Inner Harbor
Page 69
"Christ, Seth." Cam muttered it, glancing over his shoulder as Anna walked in from the kitchen.
"Man, look at all this stuff! It's got, like, everything. Charcoals and pastels and pencils." Now he looked at Sybill with that staggered shock.
"I get to have it all?"
"It goes together." Nervous, she twisted her silver beads around her finger. "You draw so well, I thought… You may want to experiment with other mediums. The other box has more supplies."
"More?"
"Watercolors and brushes, some paper. Ah…" She eased onto the floor as Seth gleefully ripped into the second box. "You may decide you like acrylics, or pen and ink, but I lean toward watercolors myself, so I thought you might like to try your hand at it."
"I don't know how to do it."
"Oh, well, it's a simple process, really." She leaned over to take one of the brushes and began to explain the basic technique. As she spoke, she forgot her nerves, smiled at him.
The light from the lamp slanted over her face, caught something, something in her eyes that jiggled at the corners of his memory.
"Did you have a picture on the wall? Flowers, white flowers in a blue vase?"
Her fingers tightened on the brush. "Yes, in my bedroom in New York. One of my watercolors. Not a very good one."
"And you had colored bottles on a table. Lots of them, different sizes and stuff."
"Perfume bottles." Her throat was closing again, so she was forced to clear it. "I used to collect them."
"You let me sleep in your bed with you." His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the vague blips of memory. Soft smells, soft voice, colors and shapes. "You told me some story, about a frog."
The Frog Prince. Into her mind flashed the image of how a little boy had curled against her, the bedside lamp holding back the dark for both of them, his bright-blue eyes intense on her face as she'd calmed his fears with a tale of magic and happily ever after.
"You had--when you came to visit, you had bad dreams. You were just a little boy."
"I had a puppy. You bought me a puppy."
"Not a real one, just a stuffed toy." Her vision was blurring, her throat closing, her heart breaking. "You… you didn't have any toys with you. When I brought it home you asked me whose it was, and I told you it was yours. That's what you called it. Yours. She didn't take it when she--I have to go."
She shot to her feet. "I'm sorry. I have to go." And bolted out the door.
Chapter Seventeen
she got to her car and yanked at the door handle before she realized she'd locked it. Which was, she told herself frantically, a stupid, knee-jerk urban habit that had no more place in this pretty rural neighborhood than she did.
The next thing she realized was that she'd run out of the house without her purse, her jacket, her keys. And that she would walk back to the hotel before she would go back inside and face the Quinns again after her rude and emotional behavior.
She whirled when she heard footsteps behind her and wasn't sure if she was relieved or embarrassed to see Phillip coming toward her. She didn't know what she was, what it was that was bubbling up inside her, burning and swelling her heart and her throat. She only knew she had to escape it.
"I'm sorry. I know that was rude. I really have to go." In the rush to get out, the words bumped and tumbled over each other. "Would you mind getting my purse? I need my purse. My keys. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't spoil--"
Whatever was bubbling in her throat was rising higher, choking her. "I have to go."
"You're shaking." He said it gently and reached for her, but she jerked back.
"It's cold. I forgot my jacket."
"It's not that cold, Sybill. Come here."
"No, I'm leaving. I have a headache. I--no, don't touch me."
Ignoring her words, he drew her firmly against him, wrapped his arms tight around her and held on. "It's all right, baby."
"No, it's not." She wanted to scream it. Was he blind? Was he stupid? "I shouldn't have come. Your brother hates me. Seth's afraid of me. You--your--I--"
Oh, it hurt. The pressure in her chest was agony, and it was spreading.
"Let me go. I don't belong here."
"Yes, you do."
He'd seen it, that connection, when she and Seth had stared at each other. Her eyes such a clear blue, his so brilliant. He'd all but heard the click.
"No one hates you. No one's afraid of you. Let go, will you?" He pressed his mouth to her temple, would have sworn he felt the pain hissing there. "Why won't you let go?"
"I'm not going to cause a scene. If you'd just get my purse,
I'll go."
She was holding herself rigid as marble, but the marble was cracking, he thought, and trembling with the pressure. If she didn't let go she would explode. So he would have to push. "He remembered you. He remembered that you cared."
Through the hideous pressure there was a stab, and the stab pierced her heart. "I can't stand it. I can't bear it." Her hands gripped his shoulders, fingers clenching and unclenching. "She took him away. She took him away. It broke my heart."
She was sobbing now, her arms tight around his neck. "I know. I know it did. That's the way," he murmured, and simply picked her up, sat on the grass, and cradled her against him. "It's about damn time."
He rocked her while tears that were hot and desperate flooded out of her and soaked his shirt. Cold? he thought as the firestorm of grief whipped through her. There was nothing cold in her but the fear of emotional pain.
He didn't tell her to stop, even when the sobs shook her so violently it seemed her bones might snap. He didn't offer promises of comfort or solutions. He knew the value of purging. So he simply stroked and rocked, cradling her while she wept out the pain.
When Anna stepped out on the porch, Phillip shook his head at her, stroking still. He continued to rock her as the door shut again and left them alone.
When she'd cried herself dry, her head felt swollen and hot, her throat and stomach raw. Weak and disoriented, she lay exhausted in his arms.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You needed that. I don't think I've ever known anyone who needed a crying jag more."
"Man, look at all this stuff! It's got, like, everything. Charcoals and pastels and pencils." Now he looked at Sybill with that staggered shock.
"I get to have it all?"
"It goes together." Nervous, she twisted her silver beads around her finger. "You draw so well, I thought… You may want to experiment with other mediums. The other box has more supplies."
"More?"
"Watercolors and brushes, some paper. Ah…" She eased onto the floor as Seth gleefully ripped into the second box. "You may decide you like acrylics, or pen and ink, but I lean toward watercolors myself, so I thought you might like to try your hand at it."
"I don't know how to do it."
"Oh, well, it's a simple process, really." She leaned over to take one of the brushes and began to explain the basic technique. As she spoke, she forgot her nerves, smiled at him.
The light from the lamp slanted over her face, caught something, something in her eyes that jiggled at the corners of his memory.
"Did you have a picture on the wall? Flowers, white flowers in a blue vase?"
Her fingers tightened on the brush. "Yes, in my bedroom in New York. One of my watercolors. Not a very good one."
"And you had colored bottles on a table. Lots of them, different sizes and stuff."
"Perfume bottles." Her throat was closing again, so she was forced to clear it. "I used to collect them."
"You let me sleep in your bed with you." His eyes narrowed as he concentrated on the vague blips of memory. Soft smells, soft voice, colors and shapes. "You told me some story, about a frog."
The Frog Prince. Into her mind flashed the image of how a little boy had curled against her, the bedside lamp holding back the dark for both of them, his bright-blue eyes intense on her face as she'd calmed his fears with a tale of magic and happily ever after.
"You had--when you came to visit, you had bad dreams. You were just a little boy."
"I had a puppy. You bought me a puppy."
"Not a real one, just a stuffed toy." Her vision was blurring, her throat closing, her heart breaking. "You… you didn't have any toys with you. When I brought it home you asked me whose it was, and I told you it was yours. That's what you called it. Yours. She didn't take it when she--I have to go."
She shot to her feet. "I'm sorry. I have to go." And bolted out the door.
Chapter Seventeen
she got to her car and yanked at the door handle before she realized she'd locked it. Which was, she told herself frantically, a stupid, knee-jerk urban habit that had no more place in this pretty rural neighborhood than she did.
The next thing she realized was that she'd run out of the house without her purse, her jacket, her keys. And that she would walk back to the hotel before she would go back inside and face the Quinns again after her rude and emotional behavior.
She whirled when she heard footsteps behind her and wasn't sure if she was relieved or embarrassed to see Phillip coming toward her. She didn't know what she was, what it was that was bubbling up inside her, burning and swelling her heart and her throat. She only knew she had to escape it.
"I'm sorry. I know that was rude. I really have to go." In the rush to get out, the words bumped and tumbled over each other. "Would you mind getting my purse? I need my purse. My keys. I'm sorry. I hope I didn't spoil--"
Whatever was bubbling in her throat was rising higher, choking her. "I have to go."
"You're shaking." He said it gently and reached for her, but she jerked back.
"It's cold. I forgot my jacket."
"It's not that cold, Sybill. Come here."
"No, I'm leaving. I have a headache. I--no, don't touch me."
Ignoring her words, he drew her firmly against him, wrapped his arms tight around her and held on. "It's all right, baby."
"No, it's not." She wanted to scream it. Was he blind? Was he stupid? "I shouldn't have come. Your brother hates me. Seth's afraid of me. You--your--I--"
Oh, it hurt. The pressure in her chest was agony, and it was spreading.
"Let me go. I don't belong here."
"Yes, you do."
He'd seen it, that connection, when she and Seth had stared at each other. Her eyes such a clear blue, his so brilliant. He'd all but heard the click.
"No one hates you. No one's afraid of you. Let go, will you?" He pressed his mouth to her temple, would have sworn he felt the pain hissing there. "Why won't you let go?"
"I'm not going to cause a scene. If you'd just get my purse,
I'll go."
She was holding herself rigid as marble, but the marble was cracking, he thought, and trembling with the pressure. If she didn't let go she would explode. So he would have to push. "He remembered you. He remembered that you cared."
Through the hideous pressure there was a stab, and the stab pierced her heart. "I can't stand it. I can't bear it." Her hands gripped his shoulders, fingers clenching and unclenching. "She took him away. She took him away. It broke my heart."
She was sobbing now, her arms tight around his neck. "I know. I know it did. That's the way," he murmured, and simply picked her up, sat on the grass, and cradled her against him. "It's about damn time."
He rocked her while tears that were hot and desperate flooded out of her and soaked his shirt. Cold? he thought as the firestorm of grief whipped through her. There was nothing cold in her but the fear of emotional pain.
He didn't tell her to stop, even when the sobs shook her so violently it seemed her bones might snap. He didn't offer promises of comfort or solutions. He knew the value of purging. So he simply stroked and rocked, cradling her while she wept out the pain.
When Anna stepped out on the porch, Phillip shook his head at her, stroking still. He continued to rock her as the door shut again and left them alone.
When she'd cried herself dry, her head felt swollen and hot, her throat and stomach raw. Weak and disoriented, she lay exhausted in his arms.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. You needed that. I don't think I've ever known anyone who needed a crying jag more."
