Whispers of the Heart (4 page)

“I don't think I'll go today. Perhaps I can get a store to deliver one.”

“If you wish, I can get Sam and Josh to pick up one for you and deliver it right to your door. They're coming this way one day next week.”

“Oh. Why, that would…that would be very help
ful, thank you. Yes, please. I'll certainly pay them for their time.”

“Let's worry about that later, shall we? Sam and Josh are good buddies.”

“Daddy, can I get a drink of water?”

Brent and Autumn glanced at the child at the same time. His mouth smeared with chocolate, he looked like a clown.

“Whoa, there, Timmy pal,” Brent said, laughing. “You need a wash along with that drink.”

Autumn felt her own mouth tug into a smile. “Now you need the tissues,” she said, offering one from her pocket. “I'll bet your mom would scold us both.”

“My mom can't scold me. She's in heaven,” Timmy said very casually as he accepted the tissue, swiping at his mouth and upper lip. Smears of chocolate remained on his cheek, on his chin, on his fingers.

Autumn examined the little boy's face, then Brent's. The child couldn't have known his mother very well. His eyes carried no sorrow, only knowledge of a fact. But Brent's swift gaze told her he still felt a stab of grief.

“I didn't know that,” she offered slowly. “I'm sorry.”

Brent nodded his acknowledgment of her murmur, then changed the subject.

“That tissue is never going be enough for the job,” he said with a chuckle. He bent to sweep the boy up to sit on his shoulders, the action making Timmy squeal with delight. “He needs a real wash. But thanks for the try. Guess I'd better take this little
guy in and clean him up. I'll call you when I find out what Sam and Josh's schedule will be.”

“Fine. Bye, Timmy. Nice to meet you.”

“Uh-huh. See you around, Miss Barbour.”

“You can call me Autumn.” She smiled at the boy.

“Okay. See you around.”

Thirty minutes later, Autumn put her favorite music CD on, and a new sheet of paper on her work board and began a sketch. Under her quick hand, a small child evolved, a donut in his hand. Large eyes took the shape of the father's, and an impish tilt to his mouth indicated he was about to break out into laughter.

Autumn had painted children only a few times, but she felt pleased at how this one came to life under her hand. The childish glee it brought to mind made her want to laugh along with him.

After a long while, she stretched and put aside her materials. From the apartment below, she heard a muffled door slam. She glanced at the clock. Almost noon.

Spring hadn't called yet this morning, and Autumn's loneliness crept up unexpectedly, powerful and yearning. She punched in Spring's temporary number, eager to hear her sister's voice, but she heard only an answering machine. She left a brief message.

From her south window, slightly opened to catch the air, strains of country music drifted up from the market square. She didn't need to see any of it to imagine the crush.

Even the imagining caused her a queasy stomach.

Quickly, she banished the thought from her mind. She put an exercise disk into her player, and followed the instructions with vigor.

Later, she showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, wondering what her sister might be doing on this long Saturday afternoon. Or Kim Smithers, a friend from school that she and Spring had occasion to see. But Kim was married; she and Daniel were never home on Saturdays.

What were Brent Hyatt and young Timothy doing this afternoon?

This would never do, she told herself. She had things of her own to take care of. Like call Curtis Jennings, down at the gallery. Her first art teacher, Curtis frequently framed some of her work, and he had two of her paintings on display now. Perhaps he was ready for another one or two.

She punched his number and he answered on the third ring. “Mirror Image.”

“Hi, Curtis, it's Autumn. Are you swamped with customer overflow from the festival?”

“Well, Autumn, how ya doin'? Wondered when you'd get around to calling after your move. Yeah, the flower people brought in a few customers. No serious buyers, though. We'll do better next month when we showcase the fine artists. Want to come down and make yourself useful? Don't have anybody in the store right now.”

“Actually…”

His voice grew quieter at her hesitation. “Most of the crowd will have cleared out by four, Autumn. You wouldn't run into enough humanity to scare a
rabbit. C'mon, from your new place, it'll take you all of five minutes.”

“All right. Around four. I do have a couple of things I want framed.”

“C
an't make it, Laureen,” Brent said into the phone the following Wednesday. “Have a lunch date tomorrow with a client. It'll take up most of the afternoon.”

“Oh, very well,” Laureen murmured. Yet she wasn't any too happy about his putting her off again.

Laureen had been a friend of Felice's and, though he appreciated her help after his wife's death, Laureen had grown far too possessive over the past six months. He had no intention of taking the friendship into anything closer. Lately, he'd taken steps to loosen her clutch. He'd dodged dates with her for weeks.

“Well, at least call the Saxons, will you? They're new to the Midwest and looking for an architect-builder to build a new house out in Johnson County. I told them you're the best.”

“Laureen, you know I'd gladly let John handle
them,” he mentioned the top designer on his team, “but I'm personally tied up for a couple of months.”

“They don't want John, Brent. They want you.”

“But my specialty isn't in personal residences, anymore, Laureen. I've—”

“These people have money, Brent, and they can work in your favor when you want backing for some of your projects.”

“Not the kind of projects I want to do out in Johnson County,” he muttered. But he let Laureen run on with her list of why he should take on the new clients she'd found for him. The fact of his work overload mattered little to Laureen. Her philosophy was to take care of the influential and wealthy first; everyone else could be relegated to a back burner. Or someone of lesser importance.

“Do me this favor, Brent,” she begged, using her cajoling tone, low and breathy. “I'll see to it you won't lose anything.”

Well, he supposed John could take on another appointment or two for the firm while he met with the Saxons. The extra money he'd make if he took this on would cover some of the expenses for the old church they were refitting. He did need to find an office assistant without delay, though. Work had taken an upswing.

“All right.” He moved things around on his desk, restacking papers with notes of things he'd rather be doing. “But not tomorrow. It'll have to be on Friday.”

Brent hung up the phone after setting a time with Laureen, and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms high above his head. He'd worked late for the
first time in weeks—since his offices had moved to the new location, in fact—trying to wrap up several loose ends. Now hunger gnawed at his middle.

He rose and moved to stand at the front window. Dusk lay the shadows deep over the quiet street. Without the bustling business day, it seemed almost deserted, and he wondered about the fabled residents. Did Autumn really have neighbors at night or was she alone in that building? Alone on the street at night. He hadn't thought about it too closely before now.

Even as he wondered, a light switched on in her building. Third floor. The working couple of whom the Realtor had boasted, he assumed.

He let out a deep breath, not realizing he'd held it. He didn't like the idea of Autumn living so much alone. She seemed altogether too vulnerable for his peace of mind.

Wondering where those protective feelings came from, he tipped his head up toward the top floor. Lights streamed from her apartment. She was there—home.

He picked up his phone and punched her number. She answered on the second ring, a quick, almost breathless, “Hello…”

“Hi, Autumn, it's Brent. Am I disturbing you?”

“Uh, oh, hello, Brent. No, I…I was expecting my sister to call.”

“Should I call back, then?”

“No. It isn't important. We'll talk later.”

“Well, then, have you had supper yet?”

“No. Well, I had…yes, I've eaten.”

Had she? He wondered if she'd really eaten a meal
or merely nibbled at something. People living alone tended to skimp on meals or made do with very little.

He knew that for a fact. After his wife died, during those first awful months, he'd let himself dwindle down two sizes. He'd made sure his son was fed, but he'd barely cooked anything for himself.

“I haven't and I'm starved. Come out and have a bite with me. I've worked until just this minute and—” he glanced at his watch “—no wonder I'm hungry. It's way after seven and I'm a guy used to eating early.”

“I don't think—”

“Aw, c'mon, Autumn, take pity on a starving man. I hate eating alone.”

“Where's Timmy? Don't you have to go home to your little boy?”

“He's with my mom for the night. They have something cooked up together about making mobiles for Children's Mercy Hospital next week.” He changed his tone to a persuasive one. “Just dinner, Autumn. There's an Italian place a couple of blocks from here that's not crowded in the middle of the week. I'll bring you right home.”

Her hesitation seemed like a stone wall. He was gearing himself up for a last firm refusal when she asked almost timidly, “Not crowded, huh. Would you mind making a stop for me while we're out?”

“Sure, we can do that.”

“All right,” she capitulated. “If you don't mind. I'll meet you downstairs in…fifteen minutes?”

He waited in front of her door, leaning on the passenger side of his car. She smiled at him, a tentative offering, but she didn't glance away. He felt hopeful.

“If you don't mind, can we stop at Mirror Images first?” She held forth a large, maroon portfolio case. “I have to drop off a couple of additional paintings for framing. It won't take long.”

“Sure, let's go.” He held the car door wide for her, then put her case in the trunk and started the motor.

“Where, exactly?” he asked.

She directed him down the hill, and he pulled up in front of the small gallery wedged between an empty corner store and one featuring used clothing. Only a night-light appeared to illuminate the first floor.

“It appears to be closed,” he commented. “Does the gallery usually stay open late?”

“Only during the summer hours, really, but Curtis uses the upstairs for his workroom and classes. He's often there late. Besides, tonight he's expecting me. Want to come in?”

“Sure. I'll get your case.”

Autumn slid from the car and, as he opened the trunk, went to ring the bell. When she retraced her steps to reach for her case, he said, “I'll get it.”

She hadn't made up her mind whether to argue with him or not, he noted. While dark eyelashes gave a hint of fluttering uncertainty, she paused a second too long over her decision. He didn't wait. He swung the case from the trunk, snapping the lid closed, hiding his own smile. It wasn't the first time he'd realized her shyness. She hadn't yet acquired the modern woman's assertiveness.

Above them, a slight, graying man raised the window and called down to them to wait where they
were. A moment later, he let them into the gallery. Autumn introduced the two men.

“Brent Hyatt. Don't I know you?” Curtis's inquisitive gaze was friendly as he turned on some lights and led the way up the back stairs. “You're on the mayor's committee, working toward urban renewal, aren't you?”

“Yeah, that's me,” Brent answered. “Are you interested in the revitalization going on down here?”

“You know it. Wouldn't be down here if I didn't believe in it. I'd have a pricy place down on the Plaza or out in Johnson County,” Curtis said empathically. He cleared a worktable of oak frame pieces and matting, stacking everything neatly in a box.

“But I wouldn't mind relocating to a larger space in a good renovation if I could afford it.” He glanced up at Brent as he worked. “Anything of a smaller nature going on besides that big project proposal in the papers recently?”

“Yeah, I've heard of a couple buildings with new owners interested in just your kind of gallery.” Brent set the case on the cleared table as he replied, then stepped back to allow Autumn to attend to business. “Lot of work needed, though. Might take some time. I'll put you in touch with them if you'd like.”

“Sounds good to me.” Curtis nodded, then turned to Autumn. “Now Autumn, let's see what you've brought me.”

Autumn stepped forward and unzipped her case. Curtis made humming noises as he looked at the five watercolors she pulled out. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Hmm…”

Brent tried hard not to gawk, but he felt agog to
see her work. He caught a quick glance of bright splashes of color, of dewy petals and quick rushing water in a streambed. The impressionist style shone with spirit and verve, a style much looser than the architectural renderings she'd done for his competitor.

“This one and this one,” Curtis made up his mind quickly. “And let me keep this one, too. We'll frame it to match the one that's up. I have a customer who comes in every week or two who looked at that one. Maybe she'll take a pair.”

Of the three chosen, two were similar, but from different angles, still lifes of a pot of bright-red tulips sharing the space with a fruit basket of ripe strawberries. The third showed an old black upright piano with a bowl of daffodils sitting on one end, music sheets on its rack.

He liked them. Very much, actually. Autumn had real talent.

Further, he thought his mother, Catherine, would like these, and he knew immediately that he'd purchase the piano painting for her birthday next month. The style would appeal to her. But he wouldn't do it now, he'd wait until Curtis had them framed and up. Somehow, he felt Autumn might find it embarrassing.

It was well after eight by the time they arrived at the restaurant. The big room held only two other tables of diners, and Autumn, after a hesitant glance around, relaxed considerably. The waiter greeted him by name, a courtesy not lost on Autumn.

“Hi, Frank,” he returned, easily recalling the man's name. Remembering people's names and
knowing their occupation was a talent of his. He liked knowing people, liked knowing about their families and where their interests and concerns lay. Meeting new groups of people never bothered him. He belonged to a couple of circles active in civic affairs. He'd even had his picture in the newspaper on occasion, once or twice with the current mayor. He didn't mind admitting to ambitions to serve the city, but he didn't know about higher political aims, as Laureen sometimes suggested.

He ordered quickly and waited patiently while Autumn made her choice more slowly, taking the opportunity to study her features. She had a tender, wide mouth in an oval face enhanced by shiny dark hair. Her lashes lay against her cheek like feathery swatches as she read the menu.

Later, they lingered over their pasta. She seemed content to let him lead the conversation. He did so with a relaxed approach, touching only on general subjects such as the neighborhood, its history, and the spring weather.

Instinctively, he chose not to push Autumn into confidences she wasn't ready to give, so he shied away from asking about her dating life. Though he wanted to know. For now, he felt he'd gained a giant leap in meeting Curtis Jennings; he'd detected mere friendship between them, though a long-standing one.

Instead, he let her know a little about himself and Timmy.

“Timmy and I moved into a house in midtown last year. We had a lot of fun doing it over, with
Grandma's help, of course. She helped him pick his favorite colors and wallpaper and such.”

“You must feel very lucky to have an active grandparent to help out with Timmy,” she murmured.

“Yes, we're very blessed. Timmy never knew his mother, really. He was only six months old when she died in a car accident.”

“Oh, how sad,” she said, her gaze direct and compassionate. “Spring and I lost our parents at a young age, too, only a little older than Tim is now. We were raised by an uncle. Now he's gone, as well. Does Timmy ask about her much?”

“Not often. He spends a lot of time with his grandmother, you see, which seems to fill the gaps for him. And I haven't rushed him into a nursery school, preferring to hire a sitter this past year when I've needed one. But Mrs. Myers, the sitter, is moving away next month, so we'll lose her. Anyway, Tim is enrolled next year at a Christian school in a prekindergarten class for four-year-olds. They keep the class size small.”

“Do you think he'll like it?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. He goes to Bible class on Sunday mornings now and loves it.”

They left the restaurant, and he drove her back to her building through nearly deserted streets. A frown caught him. He really did believe in the renewal projects and knew that it took almost a pioneer spirit to bring prosperity and life back to these sections of the city, but it concerned him a little to leave Autumn there. He insisted on seeing her to her door.

“That really isn't necessary,” she murmured,
flashing him a questioning glance. “Tomorrow's a working day.”

“Just call me old-fashioned,” he joked. “I should've been raised in the fifties, according to my mom. I'll merely see you to your door. I won't ask to come in.”

She nodded, and stepped into the elevator. They remained quiet on the way up.

“D'you ever work in oils?” he asked as they stepped off.

“Sometimes.” Her key was out and poised. “And acrylics. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just a thought.” He let her open her door; the kitchen light had been left on so she could clearly see into the apartment. He glanced past her shoulder. Everything appeared in order.

“Good night, Autumn. See you around.”

“Thanks for dinner,” she murmured. “I appreciate your asking me. I needed the outing.”

Although he'd promised he wouldn't ask to come in, he realized he wanted to. He wanted to sit and talk with her longer. He wanted to touch her, only just to place his palm against her cheek, to feel its warmth.

But he supposed he'd count himself lucky to have had her company at dinner.