Part 22 (1/2)
A few minutes later, Sam sat curled up on the couch with Roxy next to her while Anne stood in the middle of the room with her hands on her hips.
”Where do you want the easel?” she asked.
Sam's eyes scanned the room, noticing the play of light throughout the cabin. ”I think over there,” she said, pointing, ”close to the French doors.”
”Alrighty, then,” Anne replied, rubbing her hands together.
While Anne went to work setting up the easel, Sam opened the sketch pad and, picking up a piece of charcoal, gazed at the pure white paper. Her hand, poised above the sketch pad, trembled. Where to begin? Let your mind go, she told herself. Taking a deep breath, she made a swift line then softened it with the pad of her thumb. After glancing up at Anne, who was now studiously reading the easel's a.s.sembly instructions, she made a second line, followed by another, then another. Her shoulders relaxed and the world fell away as an image began to appear on the paper. She paused and rubbed her nose. No, too harsh-more shadow. Sam smeared the outline. Another swoop of the charcoal, and the image gained definition. A smile tugged at her lips. Not bad-the focal point is good, but the balance is a little off. She concentrated on adding more emphasis on the left. She was adding detail when a shadow fell across the sketch pad. Tearing her eyes away from the pad, she looked up to see Anne towering over her.
”Here, have some iced tea,” she said, extending a gla.s.s. ”You look like you could use it.”
Like a diver emerging from the ocean, Sam needed a moment to get her bearings. With gla.s.sy eyes, she scanned the living room. An easel sat in the corner with brushes laid out neatly on the tray. Other art supplies were arranged within easy reach on the shelves next to it. She noticed the shadows creeping across the floor. What time was it? Her eyes flared as she noticed the clock. She'd been at it for over an hour. Dropping the charcoal and flipping the sketch pad shut, she flexed her fingers before accepting the gla.s.s from Anne.
”Thanks,” she said, and drained the tea in one long gulp. Uncurling her legs, she groaned softly as blood rushed to cramped muscles.
Anne shook her head. ”You can't stay in one position for so long. You need to stretch every so often.”
Placing the gla.s.s on the coffee table, Sam slowly rose to her feet and arched her back. ”You're right,” she replied, but Anne wasn't listening. Her attention was focused on the sketch pad lying on the couch.
With a chuckle, Sam lifted it. ”Do you want to take a look?”
”May I?”
Sam tugged on her bottom lip and hesitated. She wasn't completely happy with the piece, but for a first attempt after such a long spell, she supposed it was okay. Flipping the pad open, she handed it to Anne and waited nervously for her reaction.
”It's me,” Anne said in a hushed voice.
Sam let go of the breath she didn't know she was holding. ”I'm glad you think so,” she said lightly.
Anne took her eyes off the drawing and looked at Sam in surprise. ”Are you kidding? This is terrific.”
”Here,” Sam said, taking the sketch pad away from Anne and picking up a pencil. With a flourish, she signed the drawing and, removing it from the pad, handed it to Anne.
”Seriously? I can keep it?”
”Sure,” she said, flus.h.i.+ng with pleasure. ”It's the least I can do. You've paid me the highest compliment an artist can receive. You're happy with-”
Roxy's loud bark as she shot off the couch interrupted her. Running to the door, the dog stood on her hind legs and peered out the window. Her fur stood in a ridge along her spine while a soft growl rumbled deep in her chest.
”Looks like someone's here,” Anne said as she placed her portrait on the easel. Crossing the room, she grabbed the dog's collar and used her knee to ease Roxy away from the door. ”It's Dr. Van Horn,” she said with a glance over her shoulder at Sam.
”He wasn't supposed to come until Friday.” Sam sank to the couch. ”Dad called him.” She buried her head in her hands. ”Great-now I'll have to listen to his lecture, too.”
Not letting go of the dog's collar, Anne reached over to the counter and picked up Roxy's leash. ”Why don't I take her for a walk and give you some privacy,” she said, snapping on the leash.
Sam lifted her head. ”Coward,” she said in a wry voice.
”You'll be okay. If you can handle your dad, you can handle Dr. Van Horn.”
Anne swung the door open and Sam heard her greet Jackson over Roxy's barking as she stepped out onto the porch. With a sigh, she settled back on the couch and waited for the inevitable.
Without speaking, Jackson strode into the cabin and walked over to the couch. Sitting next to her, he gathered her in his arms in a tight hug.
”Samantha, I'm so sorry,” he murmured into her ear.
Stunned, Sam pushed away from his hug. ”For what?”
”Lawrence talked to me. I've been wrong about so many things and I can only hope you'll forgive me.”
”What things?”
He pulled his fingers through his hair. ”Where do I begin? I misjudged what happened at Fritz's party . . . I allowed your father to convince me that you should be in residential treatment . . . I've ignored all your concerns and treated you like a child instead of the woman I love.” He gave her a wry grin. ”How's that for starters?”
”Pretty good,” Sam replied, and held up her hand, ”but let's back up. You said that the residential facility was Dad's idea?”
Jackson drew back. ”Yes. Why?”
”He claimed it was your idea.”
”He must have misunderstood. He did ask me about such places and I told him what I knew, but he was the one who brought it up and suggested that a facility might be the best place for you.”
Sam's eyes narrowed as she studied him. His expression was guileless. He could be telling the truth. It wouldn't be the first time in her experience that she'd seen her father twist the facts to suit his needs.
Picking up her hand, Jackson planted a soft kiss on her knuckles. ”You believe me, don't you?” His voice rose on a hopeful note. ”Please say you forgive me.”
”Jackson, I-”
He lightly touched her lips with his finger, silencing her. ”No, there's something else I need to explain . . . I thought about it driving up here.” He dropped his hand and leaned back, giving her s.p.a.ce. ”In my desire to keep peace between you and your father, I haven't been as supportive of you as I should have been. I can see now how it must've appeared that I was always siding with your father.”
”Well, I know Dad-”
”It was a mistake,” he interrupted. ”And all I can say in my defense is that I let my own family's dynamics overrule what should've been my main priority-you and the life we can build together.”
She felt her heart soften as she thought about the stories Jackson had told her about his childhood-stories about how his parents had used him as a weapon to hurt each other. About how they'd treated him more like a prize to win in their battle with each other than a child to love in his own right. About the demands that they had placed on him.
When Sam said nothing, Jackson tentatively scooted closer. Just like Roxy did when she knew she'd been naughty. She relaxed against the couch as memories of what her life with Jackson had been like before her attack came flooding back. They'd been so good together. Shared interests, shared pa.s.sions-he had been not only her lover, but her best friend. Since the attack, though, the dynamics of their relations.h.i.+p had s.h.i.+fted. Instead of partners, they'd been playing out the roles of caretaker and patient. Somewhere along the line, mistrust had crept in. She glanced over at him. So handsome . . . so sincere. She felt the love she'd been unable to show for so long flicker back to life. Could they go back to the beginning? Without her father's constant interference, she felt that maybe they could.
”Jackson,” she began, leaning toward him.
”Sam!” he suddenly exclaimed, and stood. Walking over to the easel, he picked up her charcoal drawing of Anne. ”This is wonderful.” He held it at arm's length as his eyes roamed over the portrait. ”You've captured Anne's strength, her determination, yet at the same time shown the vulnerability she tries to hide.” Shaking his head, he propped the portrait back on the easel and returned to the couch. ”I've always thought it was wrong for you to give up your art.”
”Really? You did?”
He nodded. ”It's a shame for a talent like yours to go to waste. I'd love to see your work shown at a gallery someday.” He dipped his head shyly. ”It's always been a secret dream of mine for you, but I knew how your father felt, and didn't want to interfere.”
Moved by his confession, Sam threw her arms around his neck. She felt the old pa.s.sion for him begin to spark. It had been so long. Staring into his eyes, she lifted her mouth to his and pressed it firmly against his lips. He gave a start of surprise, but then relaxed into her, deepening the kiss. Sam's belly clenched and her grip on his neck tightened. Leaning back, she pulled him down on top of her while his hand stole up her side. A long sigh escaped.