After the meeting, she parked in her carport and ran for the house. Without bothering to turn on the downstairs lights, she went up to her room. In the back of her closet, she shoved the clothes aside and dropped to her knees.
There it was: a cardboard box filled with old supplies. She pulled it toward her, inhaling the long-forgotten scent of dried paint. On top lay a single sable brush, its fine bristles a glossy chocolate brown. She reached for it, brushed the tender underside of her chin.
Smiling, she got to her feet and walked into the bedroom to the pair of French doors that opened out onto the second-floor balcony. She pressed a finger to the cool glass, staring out at the night-darkened sea.
If there was anywhere she could paint again, it would be here, in the safety of this yard. She closed her eyes, daring for just a moment to imagine a shiny new future.
Jack drove slowly down the twisting once-gravel and now-mud road that led to his house. Although Stormwatch Lane ran for almost a half a mile, there were no other dwellings along the way. For most of its distance, the road was bordered on the west by a sheer cliff. Below it lay the windblown Pacific Ocean.
He pulled into the carport and parked, then grabbed his garment bag and headed for the front door.
A single light fixture cast the porch in orangey light. In the corner, an empty Adirondack chair cast a picket-fence shadow on the plank floor.
Inside, the house smelled of the cinnamony candles Elizabeth burned at Christmas. She always said she was going to save them for the holidays, but she never did. She burned them night after night, until the wicks were blobs of charcoal stuck to the bottom of the jar.
“Elizabeth?”
There was no answer.
The front door opened onto a small entry area. To the left was the living room, to the right, the kitchen. Both rooms were empty. He walked down the middle of the house, past the dining room—Had he told her how good the doors looked?—and headed up to their bedroom.
She stood at the French doors, with her back to him. She touched the windowpane with her finger. Light from the bedside lamp made her look almost ethereal. There was a sad wistfulness in her gaze, one he could see even in the pale lamplight.
“A penny for your thoughts,” he said.
She spun around. When she saw him, she laughed. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“I caught an earlier flight.”
She glanced out to sea again. “That was lucky.”
Already he’d lost her attention. But his news would get it back. He started to say something, but her voice stopped him.
“It’s such a beautiful night. There are so many colors in the darkness. It makes me want to paint again.” She turned to look at him, finally. “I went to this meeting tonight, and—”
“I have a surprise.” It flashed through his mind that maybe he should do this differently … maybe give her the good news after a great dinner at L’Auberge. But he couldn’t wait. “Remember Warren Mitchell?”
She sighed softly, then said, “The horniest running back in New York? Of course I remember him. He’s what … a studio analyst for Fox now?”
“He was. He had a scare with his heart and decided he needed to change his life. When he tried to quit, the guys at Fox offered him a cushy one-hour, once-a-week gig. Sort of a sports talk show.”
“God knows we need more men talking about sports.”
Jack was taken aback by that. “This will be a whole new kind of show. They’ve contracted for twenty-six episodes. They’ll be filming in the Fox studio in New York, so no more traveling to the games and stuff.”
“That’s great for Warren.”
“And for us.”
“Us?”
He grinned. “I’m going to cohost the show.”
“What?”
“That’s why I really went to New York. To audition.”
“You lied to me?”
She made it sound worse than it was. “I didn’t want to disappoint you again. But this time I got the job. I wowed the network guys, honey. Think of it, we’ll start over. It’s almost like being young again.”
“Young again? What are you talking about?”
“It’ll be great, you’ll see. Maybe we’ll even hook up with some of the old gang. And we’ll only be a few hours from D.C. You’ll be able to take the train down to see the girls at school.”
“A few hours from D.C.? What are you talking about?”
He winced. This was the tricky part. “We have to move to New York.”
“What?”
Guilt reared its ugly head. “I know I promised this would be the last move, but they offered me so much money you wouldn’t believe it. I even got a new agent—a real Jerry Maguire type. Everything can be ours now.”
“Everything you want, you mean.” She was angry; there was no mistaking it. “You don’t give two shits about what I want. I’ve poured my heart and soul into this place.”
“It’s just a house, Birdie. Four goddamned walls with bad plumbing and windows that leak.” He moved toward her. “Does this house mean more to you than I do? You know how long I’ve dreamed about this.”
“What do I dream about, Jack?”
“Huh?”