Ruth Scofield - Whispers Of The Heart

Even the imagining caused her a queasy stomach.

Quickly, she banished the thought from her mind. She put an exercise disk into her player, and followed the instructions with vigor.

Later, she showered and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, wondering what her sister might be doing on this long Saturday afternoon. Or Kim Smithers, a friend from school that she and Spring had occasion to see. But Kim was married; she and Daniel were never home on Saturdays.

What were Brent Hyatt and young Timothy doing this afternoon?

This would never do, she told herself. She had things of her own to take care of. Like call Curtis Jennings, down at the gallery. Her first art teacher, Curtis frequently framed some of her work, and he had two of her paintings on display now. Perhaps he was ready for another one or two.

She punched his number and he answered on the third ring. “Mirror Image.”

“Hi, Curtis, it’s Autumn. Are you swamped with customer overflow from the festival?”

“Well, Autumn, how ya doin’? Wondered when you’d get around to calling after your move. Yeah, the flower people brought in a few customers. No serious buyers, though. We’ll do better next month when we showcase the fine artists. Want to come down and make yourself useful? Don’t have anybody in the store right now.”

“Actually…”

His voice grew quieter at her hesitation. “Most of the crowd will have cleared out by four, Autumn. You wouldn’t run into enough humanity to scare a rabbit. C’mon, from your new place, it’ll take you all of five minutes.”

“All right. Around four. I do have a couple of things I want framed.”

“Can’t make it, Laureen,” Brent said into the phone the following Wednesday. “Have a lunch date tomorrow with a client. It’ll take up most of the afternoon.”

“Oh, very well,” Laureen murmured. Yet she wasn’t any too happy about his putting her off again.

Laureen had been a friend of Felice’s and, though he appreciated her help after his wife’s death, Laureen had grown far too possessive over the past six months. He had no intention of taking the friendship into anything closer. Lately, he’d taken steps to loosen her clutch. He’d dodged dates with her for weeks.

“Well, at least call the Saxons, will you? They’re new to the Midwest and looking for an architect-builder to build a new house out in Johnson County. I told them you’re the best.”

“Laureen, you know I’d gladly let John handle them,” he mentioned the top designer on his team, “but I’m personally tied up for a couple of months.”

“They don’t want John, Brent. They want you.”

“But my specialty isn’t in personal residences, anymore, Laureen. I’ve—”

“These people have money, Brent, and they can work in your favor when you want backing for some of your projects.”

“Not the kind of projects I want to do out in Johnson County,” he muttered. But he let Laureen run on with her list of why he should take on the new clients she’d found for him. The fact of his work overload mattered little to Laureen. Her philosophy was to take care of the influential and wealthy first; everyone else could be relegated to a back burner. Or someone of lesser importance.

“Do me this favor, Brent,” she begged, using her cajoling tone, low and breathy. “I’ll see to it you won’t lose anything.”

Well, he supposed John could take on another appointment or two for the firm while he met with the Saxons. The extra money he’d make if he took this on would cover some of the expenses for the old church they were refitting. He did need to find an office assistant without delay, though. Work had taken an upswing.

“All right.” He moved things around on his desk, restacking papers with notes of things he’d rather be doing. “But not tomorrow. It’ll have to be on Friday.”

Brent hung up the phone after setting a time with Laureen, and leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms high above his head. He’d worked late for the first time in weeks—since his offices had moved to the new location, in fact—trying to wrap up several loose ends. Now hunger gnawed at his middle.

He rose and moved to stand at the front window. Dusk lay the shadows deep over the quiet street. Without the bustling business day, it seemed almost deserted, and he wondered about the fabled residents. Did Autumn really have neighbors at night or was she alone in that building? Alone on the street at night. He hadn’t thought about it too closely before now.

Even as he wondered, a light switched on in her building. Third floor. The working couple of whom the Realtor had boasted, he assumed.

He let out a deep breath, not realizing he’d held it. He didn’t like the idea of Autumn living so much alone. She seemed altogether too vulnerable for his peace of mind.

Wondering where those protective feelings came from, he tipped his head up toward the top floor. Lights streamed from her apartment. She was there—home.

He picked up his phone and punched her number. She answered on the second ring, a quick, almost breathless, “Hello…”

“Hi, Autumn, it’s Brent. Am I disturbing you?”

“Uh, oh, hello, Brent. No, I…I was expecting my sister to call.”

“Should I call back, then?”

“No. It isn’t important. We’ll talk later.”

“Well, then, have you had supper yet?”

“No. Well, I had…yes, I’ve eaten.”

Had she? He wondered if she’d really eaten a meal or merely nibbled at something. People living alone tended to skimp on meals or made do with very little.

He knew that for a fact. After his wife died, during those first awful months, he’d let himself dwindle down two sizes. He’d made sure his son was fed, but he’d barely cooked anything for himself.

“I haven’t and I’m starved. Come out and have a bite with me. I’ve worked until just this minute and—” he glanced at his watch “—no wonder I’m hungry. It’s way after seven and I’m a guy used to eating early.”

“I don’t think—”

“Aw, c’mon, Autumn, take pity on a starving man. I hate eating alone.”

“Where’s Timmy? Don’t you have to go home to your little boy?”

“He’s with my mom for the night. They have something cooked up together about making mobiles for Children’s Mercy Hospital next week.” He changed his tone to a persuasive one. “Just dinner, Autumn. There’s an Italian place a couple of blocks from here that’s not crowded in the middle of the week. I’ll bring you right home.”

Her hesitation seemed like a stone wall. He was gearing himself up for a last firm refusal when she asked almost timidly, “Not crowded, huh. Would you mind making a stop for me while we’re out?”

“Sure, we can do that.”

“All right,” she capitulated. “If you don’t mind. I’ll meet you downstairs in…fifteen minutes?”

He waited in front of her door, leaning on the passenger side of his car. She smiled at him, a tentative offering, but she didn’t glance away. He felt hopeful.

“If you don’t mind, can we stop at Mirror Images first?” She held forth a large, maroon portfolio case. “I have to drop off a couple of additional paintings for framing. It won’t take long.”

“Sure, let’s go.” He held the car door wide for her, then put her case in the trunk and started the motor.

“Where, exactly?” he asked.

She directed him down the hill, and he pulled up in front of the small gallery wedged between an empty corner store and one featuring used clothing. Only a night-light appeared to illuminate the first floor.

“It appears to be closed,” he commented. “Does the gallery usually stay open late?”