Page 45 of Breaking All The Rules
“Yeah.” Bea laughed as she thought about some of those creations. “It was.”
“Well, be my guest,” Suzanne said with a smile. “There are a couple of new sketch pads in there, as well as pencils and pastels and charcoal and all kinds of things. Have a dig around.”
Bea’s hands shook at the possibility, her heartbeat picking up tempo. It had been a long time since she’d free-sketched anything, and she had no idea why she was even trying, but suddenly it felt like the most important thing in the world to do right now.
Grabbing what she needed, she opened a medium-size pad and flipped to the first pristine white page. She closed it again, suddenly intimidated beyond belief. But something urged her on, something steely and stronger and bigger than her—maybe bigger than the whole lake. The same something that had urged her that night to throw a dart at a map, and she took a deep breath, flipped it open again, and stared out over the water.
How she sketched anything with her hands trembling so hard, Bea had no idea. But once she’d started, she couldn’t stop, and there was nothing but the scratch of charcoal on paper and the soft swoosh of sable on canvas between her and Suzanne for an hour. The sun warmed them, birds turned lazy circles above them, an occasional fish jumped in the distance, but Bea wasn’t conscious of any of it.
When she was done, she stared at it disbelievingly. She’d brought the lake to life in black and white, and a strange swell of pride and accomplishment mixed with the almost driving need to do it again. But that compulsion didn’t fill her with joy and wonder. It filled her with foreboding. This was the slippery slope she heard her grandmother talking to her father about late one night when she’d been twelve and had asked if she could do art lessons after school.
Do you want her turning out like her mother?
Bea had recoiled at the prospect then, because although she’d loved her mom, living with her artistic temperament had been full of highs and lows. Often erratic and unsettled and sometimes scary. Like that time her mother had left her with someone she barely knew for two whole days so she could go off and paint the wildflower bloom on Carrizo Plain.
It had been fine, the woman had been kind and a good cook, but Bea had been frightened of her big dog and anxious her mom might forget her.
Bea hadn’t wanted to be that person at twelve. Someone who made her father beside himself with worry as to their whereabouts. She didn’t want to be that person now. And yet…this past hour, she’d felt that old connection with her mother stir again. The one she’d always felt whenever she’d watched her mom paint.
And that felt good.
“Damn,” Suzanne said, looking over as Bea put the charcoal back in the basket and stared down at what she’d produced. “You’re good.”
Bea blinked back tears that had sprung from nowhere. She shrugged. “It’s okay.”
Suzanne laughed, then leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, “I hate to break it to you, Bea, but I think you might just be an artist after all.”
Laughing nervously, because no…this was just doodling…not art—she was a scribbler, not an artist—Bea got to her feet. “Well, thanks for the company, but I’ve got get going.” She had a busy day of nothing planned.
As she was about to tear off the sheet, Suzanne reached out and stilled Bea’s hands. “Keep the sketch pad. Just in case the muse strikes again.”
Muse. That’s what her mother used to say—I’m waiting for the muse to strike—and the urge to toss the pad into the lake was almost overwhelming. But Bea…couldn’t. So she nodded, said, “Thanks,” then bade Suzanne goodbye before walking away on unsteady legs.
…
On Wednesday afternoon, Austin pushed open a gate and strode along the path that led to the neat pale-yellow clapboard bungalow on Walnut Street. The grass was immaculately cut, the edges ruthlessly manicured so there wasn’t a single blade of grass touching the bordering concrete edging. He walked up two steps to the porch and strode to the front door, which was a deep, glossy brown with a shiny brass knocker at nose height. The door was flanked by a half dozen potted plants of various sizes lined up against the outside wall of the house.
These had to be the reason he was here.
He’d been walking out the door to head home at the end of his shift when Arlo tasked him with this call. Something about a missing tiara and some plants being knocked over. It had all been very vague, but Arlo had wanted him to take care of it, so Austin had gritted his teeth and obliged.
Normally he’d have smiled and said, On it, boss, because policing in a small town was usually about petty things, and he liked that, but he hadn’t seen Beatrice since the weekend, and all he’d been able to think about was stopping by her place after work, and anything that delayed this plan was an irritation.
It was his fault for staying away. And not to be all cool and flippant and whatevs, baby, but because he didn’t want to come on too strong or appear too eager or desperate. She was finding her feet and making friends, which was a good thing. It was obvious she was still pretty pissed at what had happened to make her part ways with her old life, and he wanted to be a fun part of her new life, not some guy who was coming on all heavy from the get-go.
Yes, they’d flirted, and Austin was pretty sure what was happening between them was inevitable, if she felt this tug even half as much as he did. But he wanted Beatrice to want it, too, for it to be fun and natural and something she sought. Not something he pushed, not some agenda he was following.
Austin got the impression that she didn’t really take him seriously as a boyfriend or a potential partner because of his age, and he got that. Which was why he was happy—well…resigned, anyway—to kick back and let it unfold at its own pace, because he’d never felt like this about a woman in his life and he didn’t want to screw it up.
So he’d been playing it cool, but four days was enough. There’d be line dancing at Jack’s tonight—maybe she’d like to go with him?
But first, he had a tiara problem to solve.
Austin gave two brisk taps, and Old Mrs. Jennings promptly answered the door. She wore glasses with wire frames, and her white hair was pulled back in the same clasp she used to wear when she worked at the post office when he was a kid. “Hello there, Junior,” she said with a smile. “I’m so sorry to disturb you over this. It’s silly, really.”
“Not a bother, Mrs. Jennings.” Austin smiled reassuringly, despite how much he was coming to despise his old nickname. “You can always contact us if something is concerning you; that’s what we’re here for.”
Austin stepped back as she opened the door and said, “Come in, dear.”
