t they?” Janelle went on for a few more minutes about how the cards are one of many methods they use to boost sales for the artists. “We also encourage them to change their pieces around on a regular basis to keep clients’ interest. That means the artists must stay fairly prolific, or at least have an ample supply of their work already on hand, if they are to have a place in the showroom here. In fact, I’m expecting Tristan in
some time this afternoon with more of his work. If you hadn’t noticed, his area is a wee bit sparse. He’s sold a few pieces recently, and it’s long past time for him to restock.” She swept a hand in the general direction of his work and Nora looked again, hoping to see the swaying curves of his
Isolde,
perhaps hiding in a corner or some other unassuming spot.

“I’m sorry. I’m just babbling on and on, aren’t I? Is there anything specific I can help you with, or are you just here to wander a bit?”

“Well, the card, of course, and actually, you may have already answered my other question.” There was a hollow place forming in the pit of her belly at the thought of
Isolde
being sold to some stranger, and she was almost afraid to ask. “Did he sell the statue of the girl,
Isolde
?”

“You liked that
one, did you, now?” Janelle’s voice softened, making her accent more noticeable. “She was a beauty, wasn’t she? No, she didn’t sell, at least not that I know. Tristan took her back to his studio to work on her a bit, or so he told me. He sometimes does that. I’ve come to accept the frustrating fact that artists are never satisfied with their finished products.” She smiled brightly. “You might find something else of his you like, though. I know he has several smaller pieces that are similar in style and form. You look around and let me know if you need anything, all right?” The curator tapped the image on the card, then handed it back to Nora. “If you’re interested in this artist, Rhonaad’s work, you’ll find more of his pieces upstairs.”

“Thank you, Janelle.” She tucked the card from
Suzi back inside its envelope, and slipped it in the side pocket of her purse as she made her way slowly around the gallery, taking in all the new artwork. Just relocating the artists to different parts of the showroom, and shuffling their pieces around, seemed to change the whole atmosphere of the gallery, and she almost felt like she was seeing it for the first time. She finally made her way to Tristan’s work and lingered a little longer, seeing a few things she remembered, and many she thought were new since she’d been in. His style was quite recognizable to her, almost as though having been inside his studio had given her an inside connection to him. She shivered a little at the intimacy of the notion.

She headed upstairs, but this time, instead of perusing everything again, she went straight to his corner. He had several new pieces on display, but she was especially intrigued by a series called
Drowning
. There were five large canvases on one wall, and she stood before them in rapt appreciation. The movement and the colors, each one was so unique that they could be sold separately, and the individual owners would be fully satisfied. Yet displayed together, the effect was incredibly powerful, and it seemed almost criminal to even consider separating them. The constant theme was water, flowing, rushing, falling water, and Nora believed if she touched one of the paintings, her fingers would come away wet.

She stood there for several minutes before pulling away to look at some of his other pieces. On another wall were several of his darker, disturbing paintings, and this time, since no one was with her, she reached out to touch one with shards of glass protruding from a man
’s open mouth. The way he utilized trash still intrigued her, and when she noted the price tag on this horrible piece, she realized that his work must intrigue others, too; others with far more money than she had.

“Yikes,” she muttered to herself, withdrawing her hand, suddenly afraid to even stand too closely, lest her very presence send something tumbling to the floor. She meandered from painting to painting, taking her time at each one, imagining Tristan wielding his brushes and palette knives, and odd pieces of trash.

Nora came up short in front of one of the smaller framed canvases in the room, her sharp gasp at a discord with the soft ambient music. She brought a hand up to her mouth, a mixture of dismay and pleasure coursing through her.

The painting was perched on a tall pedestal, set in a way
that forced the viewer to come closer to look fully on it. Although the woman in the painting was turned away from the artist, everything about her sparked recognition in Nora. The dress was a replica of the one she wore the day she met Tristan. The way her hair fell long and loose down her back, even down to the over-full curve of her hips she made a point to look at in her mirror every morning; it was all her. What was so lovely about the painting was the way Tristan had blurred all the lines of her body, as though not quite sure he could keep her captive in a painting. Her skirt, all shades of blues and greens, swept out into the same hues in the background, tendrils of long hair wisped away into nothing, and her profile, soft and subtle, looked almost smudged, like the memory of her features was beginning to fade from the artist’s mind. But there was no doubt, even without looking at the name on the placard, that this was a painting of her.

“Oh my.”
She spoke in a hushed murmur behind her fingers.

“Did you find yourself?” Tristan’s voice, soft from behind her, startled her, but she didn’t turn around. She couldn’t, not yet. How on earth was she supposed to react in front of him? She’d wondered if he’d thought of her at all since they’d met, but this was far more than fleeting thoughts.

“You said you were a little lost that day, remember?”

She had to move. She had to speak, to break the spell he was casting. His words, uttered in a low rumble, seemed to reach out and wrap themselves around her.

“I had to capture something of you before I lost you altogether.”

“It’s beautiful,” she said simply, dropping her hand and glancing over her shoulder at him. Her gaze landed in the middle of his chest covered in gray cable knit, then traveled up, up, up to his chin, his mouth, his eyes…. But he was studying the painting, not her, and she s
wallowed the lump in her throat so she could speak. “I’m amazed. And flattered.”

She eyed the painting again, a little askance, embarrassed to seem too intrigued with the image of herself.
“That’s actually how I felt that day; blurry around the edges. A strong breeze probably could have swept me away. You captured me, I must admit.”

“Did I?” He turned to face her now. “Is that why you came back?”

She knew what he was asking, but she faked ignorance. “Actually, I wanted to see your
Isolde,
but she’s gone.” She glanced around the room as though searching for signs of the missing girl. “When Janelle told me you’d sold some of your pieces, I was very sad to think she was one of them. I pictured her stuck in the middle of the foyer of some austere, cold mansion, and it broke my heart.”

“Well, then you’ll be relieved to know she’s stuck in the middle of my studio awaiting a change of clothes. And I’m glad to be the one to mend your broken heart.” He smiled at her in a way that made it hard to breathe. She looked away; no, it wasn’t the smile. He was taking up all the air just by standing so close to her. “You can come visit my
Isolde
any time you like. You still have my number, don’t you?”

She ignored the invitation.
“Janelle told me you were working on her. But what do you mean, she’s getting a change of clothes? Can you do that? Should you do that? I thought her tattered gown was beautiful.” She stopped abruptly and clamped her lips shut, crossing her arms loosely in front or her.

“What? What’s the matter?” He reached out, but didn’t quite touch her. She saw his eyes dart to the ring on her left hand where it rested on her right bicep. Her fingers curled into a fist of their accord.

“You can stop me at any time, Tristan. I’m sorry. You’re the artist. Who am I to tell you what you can, and can’t, or should, and shouldn’t do to your own creations? I’m sorry.” She shook her head at her own presumptuousness. 

“No, don’t be sorry. It’s good for me to get feedback, especially when I’m considering altering a piece I thought was finished. Just because no one is interested in it, doesn’t necessarily mean there’s something wrong with it, right? I
value your opinion. I appreciate your honesty.” He paused momentarily for effect. “I appreciate you.” He ran his fingers along the frame of the painting, slowly, gently, and Nora felt a small tremor race up her spine. She could almost feel his hand following the curve of her back, touching her skin the way he touched the artwork. She took a small step away from him.

“Why didn’t you call me?” He spoke without looking at her, but she could tell it wasn’t because he was insecure. In fact, Nora was pretty sure he was teasing her, challenging her, as though he knew full well how often she’d considered doing just that. She didn’t reply.

“I’ve thought about you every day since we met, Nora. Have you thought about me at all?”

Nora still didn
’t answer. How could she? How could she tell him not a day had gone by when she didn’t catch herself daydreaming, replaying that one short afternoon over and over in her imagination. How could she tell him that she wished everything was different, that she wanted nothing more than to relive that afternoon with him, only this time without the awkward goodbye.

Finally, her voice a little shaky, she answered him.
“Yes, I have. I shouldn’t think about you, but I do.” She turned to walk away, the admission causing her to flush with shame. She only made it as far as the series of water paintings on the large wall.

Tristan followed her and stopped right behind her; she
was certain she could feel the heat of his body against her back, and she took a step forward. His voice caressed her neck, her ears, making her cheeks warm.

“Drowning,” he murmured. “Do you remember? When you stood there with that look on your face, that look that made me want to… to… capture you, you said
Isolde
was drowning. The way the word flowed out of you made me feel like these paintings.” His voice dropped even lower, his words like cool water over her flushed skin. “But like I was the one drowning.”