Read Online See No Evil by Gayle Roper - Free Book Online Page B

actually had the nerve to smile. “Don’t overreact or anything.”
    I glared at him. “Fine. Make fun. Go back to your meetings. I’m going to keep sewing while I think about this whole mess and try to figure out a way to keep from being killed.”
    â€œLet me know when you have any good ideas,” he said and pulled his PDA from the clip on his belt.
    I studied him, watching his total absorption in whateverwas recorded there. He was definitely a good-looking man, sort of a young Sean Connery without the Scots accent and with wavy hair. Somehow his mere presence made me feel less vulnerable.
    But how in the world could he concentrate on something as mundane as work in the middle of this crisis? I felt as wired as if I’d drunk a whole case of super-caffeinated cola.
    â€œHave you got anything cold I can drink?” he asked, startling me.
    â€œI thought you were concentrating.” His eyes were still on his PDA.
    â€œAlways something to do, something to check up on, but a man still gets thirsty.”
    â€œSoda, iced tea and lemonade.”
    â€œLemonade would be good.”
    I got to my feet, and Tipsy immediately stretched his legs out over the cushion I had vacated.
    â€œI saw that,” I hissed at him.
    He curled his furry lip.
    I started for the kitchen. Gray hadn’t yet looked up. He muttered something under his breath. Iwas surprised when he slipped the PDA into its holder and pulled himself off the sofa. He followed me to the kitchen, the newspaper under his arm.
    He sat in the same chair he’d used last night, a fifties red vinyl seat and back with legs and frame of chrome. The red Formica table with chrome legs matched the chairs. The set was one of Lucy’s “treasures,” picked up from an estate sale at an old farmhouse.
    Frankly I thought most of Lucy’s treasures were tacky Elvis-on-black-velvet sorts of stuff, but I liked the bright, cheery feel of the red kitchen set. The week after she brought the table and chairs home, I’d made red-and-white checkedcurtains for the window over the sink and the glass-paned back door.
    Gray studied a watercolor on the wall beside the red table as I pulled the pitcher of lemonade from the fridge. The painting was a typical Chester County scene, a covered bridge and stream with a dramatic cloud-strewn sky bathed in the setting sun.
    â€œYours?” he asked.
    I glanced up from pouring and nodded. I’d painted it during my representational Peter Skullthorpe/Richard Bollinger phase, though my abilities were far less than those of the men I emulated.
    â€œNice. Looks good up there.”
    â€œThanks.” The sad thing was that nice was the best that could be said not only of this painting but all my paintings. I had technique and a good color sense, but I didn’t have that indefinable something that made a true artist rise above the many who painted. This picture hung over the table because it looked good in the room, not because it was good.
    I spent a lot of time talking to the Lord about my art, and on cynical days I knew it was all my parents’ fault.
    â€œLook, Daddy,” I used to say when I was little. I’d hold out another of my pictures for him to see when he came home from work. The kitchen table where I was working was my studio, littered as it was with markers, a shoebox full of broken and stubby crayons and dreams. “I’m going to be an artist when I grow up.”
    â€œDon’t try to be an artist, Anna,” my father always told me as he surveyed my pictures. “They never make any money. Maybe teach art, but don’t make art your career.”
    â€œNow, Tom, let her alone,” my gentle mother countered. “She’s only five.” Or eight. Or twelve. “And she’s good.”
    â€œYeah, but good isn’t enough, Maggie. Not with art.”
    While still a kid, I vowed to myself that I’d show him I was good enough. I