“We’ve found the culprit, sir. We’ll let the police take care of this little matter.”
Amber turned back to the speaker. “Culprit?” She frowned. “I’m an artist.”
There was a snigger among the men and she turned back to David, her frown deepening.
“Tell them, David.”
All eyes went to David. He, too, was frowning, as if unable to believe what he was seeing. He glanced at the rainbow and she followed his gaze.
“Of course, it’s not finished yet,” she said, embarrassed for the first time that she worked in such a rudimentary form, sketching, until something took off, and then working from that explosive center to the outside. For the first time in her life, she questioned her process. She wished she could begin in one corner and work steadily to the other, with no one ever doubting the quality of the artwork. But here, with others looking and the undercurrent of snide remarks and laughter, she suddenly felt embarrassed and hurt. She swallowed and looked up at him, wondering why he wasn’t saying anything.
“Amber, I—”
“Do you know the woman, sir?”
“I do. This is Amber Connelly.”
Amber waited for him to introduce them to her. But he didn’t.
“And is she an artist?” one of the men asked him, as if she wasn’t there.
“Does it look like that?” laughed another man.
She stepped back as if struck. “David?” she asked again.
David turned to the others. “Shut it!” he said to them, and they did.
“Miss Connelly, I must ask you to leave this area. It’s private property,” David said.
She couldn’t believe he was talking to her as if she were a stranger. She opened her mouth to reply, but for the first time in a long time words proved elusive. She normally never had a problem speaking, because whatever was in her heart was in her mind, was in her mouth. But here, now, this man in whose arms she’d fallen asleep had turned into a stranger before her eyes.
“Miss Connelly?” she repeated in a whisper directed only at him.
His eyes, which she’d only ever seen to be strong and sure, reflected her own confusion. “I’m sorry, I…”
She stepped away again, shaking her head, unable to believe what she was seeing, what she was feeling. She licked her lips and bent down to pick up her bag.
“Don’t forget your paint pots! Only the best in materials for the ‘artist!’” shouted one of the men. She used exterior house paint rather than expensive oils. She had intended to make a second trip to return for them. But now she just wanted to get all her things and get away from the laughter, and this stranger who she’d thought she knew.
With her spare hand she balanced the cardboard tray carrying the pots of paint on her hip, and bit her lip as she looked at the gate over which she’d clambered only hours earlier. She stood for a moment, wondering how she was going to get out, not looking at any of them, trying to ignore the barely suppressed laughter and comments about her fledgling rainbow, when the lock in the gate clicked, and the gate was opened for her. David stood, his eyes fixed on hers, the gate open. The fact he’d opened the gate for her was a relief. The fact that he had the means to do that, held the key in his hand, confounded her.
She tried to lift her chin but was scared her watery eyes would be seen by everyone, so she kept her eyes down and tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, tried to clear the blurriness of the ground by blinking. It didn’t work. “Thank you,” she said in a clipped, proud way as she walked past him. She felt his hand on her arm.
“Wait, I want to apologize.”
She bit her trembling lip. “Please take your hand off me.”
For a moment she wondered if he would. But after a moment’s hesitation, he did, and he stepped away, leaving the way clear. She walked along the street to the bus stop, knowing she’d missed the bus she’d intended to catch. It was too late for cafés, they had all closed down for the night, it being a week day in winter with few people around. Only crazy would-be artists, Amber thought miserably, allowing a tear to track down her heated face. Only artists of rubbish rainbows still lingered on the cold, darkening streets. She placed the tray of paint pots on the seat beside her and sat down on the damp wooden bench.
She could hear the drone of voices from the empty lot, punctuated by David’s authoritative staccato instructions. Whatever they were meeting about, it didn’t last long and she soon heard the clank of the chains and lock being put into place. Why, she didn’t know. All you had to do was climb over. But when she glanced over, she noticed that they’d added further precautions to the fence. A line of barbed wire. No one would be climbing over that in a hurry.
David looked at her and she turned away again, focusing on the incoming rain cloud sweeping over the rooftops. She’d get wet, she thought, numbly. The bus shelter was a work in progress and a roof had yet to be added.
She continued to focus on the gray cloud, the same color that had invaded her heart, she thought remotely, as she listened to the cars roar off down the road, leaving an emptiness which she felt to her core.
She swallowed hard, trying to push down the lump. But it was as if it were a cork which held tight her emotions, prevented them from emerging, and it stayed put. Just as well, she thought. There was enough rain now falling from the sky, tracking down her head and face without the addition of tears.
A car swam into her vision. Some top of the line gas guzzler, she thought reprovingly. It pulled up in front of her and a darkened window noiselessly lowered. A head dipped down and she saw those eyes. She knew they were green, but everything had become one color of gray in the gloom.
