September Canvas (4 page)

Deanna smiled carefully. “It’s not funny at all,” she said, agreeing in principle. “But yes, it’s in your best interest that it sank.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Eventually Faythe pulled herself together. “I should be going home. I have an idea, though, since you did save my life. How about I make us dinner tonight, to celebrate my not sinking to the bottom of the lake?”

The thought of their struggle in the water, when it looked like the drenched jacket was going to pull Faythe under, made Deanna tremble.

“You really don’t have to go through the trouble—”

“It’s no trouble. I bought enough food in town to—what?”

“You went grocery shopping. Ah.” Deanna straightened her back and her rib cage tightened around her lungs, making it hard to breathe.

“Yes. Got the third degree from the woman at the cash register. As I was going to say, I bought enough food to feed a small army. Please, join me.”

Scrubbed clean from the shower, Faythe looked so innocent and beautiful, even younger than before. That fact alone was a red flag.

Deanna scanned Faythe’s facial expression but saw no sign that she was about to join the special clique in town that heeded every word Gloria Henderson uttered. The local grocery store was one of the places where gossip festered and grew. The library was another and the gas station yet another.

“Deanna, I’d be so honored if I could repay you somehow. I mean, it’s only dinner, and I’m a decent cook, nothing special. It’s not a lot, really, to offer spaghetti Bolognese when someone just saved your life, but it’s all I can think of right now.”

“Okay,” Deanna heard herself say. “If you insist, then I’d be happy to let you cook tonight.” Deanna wanted to take everything back, but it was too late. She’d accepted an invitation to the home of an unattached woman, which in her case was highly suspicious, to quote the Mueller mob. Faythe’s soft, open smile scratched at Deanna’s defenses. Standing, Faythe brushed off her borrowed sweats. “It’s a deal, then. Do you have a bag to put my wet clothes in? I should have the key to Nellie’s house tucked away in a jacket pocket. I hope.”

“Of course.” Deanna rose and fetched two empty grocery sacks from the kitchen. “Will these do?”

“Sure thing.” Faythe went back into the bathroom and returned seconds later with her clothes jammed into the bags, wiggling the key in her other hand. “See you at seven thirty? I should go home and wash my clothes. Maybe I can save the jacket.”

“All right. Should I bring anything?”

“If you have some red wine, that’d be great.”

“I’ll look. I may have something in the basement.” She’d been so intent on turning Faythe’s offer down, she was taken aback by her urge to follow through with the invitation. A small voice in the back of her mind kept saying that nothing good would come from this. Perhaps she could still devise a plausible excuse, one that didn’t offend Faythe.

Deanna looked straight into Faythe’s green eyes and opened her mouth to verbalize her apology. “See you at seven thirty.”

Faythe tasted the meat sauce from the pot on the stove and frowned. It needed something. Black pepper? She ground some into the simmering sauce and left it for a few moments as she put a pot of water on another burner. Aunt Nellie had plenty of cooking appliances and utensils. Shaking her head, Faythe tried to remember ever actually seeing her aunt make anything more than toast with marmalade.

“Am I early?”

Faythe wheeled around. Deanna stood in the doorway, holding a bottle of wine in one hand and what looked like an envelope in the other. “I…um, well, I knocked.”

“You did.” Faythe took a deep breath and refused to press a hand against her chest like some damsel in distress. “You did? Obviously I didn’t hear you.”

“That’s pretty clear.” Deanna’s dark eyes glittered with telltale mirth. “I hope this wine will do. It’s a Pepperwood Grove.”

“Ah, a domestic wine. Zinfandel grapes.” The bottle looked worn, its label nearly rubbed off in places. “Goodness, it’s a 2001!”

“It’s been sitting in the basement since then. Hope it’s still good.”“Guess we’ll find out.” Faythe grabbed a corkscrew and easily uncorked the bottle. “Some say a red wine should breathe, some say it doesn’t matter. Let’s not risk anything.” She set the open bottle on the counter and checked on the pasta sauce. “I hope you’re not allergic to garlic.”

“No allergies.” Deanna remained by the door, looking reluctant.

“Don’t just stand over there. Come in and I’ll pour us some wine in a minute. I have a fire going in the living room. At least I hope I do. It looked a bit weak when I left it.”

“I’ll check on it.” Deanna seemed relieved to excuse herself, and Faythe in turn had a hard time reconciling the different images she now had of Deanna. At first she had mostly appeared aloof and shy, even annoyed at Faythe’s presence. Deanna clearly wasn’t the easygoing, open-natured type, but Faythe had spotted signs of humor and repressed laughter, if only briefly.

Deanna returned, brushing her hands off. “I added a log and some more kindling.”

“Thanks. Need to wash up? Hand soap’s over there.” Faythe pointed at the sink.

“I better.” Deanne brushed by Faythe and her lingering scent of soap mingled with faint musk. Faythe inhaled greedily and hoped Deanna hadn’t heard her sharp intake of air. Faythe glanced at Deanna’s back, admiring her slender frame. She was dressed in black jeans and a white cotton shirt, and her black hair hung loose around her shoulders, shiny, but a little unruly. Wondering what Deanna’s story was, since she was so clearly on guard, Faythe dumped the spaghetti into a large pot of boiling water. She moved too fast, splashing the hot water onto her hand.

“Ow!” Faythe yanked her hand back, rubbing the stinging spot on her wrist.

“Did you burn yourself?” Deanna quickly turned the faucet to cold and pulled Faythe close to the sink. “This hand?”

“Yes. It’s not bad—”

“Cold water.” Deanne held Faythe’s hand under the running faucet. “You don’t want it to blister.”

“No, you’re right.” The cold water took the sting out of the small burn. Faythe was more aware of standing in such close proximity to Deanna than any residual pain. “Jeez, you must think I’m a complete disaster,” she murmured. “I’m usually cool and collected.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“You have to, don’t you?” Faythe wrinkled her nose and sighed. “I haven’t actually given you any proof.”

“You seem trustworthy.” Deanna kept hold of Faythe’s lower arm.

“Don’t you think this is good enough? The water’s
really
cold.”

“You need a few more minutes to cool the skin cells properly. Trust me. My…sister burned her leg once and I had her in a cold shower for more than half an hour. The doctors said that was why she didn’t even get a scar.”

“Okay, I believe you.”

“Good. Stand still.”

Faythe’s hand was completely numb by the time Deanna finally let her pull it back. Reaching for a clean kitchen towel, she dabbed it dry.

“Let’s check on the spaghetti and see if it’s ruined or done.” Feeling irritated with herself, Faythe avoided looking directly at Deanna and peered into the pot instead. “Looks like it’s time to drain it.”

“Let me do it.” Deanna grabbed the pot and poured the contents into a large colander sitting in the sink. Faythe handed her some olive oil to dribble over the pasta.

“What? You don’t trust me to do it? Do you think I’m so undependable I can’t even drain my own spaghetti?” Deanna gave her a strange look that made Faythe realize she sounded like an idiot. “I hope you’re hungry,” she said, and eyed the amount of spaghetti and meat sauce.

“I am, actually.” Deanna sounded surprised. “It smells wonderful.”

“Thanks. It’s a meat-sauce recipe from Aunt Nellie’s cook. She put up with me in the kitchen when I was a kid.”

“You enjoy cooking?”

“I do, but I rarely have—I mean,
make
the time. Guess that’s part of being a workaholic. Want to grab those for me?” Pointing at the pasta bowls, Faythe took the salad from the refrigerator. “It’s just lettuce and tomatoes.” She filled the bowls and carried them over to the dining table by the window. “I love eating here. The view is amazing. But you have the same view so that’s hardly news to you, is it?”

“I never get tired of it.” Deanna followed with their wineglasses and the bottle. “Should I pour?”

“Yes, please.”

The red wine reflected the soft light of the lamps in the room. Dusk was settling and soon it would be pitch black outside. Faythe raised her glass and gazed at Deanna over the rim. Her dark blue eyes were amazing, and her eyelashes were long and sooty black, without a trace of makeup. Nobody ever went without makeup at the network station on Manhattan, and many of her friends and coworkers had annual nips and tucks to stay young and attractive. Deanna had tiny crow’s-feet at the outer corners of her eyes, and her eyebrows, black and unplucked, gave her features additional strength.

Faythe raised her glass. “Here’s to the rowboat. May it rest in peace at the bottom of the lake. Rather it than me.” Deanna returned the smile with the smallest of angling of the corners of her mouth. “To the rowboat.” She sipped the wine slowly and nodded. “Not bad.”

Faythe followed suit. “Not bad at all. It’s obviously been sitting well in your basement. Dig in, now.” Faythe gestured toward the pasta and salad and twirled her fork in her spoon, fishing out a mouthful of the spaghetti. She chewed it carefully, relieved that her aunt’s cook’s recipe hadn’t failed her this time either.

“Very tasty,” Deanna said. “You did very well, despite the mishap with the water.”

“Yeah.” Embarrassed, Faythe kept eating, not wanting to dwell on the fact that she’d been nothing but a clumsy fool since she started talking to Deanna. Eager to change the subject, she focused on the yellow tomatoes in the salad. “So, what do you do for a living?” The pause was longer than normal for such a safe question, and Faythe looked curiously at Deanna, who was twirling her spaghetti over and over in her spoon.

“I don’t mean to pry,” Faythe hurried to say. “I was just interested.”

“I’m an illustrator. Book covers mostly. Some children’s books and some avant-garde stuff.” Deanna spoke quietly.

“You’re an artist? That’s amazing. Have I seen any of your work?”

“I don’t know. Do you read fantasy or science fiction?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m a big sci-fi fan. I read, watch, and listen to it any chance I get.”

Deanna lit up. “You do? I read, mainly, but I have quite a few audiobooks as well. Convenient when I can work and listen at the same time. Who’s your favorite author?”

“Oh, I like a lot of them. Mercedes Lackey and Anne McCaffrey when it comes to fantasy. David Weber, when it comes to science fiction.” Faythe gestured with her fork. “Then there’s Celia Conroy.” She looked carefully at Deanna, since Celia Conroy was famous for her erotic space saga.

“Have all of hers,” Deanna said calmly. “The audiobooks sure give her stories an extra dimension.”

Faythe giggled. “I bet. Some of those scenes would affect anyone.”

“It’s pretty obvious that the actress who performs all Conroy’s books is very much a fan. And pretty affected, I’d say.” Faythe blinked at the unexpected openness. “Who performs them?”

“I think her name is Carolyn Black.”

“Carolyn Black. I’ve met her.” Faythe recalled the charismatic actress with the famous, throaty voice. “She’s fantastic. Have you heard her read the Diana Maddox books?”

“No, I haven’t. Are they sci-fi?”

Faythe was surprised at the question. “Eh, the Diana Maddox books are quite famous. The first one stars Black as Maddox, and they’re filming the second book as we speak.”

“Really. Well, I don’t watch TV. I used to go to the movies a lot, but lately…I’ve worked. Mostly.”

“And you’ve managed not to hear about some of the most famous books ever or the biggest scoop two years ago, when Carolyn Black got the part.”

“Guess I’m not that interested in entertainment news.” Deanna put her fork and spoon down, looking ill at ease.

Faythe didn’t want Deanna to feel uncomfortable around her. “It’s not important,” she said reassuringly, using the inflection she knew calmed down nervous interview subjects. “I’m so thrilled you like Conroy’s books. If you’re not into crime stories, that’s totally okay.” Deanna relaxed marginally. “You said you met her? Black, I mean?”

“Yes. I did a story on the gated communities down in Florida. You know, the Gold Coast?”

“A story? You’re a reporter?” Deanna recoiled visibly, a deep frown marring her forehead under her thick bangs.

“Well, yeah—and no. I—” Faythe interrupted herself, looking at Deanna in disbelief and relief. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Should I?” Deanna’s tone was decidedly frosty now and she was making a wrinkly mess of the linen napkin.

“Well, I’ve been on TV nearly every day for seven years.”

“I said I don’t watch TV.”

Faythe laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “People say that a lot, but when you start mentioning programs, usually they watch all the soaps and
Deal or No Deal
every day.”

“I don’t.”

“Well, I’m not sure what I said to upset you, but I certainly didn’t mean to.” Faythe tried to remain calm, but she was simultaneously angry and sorry she’d said anything. Deanna looked like she was ready to run out the door.

“You didn’t upset me. I’m not comfortable around reporters, that’s all. You may be a very good reporter, even an honorable one, but I’ve never met one like that.”

“Not much chance of that happening if you bolt as soon as you’re in the same room as one. I can set your mind at ease. I’m not an investigative reporter, alas, but a morning television talk-show host. And I’m not working right now. I’m on vacation.”

“A good reporter never quite relaxes, does she?” Deanna’s smirk was rigid, bordering on scornful.

“This one does. This reporter is trying to have a nice home-cooked meal with a neighbor who happened to pull her out of a lake and probably saved her life. And for all you know, I might be a really bad reporter who wouldn’t know a scoop if it jumped up and bit my ass!” Faythe frowned and crossed her arms over her chest.