Read Online The Gallery by Barbara Steiner - Free Book Online Page B

take it, she realized. That was why she had left school. The murder of Katherine Taylor sickened her. Johnny’s pain was her pain. Mary Lou’s fear had echoed her fear of the night before.
    â€œI wish I could have discovered that place without Katherine being murdered,” LaDonna said in a low voice. She didn’t want any of the class to hear her, to join in this conversation.
    â€œYou knew her?”
    â€œNot really. But I had met her. That room was near where Johnny practices. He introduced me to her.”
    â€œI understand your feelings, LaDonna.” Roddy touched her shoulder, something he’d rarely done before, observing the unwritten rule of teachers not touching students, even those who so badly needed the touch of a friendly hand. “I could be called a Pollyanna, but I like to think life has balance. That good can come from evil. If your finding that inner eye within yourself from which you can create paintings like this came from Katherine’s death, that can be some comfort to you.”
    â€œI would never have thought of that, Roddy. I’d like to feel that way. Thanks for sharing your feelings, your thoughts about this.”
    â€œThat’s what teachers are for.” He changed his tone of voice to teasing. She had seldom heard him serious for long.
    â€œRoddy.” She could tease, too. “You said something in his work touched me. My other teacher. How do you know it was a he?”
    â€œMy sincere apology, LaDonna. I try to be politically correct. Something in his or her work touched you. Was the artist you have taken as mentor female?”
    She grinned. “No, but I just wanted you to admit it could have been.”
    â€œDone. When will you bring your second work in?”
    â€œTomorrow. It was still wet.”
    â€œI’ll look forward to seeing it. Now get started on another right now.” Roddy moved to stand behind Merilee Morris, who was staring at them, her eyes red, as if she had been crying. LaDonna wondered if Merilee had bought into Eric Hunter’s flirting ways only to get hurt when she realized he came on to all women that way.
    Not my problem, she thought. She set the painting of the yearning child on the floor in front of her easel. She prepared another canvas board, a bigger one this time. Then she stood and stared at it. The blank canvas stared back. She had read about writers facing a white page every morning, or maybe now a blank computer screen. This must be the same feeling.
    She had no feeling left, she realized. She had completely emptied her emotions into the picture she’d painted in the basement room. Or—or—she didn’t want to complete her thought.
    Eric Hunter kept her from having to, and at the same time restored her strong feelings. He stood staring at the picture on the floor. Then he leaned over and picked it up. She didn’t want him to touch it, but it was too late.
    He leaned it on her easel, ignoring the wet white gesso. Stepping back, he caught his chin between his thumb and first finger. She held her breath, not meaning to, not wanting to care what he thought of her work.
    â€œ You painted this?”
    His tone of voice said she didn’t. Said he didn’t believe that she had. The statement restored her own doubts, but she would never admit them to Eric.
    â€œAre you saying I didn’t?” Her voice was sharp, but controlled. She didn’t care what he thought.
    â€œThe style looks really familiar. I’ve seen pictures a lot like it before.”
    â€œThe Mexican painter Orozco painted in a similar style. Maybe that’s what you’re seeing.”
    â€œI don’t know his work,” Eric admitted.
    â€œIn order to paint or teach you should have a wide knowledge of other painters.” Slam dunk. She loved criticizing him.
    He never even noticed the sharp twist of her knife. Some really sensitive guy we have here, wanting to paint and teach art,