“And that’s the guest cottage.”
He pointed to the third structure, the largest of all. “And your studio?”
“I call it my atelier.”
“Atelier,” he repeated. “The word suits the building, and it suits you.” But as he started forward, he realized Kari remained planted on the top step. “What is it?”
“My new painting.”
“You said it’s about me.”
She nodded. “Ian . . .”
“Kari, if you don’t want to show me, I understand. Really.”
“No. It’s not . . .”
“Tell me.”
She replied with little-girl softness, “I want you to like it.”
This time, he was the one to reach out and take her hand. “Show me.”
As he entered the barnlike structure, a final golden thread shimmered through one of the skylights.
Then he saw it.
“Let me turn on some lights.”
“No. Not yet. Please.” He scarcely heard what he was saying. The painting drew him forward until his nose almost touched the canvas.
The oil colors were still damp in places. They glistened, adding a surreal effect to her work. Ian stepped back far enough to study the swirling gray cloud. The flecks of black stood out so sharply, he could almost feel them pelting his neck and shoulders. And those spectral images caught within the gray mist. He felt as if Kari had reached inside him and drawn out the childhood terrors. In the room’s murky depths, the wraiths danced, mocking him, pouring scorn on the heart’s flame, the music, the sheer intensity captured by the central image. They were just waiting, Ian knew, ready to attack and pluck away what remained of his flickering passion.
Kari stepped up close to him. “Ian, do you . . .”
He swung about and gripped her with a fierceness that shocked them both. As did his kiss.
He knew it was probably wrong. But words simply did not fit into this space. Then she sighed, or softly moaned, and relaxed in his embrace.
She reached around and held him with just one arm, since the kitten was still cradled in the other. So they stood like that, the three of them entwined, two kissing, the kitten purring happily there between them.
