Nightsong (3 page)

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. I guess I tend to look at everything from the perspective of a starving artist.” He spoke softly, confidingly close to her ear, and caught off guard by his husky voice, she grew still with a warm, rustling awareness.

“No apology necessary.” She  wondered why she was so quick to reassure him. She tried for a nonchalant tone, knowing that if she turned, if she simply tilted her head to one side, she would see his smile, feel again that stirring of possibilities. “Are you really a starving artist?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

Her gaze swung to him then, helpless in her curiosity.

His lips curved in disarming confidence. “I’ve been told that Cedar Springs abounds with inspiration, and since about eight-thirty this morning, I’ve begun to believe it’s true.”

There was a definite compliment hidden in the words, a flirtatious light in his eyes, and suddenly Elleny was on the firm earth of reality, mistress of her emotions and of the current situation. “Mornings are lovely in this part of Missouri,” she said, “but nights are better. Thousands of stars, the scent of wind and trees and evening.” A gentle laugh rippled from her throat. “The absolute certainty that everyone in town knows exactly what everyone else is doing. You should find unlimited inspiration in that.”

“Oh, I do. In fact, I can hardly wait to put it to the test. But first I have to find an apartment that can double as a studio. Did Mark have a workshop in your home?”

“He used the room above the garage. It’s separate from the house, and he liked to be alone when he worked.” Memory drew a shadowy regret to her eyes. “I always respected his need for privacy, but if I’d had any idea how little time....” She looked down, away from Phillip’s observant gaze, away from the unchangeable past.

“Could I see it?” he asked with a trace of hesitation. “I know you probably have a sentimental attachment to his studio but would you consider renting it?”

“I can’t. It’s.... I’m sorry. I just can’t.” Pulling absently at a strand of shoulder-length hair, Elleny thought about telling him the reason, explaining that it wasn’t
her
attachment to the past that kept the studio closed and barren.

“I understand.” His hand touched her restless fingers and smoothed the tangled strand of hair. Then, as if he realized that he was overstepping the bounds of their brief acquaintance, he moved back from the contact. For a moment their eyes held, then he broke that contact as well. With a glance around the room, he began buttoning his coat. “I’d better start checking out the apartment leads Dora gave me, even though I’d much prefer to spend the morning with you and your books.” He smiled a slow regret. “It wouldn’t do to keep you from your brisk, January business, but maybe once I get settled, we could have dinner?”

“Or morning coffee?” The pleasant sensation created by his suggestion swirled lazily in her voice. “I’d like that.”

“So would I.” He walked to the door, reached for the knob, and Elleny knew she couldn’t let him leave without a more definite invitation.

“Phillip?” The store telephone shrilled a rude interruption as he turned, and she frowned even as she lifted the receiver. Placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she ignored the caller. “Would you like to come for Sunday dinner? About one o’clock?”

“Thank you. I’ll be there.” With a wave of his hand, he opened the door and left the bookstore. The winter air danced about him, and he pulled up the collar of his coat for extra warmth. But the cold seemed to be inside him, and he knew it had nothing to do with temperature or wind chill.

It had everything to do with Elleny Damon.

All right, so he’d lied to her, claimed a friendship with her late husband, a man he’d never met. He’d done worse things in his life, and in this situation there really wasn’t another choice. It wasn’t his fault that she was too trusting for her own good, and he’d be damned if he knew why he should feel guilty for taking advantage of her.

But he did. And he had an uneasy suspicion that things could get complicated

Very, very complicated.

Phillip approached the street corner with a reluctance that he couldn’t quite understand. There was no logical reason for the sluggish pace of his footsteps, no explanation for his lack of enthusiasm for the afternoon ahead. This could be the break he’d been hoping for, the culmination of months of preparation. Yet the excitement he should have been feeling was noticeably absent.

A picket fence, once white but now a weathered ivory, stretched beside the sidewalk, and he measured his steps against the slats. His gaze explored the turreted angles of the Victorian-style house that sprawled in bygone elegance across the corner lot. It was fitting, he supposed, that she should live in such a house.

Diminutive, dainty Elleny looked every bit the part of Cedar Springs’s reigning belle. Phillip felt certain that if the town had been located further south, she would have been addressed by all the residents as “Miss Elleny.” Everyone spoke of her with obvious affection and respect. But considering that everyone spoke of Mark Damon in the same manner, Phillip didn’t give too much credence to their judgment.

Stopping before the gate, he studied the wide, shaded porch and diagnosed the funny feeling in his stomach as nervous tension.

Sunday dinner. It had a disconcerting ring to it, somehow, and brought to mind phrases like “I want you to meet my parents” or “My mother is going to love you.”

Not that he believed Elleny’s invitation had been anything more than a courtesy extended, but there was something uncomfortably cozy about sitting down at a table covered with freshly laundered linen, platters of fried chicken, and garden-grown vegetables. And he’d give odds that was the scene awaiting him on the other side of the big bay window.

Annoyed by his imaginative lapse in perspective, he absently jangled the loose quarters in the pocket of his coat and then shook his head in rueful acknowledgment of his action. In less than a week he’d become so acclimatized to the rural atmosphere that he never went anywhere without the correct change for a cup of coffee. Places like Cedar Springs could get a grip on a man, make him start believing that life was as tranquil and easygoing as a Sunday afternoon.

Women like Elleny Damon could get a grip on a man, too, make him start believing in houses with picket fences and clean, homey smells. Phillip brought his chin up with a jerk.

He didn’t believe in such things, didn’t
want
to believe in them, and he hadn’t lived this much of his life only to be taken in now by a disarming smile. It was all in the way one looked at things, he reasoned. After all, Sunday dinner by any other name was just a luncheon. And this afternoon, this time spent with Elleny, was simply a means to an end.

A sound, a quiet creaking drew his attention down to meet the steady, bright blue gaze of a child who was perched on the opposite side of the gate. Framed by two ivory colored pickets, the boy’s face was narrowed into eyes, puckish nose, and a somewhat dirty mouth, with the overall effect topped by blond hair that resembled a bird’s nest of straw. Skinny arms were bare to the January sun; suspiciously discolored fists curled around the fence slats like a brown stain. Coatless and hatless, the child nonetheless wore an expression of unmistakable apathy. Phillip assimilated his first, fleeting impressions and offered a tentative greeting. “You must be A.J.”

No answer, just a blink and a finger lifted to scratch the snub nose.

With a frown, Phillip tried to recall some gem of wisdom on the best method of communicating with children. “Do you live here?”

Still nothing. Just a disinterested stare and a pursing of little-boy lips as if he were about to whistle.

“Is your mother home?” Phillip was prepared to be ignored again, and he wasn’t disappointed. Struck by sudden inspiration, he pulled a quarter from his pocket and began to toss it casually, but in clear view. There was now a definite interest in the blue eyes, and Phillip held the silence for a calculated minute. “I’m Mr. Kessler and your mother is expecting me. Why don’t you go inside and tell her I’m here?”

The quarter dropped to the sidewalk and spun gaily, as if challenging its observers to a frantic scramble for possession. A.J. watched, his muscles tensed as if he wanted to grab the coin and run but wasn’t sure he should. Finally, Phillip bent to retrieve the coin. With a half-concealed sigh, he offered the quarter as either bribe or entry fee—he didn’t know which. As smudgy fingers left the gate slat and closed around the money, Phillip half-expected to see boyish baby teeth bite the quarter to test its authenticity. But A.J. merely concealed it in his fist and returned to guard duty.

“I’m going to open the gate now, A.J.,” Phillip said cautiously, and advanced two steps until he could lift up the latch. The gate swung back with a squeak, giving A.J. a bumpy ride and winning Phillip a split second, and not unappealing, grin. But with that glimpse of little-boy humor, A.J. dashed to the house and left Phillip to close the gate and conduct his own way to the front door.

As Phillip walked up the steps onto the veranda, he heard Elleny’s voice and paused outside the open doorway to listen. She was scolding her son for not wearing a coat and for getting dirty when she’d expressly told him not to. It wasn’t really
what
she said that kept Phillip quietly eavesdropping, it was the tone, the husky tension. As if she were uncertain about having company for Sunday dinner, as if it was more important than usual that A.J. behave. The thought brought a confident tilt to the corner of Phillip’s mouth, although he would have been hard pressed to explain it.

“Oh, you’re here.”

Phillip looked through the screen door and felt the doubts return like rain on parade day. She looked ... enchanting. For the life of him, he couldn’t think of a more appropriate word. He noticed the complementary cling of her clothing, the upswept Gibson girl style of her hair, and the soft charm of her smile.

Elleny stepped forward to push open the screen door and hold it as he walked into the house. “A.J. never closes a door if he can help it,” she said. “But on the bright side, at least he didn’t slam it shut in your face.”

“He led the way from the gate.” Phillip paused to observe the interior of the house, although his instinct was to continue his observation of Elleny. “I had to pay him….” Realizing that in this situation, diplomacy was called for, he altered the sentence. “…a closer look before I decided he belonged to you.”

She laughed quietly as she closed the door. “He favors the Damons in appearance and just about every other way as well.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I thought he seemed a little shy ... like you.” Phillip hadn’t thought anything of the sort until the words left his mouth, but with the gentle pleasure that touched her lips, he decided the result was worth the invention.

As Elleny steered her smile and her gaze toward the living room, he took the opportunity to appreciate the simplicity of the dress she wore. It wasn’t particularly trendy, he supposed, but the deep cranberry-red suited her. And the way the dress fit, not tightly nor too loosely—well, that suited him. Still, Phillip thought, it would be foolish to enjoy her innocent charm too much. As foolish as it would be for him to ignore the distinct attraction he felt.

“Let’s go in here.” She moved away from the dim entryway. “Dinner will be ready in a few minutes.”

Phillip followed slowly, and when she sank gracefully onto the sofa, he sat in the wing-backed chair opposite. The house and furnishings seemed much more modern than the exterior would indicate, and he wondered if Elleny had had a hand in the remodeling. “Nice house,” he said. “You must be very comfortable living here.”

A noncommittal nod was the only agreement she offered. “I’d prefer to have more of Mark’s paintings.…”

With an ill-concealed movement, Phillip lost the rest of Elleny’s comment and swung his gaze in search of a canvas. He’d been so wrapped up in her that he’d momentarily forgotten his reasons for seeking her out in the first place. It wasn’t like him. There, on the wall next to the window. Was that…? But suddenly Elleny was standing, blocking his view, and of necessity, he stood as well.

“It’ll take just a second to check on dinner. I’ll be right back.” She walked past him, and he tried to maintain a politely interested expression. But as soon as she was gone, he discarded pretense and moved to the framed watercolor.

It was a scene of a dying summer, beautiful and poignant, sensitively done as only Jesse Damon could do it. Phillip’s gaze dropped to the artist’s signature, and his heart pounded with the exhilaration of discovery. There was the symbol, the shamrock, before Mark’s name.

It was what Phillip had hoped to find — a painting stolen from the father, claimed by the son. A painting that provided the first real link to the stolen artwork Phillip had been hired to find. In itself it wasn’t conclusive, but he felt confident now that he was on the right track.

Unexpectedly, Phillip experienced a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d known he would find this sooner or later, hadn’t entertained any doubts that time and persistence would pay off. But with the evidence before him, with the knowledge that his hunch now had a basis in fact…? Well, it wasn’t quite the thrill he’d thought it would be.

Elleny, of course. He hated it for her, but then perhaps she knew already.

Phillip frowned as he studied the picture. How could she
not
know? He found it hard, almost impossible to believe that she didn’t, and yet he wanted to believe it. And that thought was the most disturbing of all.

* * * *

Elleny checked the table setting one last time. Her mother’s china sparkled like a television commercial, the crystal reflected the amber tint of iced tea—she hoped Phillip liked tea, she hadn’t thought to ask—the silver gleamed in mute testimony of a recent polishing. Everything was ready.

Everything, except her.

She couldn’t understand the inner core of tension that had been with her since she’d awakened that morning. There really was nothing special about having a guest for dinner. It had been only simple courtesy to invite Phillip into her home.