“Show me what you can do, Elizabeth.”
He was so near she couldn’t think straight, couldn’t draw an even breath. She tilted the paintbrush in her hand, let it settle into its place.
Suddenly all she could see was the painting—her painting. A single, plump Sunkist orange. Everything around it was bright sunlight and yellow cloth. The shadow it cast was the palest lavender. A tiny green blemish marred the orange’s puckered peel. She dipped the sable tip into the paint—Naples yellow—and began.
She couldn’t stop. Her blood was on fire, her hands were a whir of motion. Her heart was pounding in her chest and in her temples. It felt like the start of a migraine, but she didn’t care. It was better than sex—better than any sex she’d had in years, anyway.
When she finished, her breath expelled in a rush, and she realized only then that she’d been holding it.
She was shaking, sweating. She felt sick to her stomach and exhilarated. Slowly, she looked around.
The room was empty.
She glanced up at the clock. It was eight o’clock. An hour after the end of class. “Oh, my God.” She laughed, feeling great.
“Where did you study?”
She turned and saw Daniel leaning against the bookcases in the back of the room. He was staring at her with an intensity that was unnerving. She felt a flutter in the pit of her stomach, a kind of restlessness that set her on edge. “The University of Washington. About a thousand years ago.”
He moved toward her. “Was Waldgrin there?”
That surprised her. “Yeah, he was. Did you know Leo?”
“Are you kidding? I hitchhiked cross-country to study with him.”
“He’s a wonderful teacher.”
Daniel came up beside her. For a long moment, he looked at her painting—a childish explosion of color, she saw now; no precision, no sophistication—then he looked at her.
She felt it again, that tightening in her stomach that reminded her of high school. And she knew what it was: attraction. She was attracted to this man who was probably half her age.
Oh, God. Could he read it on her face? What if he asked her out—what would she say? You’re too young. Too handsome. I’m too old. My underwear is the size of a circus tent.
Had she actually thought that? Fantasized about him asking her out? In Jamie-speak: As if.
He smiled slowly. “Why are you in my class?”
“I haven’t painted in a long time.”
“That’s a crime.”
Her fingers were trembling as she removed her painting from the easel and put the supplies away. Holding the damp paper gently, she slung her canvas bag over her shoulder and headed out. She was at the door when he said, “You have talent, you know.”
Elizabeth didn’t dare turn around. Her grin was so big she probably looked like the Joker—and with her wrinkles that’d scare pretty boy to death.
She smiled all the way home. More than once, she laughed out loud.
At home, Elizabeth taped the painting to the refrigerator and stared at it.
She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this good. She’d accomplished something. And not something easy, like negotiating a good deal for an antique or picking the right fabric for the sofa. This was something that mattered.
She poured herself a glass of wine, then grabbed the phone and called Meghann. The answering machine picked up.
“I painted, Meg. Painted! Yee-ha. And just for the record, my instructor is a doll. The perfect age for you. Call me when you get home.”
Laughing, she put on a Smash Mouth CD. “Hey Now, You’re an All Star” blasted through the speakers. She sang along, dancing all by herself in the living room. As she twirled past the fireplace, she caught sight of the photo on the mantel and came to a stop.
It was Jack and the girls. She couldn’t quite remember when it had been taken, but there was snow in the background and everyone was dressed for an overnight stay in the Arctic.
Jack wore a sheepskin-lined beige suede jacket; his hair was too long. The first threads of gray shaded the hair above his ears.
Suddenly she wished he were here right now. He would be proud of her. The old love, the feeling that had been such a part of her, came back now, reminding her that life had once been good with Jack. She’d almost forgotten that.
She moved on to the picture beside it. This was an old shot, taken years ago. She was dressed in a plaid skirt and a shetland wool sweater, with a strand of pearls at her throat. He wore Calvin Klein jeans, a letterman’s jacket, and a football star’s cocky smile. Behind them, the ice cream cone of Mount Rainier floated above Frosh Pond.
The University of Washington.
The sand castle years.
She closed her eyes, swaying to the music, remembering those days … the first time he’d kissed her …