Part 5 (1/2)

Officer Arrent is gone when I finally look at what he gave me. With trembling hands, I open the envelope. Tucked inside is a card.

”Happy Anniversary!” is printed in red at the top.

The rest of the card is blank.

Chapter 8.

Cancun, Mexico 27 Months Ago Maverick was right about snorkeling: the fish, the reef, everything under the water was more than breathtaking. The colors. Oh, the colors!

We pull into the harbor, and I'm grinning the biggest smile of my life. If I can keep the pictures in my mind as clear as they are now, I might be able to draw them from memory. My biggest concern is the vibrancy of the hues. I haven't used colors in so long, I'm worried I've forgotten how they work.

I'm considering the different underwater scenes when Maverick grabs my hand.

”I'm starving,” he says, turning so he's facing me and walking backwards. ”There's an awesome taco place right around the corner. You interested?”

”I, uh...” I bite my lip, my gaze shooting out over the ocean beyond the pier. I want to go, but I also need to get these images onto paper before they're gone. ”Rain check?”

He slows his steps, smile fading. ”Got other plans?”

”No, it's not that.” I sigh. I really don't want to tell him, but I don't want to lie to him either. ”It's just that what I saw under water won't stay in my head forever. If I want to draw it, I have to get to my supplies. I need to get it out.”

He wears a smirk now, then he nods like he understands. I'm sure he doesn't really. Even Finn thinks I'm nuts, and she's known my quirks since childhood.

”Okay.” He keeps a hold of my hand and starts toward my hotel. ”Can I cash in that rain check for dinner, then?”

”Only if it's that taco place around the corner.”

”I'll pick you up at seven.”

Finley is still asleep when I return. I'm not surprised; she didn't come back until five this morning. I heard her come in, puke in the toilet, and then slide into the other bed. Seconds later, she was snoring.

I'm quiet as I gather my supplies. They're still out on the dresser from the night before, when I tried to re-create the moon's reflection over the water. After two hours of the c.r.a.ppiest drawings ever, I gave up. Today is different, though. The images are fresh and bright, and I'm not distracted with thoughts of Maverick. Art has taken over my mind.

I step out onto the balcony and close the doors behind me. I grab the oil-based pencils for color, because they're more precise. If I can just get the scenes as accurate as possible now, maybe I'll draw them again in watercolors. My brush pens are dying to be used. Not only that, but according to Finley's list, I'm required to utilize them on this trip. It was the only line-item on her list that I agreed to.

I'm a naturalist; one of my quirks. In elementary school, Finley used to color purple elephants and orange gra.s.s and reverse the colors of the rainbow just to p.i.s.s me off. I'd tattle to the teacher, who'd come over to our table and tell Finley what a great job she was doing. Unbelievable. Who knew eight-year-olds could have panic attacks?

I draw all afternoon. Layers and layers of coral and underwater sea plants that flow in the current. Tropical fish and dark drop-offs for added depth. Seaweed, kelp, Mermaid's Fan, and other plants I can't name, but I remember their textures and how they moved.

I'm lost, reliving the moments in the Caribbean. Allowing them to flow from my eyes to my brain and then, finally, out of my fingertips.

Later, the balcony doors open and Finley peers over my shoulder like she often does when I'm working.

”Don't snorkelers wear masks?” she asks.

”Yeah.”

”You didn't put one on Maverick.” She points to the picture I'm working on, and sure enough, I'd forgotten to draw a mask on him. ”Does he have gills?”

I c.o.c.k my head to the side. ”Oh. Oops.”

She sits down in the chair beside me. ”Honest mistake, right?”

”Is there another kind?”

”The kind where you subconsciously didn't want to cover up that gorgeous face of his.” She grins.

I look at the picture again. Yeah, there's some coral in the background. A few swaths of seaweed. A tiny school of fish just off the edge of the page. But the focal point of the picture is Maverick. Actually, he's front and center.

I rip the page out.

”You're blus.h.i.+ng,” my best friend says.

”No,” I retort, even though the heat creeps up my cheeks. ”It's a horrible picture. The lines are wrong, and the colors, and I forgot the d.a.m.n mask.” I crumble the paper and toss it in the reject pile on the floor. ”So how was your night?”

I instantly regret asking. If I'm lucky, I won't get the play-by-play. If I'm not, well, let's just say the power of words can draw up images as if they're memories.

Finn leans forward onto her elbows. ”Not as good as your morning, it seems.”

I'm not responding to that. ”Did you make coffee?”

”It's five o'clock in the afternoon. You want coffee now?”

”Five o'clock?” I repeat, grabbing my phone. Five eleven, actually. ”I didn't realize I've been out here that long.”

”You never do, darling.” She motions to the balcony doors. ”Which is why I have a full pot ready for you.”

”I love you.”

When I come back outside, Finn is flipping through my notebook. ”These are amazing, Ali. You even added teeny bits of super light color to some of them.”

”What? No, I added a ton of color to all of them.”

She shows me my book and turns the pages. I frown, realizing she's right. For the most part, they're all black-and-white. Only a few have a dab or two of color.

I sink into my chair and give her a cup. ”That's not how I drew them.”

”That's progress, Ali. See this?” She circles some coral with her finger. ”That's pink. Pink, this is Ali. Do you remember her?”

I glare at her. They aren't even close to what I'd imagined they'd be.