“Which is a few short steps from Parsons. Are you taking the watercolor class?”
There was a beat of silence over the line.
“I prefer to think of it as briefly enjoying a former minor hobby.”
“Also known as your former career, your original true path, that you lived, ate, and slept, and was your heart and soul.”
“Was being the operative word. I’m perfectly happy as I am.”
“Which is why you didn’t throw out the school catalogue.”
“Is there a reason you called?”
“My mother just e-mailed. She’s coming back in two weeks. It would be nice if I told her I’m getting married.”
“You should send a telegram, or a carrier pigeon. Anything but face-to-face.”
“I can’t. You’ll come with me?”
“It’s going into my BlackBerry as we speak.”
They said good-bye and Elizabeth clicked off.
She scanned the crowd, stopping when she saw Ian, surrounded by a gaggle of adoring young women. Their eyes met and he broke away from them, strolling across the street toward her.
“Oh shit,” Elizabeth muttered. He was in faded jeans, beat-up sneakers, and an old shirt covered with multicolored smudges of paint. A shiver of excitement ran through her in spite of the heat.
He stopped in front of her, considering her for a moment with a smile. “Nice to see you again, Lizzie.”
She nodded toward his stained shirt.
“I teach…remember? At Parsons.”
“Yes, of course, you mentioned it.” She glanced around. There was no escape hatch. “I just came for the festival.”
Ian reached out and fingered the dried color on the edge of her shirt, making her flinch. “Did you now?”
She could feel her hair plastering to the back of her neck in wet strands. He appeared relaxed, not at all uncomfortable. Bastard.
“I happen to appreciate art and culture,” she snapped. “Yes, I’m taking a class.”
She watched his eyebrows rise. “I’d like to see your work, Lizzie.” He laid his hand on her wrist, his touch light as a feather. “Shall we have a go? You don’t mind, do you?”
“I do mind. It’s a work in progress,” she said, her voice strong.
He gave a wide smile. “Not afraid of a little constructive criticism, are you?” He took a step closer. “I promise I’ll be very gentle.”
Suddenly lightheaded, Elizabeth sucked in a breath. “Sure. Why not?”
He followed her through the maze of private cubby workspaces, every step eliciting a symphony of creaks and groans from the old wooden floorboards. The smell of plaster, paint, and turpentine assaulted her nose and she shivered as the cold air hit her skin.
“You know your way around,” he said. “Been here before?”
“I’ve never been directionally challenged,” she said.
They entered the classroom studio and Elizabeth went straight to her things. He came up behind her and waited.
She put her bottle of water down and hoisted her portfolio onto the table, struggling with the zipper to open it. Without looking, she felt him near her, hovering, watching her, causing a flutter in her chest.
Elizabeth handed over a folder of quick compositions. He held up each paper, then compared them. She caught his look of confusion. A rush of fear went through her. Some of it was her old work, when she could still paint. He was trying to figure it out. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance.
“You’ve painted professionally?” he asked after a long moment.
“I dabbled…occasionally,” she answered.
He scrutinized the paintings, finally gathering them and handing them to her. “Watercolor is a fluid medium, Lizzie. Some of your work lacks spontaneity, relaxation. You need to use more water and let the happy accidents happen, yeah? Do you remember what you were thinking about when you did these?”
She would never forget what she had been thinking. Her mother was gone and her own ability to paint was dying as well. In the midst of it all, she turned to William to find him pulling away, done with her as if she were a half-finished canvas not worth completing. She snapped back to the moment, feeling dizzy, whether from the heat, the memories, or the close proximity of Ian MacKay, she couldn’t be sure. “No,” she said.
Standing so close, he overshadowed her slim frame. She imagined herself shrinking, like Alice, through the looking glass. He brushed a stray tendril of hair away from her pale cheek. She heard her own breathing, shallow and ragged.
“Are you all right, Lizzie? Would you like a drink of water?”
“Yes, please,” she said, and her speech sounded slurred in her ears.
He handed her the bottle and it shook in her hand. She took a long swallow.
“It’s just the heat, love. Take a deep breath.”
She looked up at him, but she didn’t see him, only a bright kaleidoscope of colors. She felt herself weaving and then his arms were around her, pulling her close to him.
“Steady now,” he murmured.
After a moment, the colors receded and he was there again, embracing her. She leaned in closer, breathing deeply. I don’t want this to end. Stunned, she jerked away from him and stepped back into her chair, sending it sliding into the table, tipping over her water bowl, the tinted water pooling, then running off the table.
At that moment, students began filtering into the classroom.
“She was a bit overcome by the heat,” Ian said to the instructor.
“I’m fine,” she said in as strong a voice as she could muster, bending to blot at the water with a wad of paper towel.
“So you are,” he said. “Well done with your paintings, Lizzie. You should continue.”
She sank onto a chair, not trusting herself to speak, watching as he walked out of the classroom, taking the upper hand with him.
Chapter 6
By the middle of the second act, the reading had to be stopped. Robert expected a romantic experience, full of magic and kismet, working in the theater where he and Karen first met, seeing their first coauthored play produced. While he was prepared for the rough dialogue and the reworking of plot, he wasn’t prepared for a reluctant director and the uncontrolled weeping of Larry Hammond, one of the most luckless actors in New York City.
To struggling New York actors Larry was a legend. From his humble beginnings, stepping off the Amtrak train fifteen years ago and getting mugged in the men’s room, Larry’s existence consisted of audition rejections and rathole apartments he vacated so that his girlfriends could move in with his roommates. The coup de grâce was losing out on the part of Death of a Salesman’s Biff Loman—twice. Larry was either the poster boy for suffering for his art or for just suffering. The only bright spot had been gigs as an extra on Law & Order.
Now Larry stood in the middle of the stage, waving a script at Karen. “I die?” he whined. “Since when am I dying? This is a reinvention of The Iceman Cometh, as a comedy. I’m not supposed to be dying. I gave up a commercial to do this!”
“For dog food,” Karen said.
“It’s still work!” Larry said, lunging forward. “I’m still communicating with an audience!”
Karen