“Thank you for your business, Ms. McKay. I can have the piece sent to your home if you wish.”
“No, that won’t be necessary.”
“Cash or charge?”
“Cash,” said Ms. McKay. She pulled out her wallet. “But I’d really appreciate it if you could wrap it really pretty. It’s a gift for my daughter. She’s moving into her first apartment.”
Desiree reached beneath the counter and pulled out a roll of gold foil wrapping paper. “That must be exciting,” she said.
“Exciting for her, but sad for me. I have a bad case of empty-nest syndrome already.” She laughed lightly.
“You’ll be fine. Living in New York, you’ll find plenty to keep you busy. Before you know it, you’ll be redecorating her room!”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, taking the wrapped parcel and another look around. “Thanks so much. Maybe I’ll stop in again.”
“Please do. And feel free to bring friends.”
She smiled. “I certainly will.” She glanced at the countertop and noticed the oversized postcard. “Oh, a gallery exhibit.”
“Yes. Mine,” Desiree said. “Late September.”
Ms. McKay picked up the card and tucked it in her purse. “I’ll put it on my calendar.”
“Bring friends,” Desiree called out as the woman left. She took a breath and silently prayed that Carl would be preparing to leave. But upon looking in his direction she realized her prayer had gone unanswered. She put her smile in place and walked over to where he stood.
“I really need to get back in the studio and try to finish up, Carl.”
“Wouldn’t you like some company?”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”
He cleared his throat. “Well, you have to eat sometime. Why don’t I come by about eight and we can—”
“Carl.” She held her palms up. “Look, I really appreciate everything that you’re doing for me with this exhibit. I really do. But all we have is a business arrangement. Nothing more. And when these paintings sell, I’ll pay you back every dime that you invested.”
“I don’t want your money, Desiree. I thought I made that clear.”
She raised her chin. “Unfortunately, Carl, that’s all I can offer you.”
“Desi! Telephone,” Cynthia called out from the front desk.
“Thanks. I’ll be right there.” She turned back to Carl. “I really have to go.”
“Fine. But this isn’t finished, Desiree. As you may have gathered by now, I’m a very determined man.” With that he turned and walked out.
Desiree let out a sigh and headed toward the front desk. “Who’s on the phone?”
“No one. You looked like you needed rescuing. I dialed the front desk from my cell phone.”
Desiree shook her head and laughed. “Thanks. Look, I’m going back up to see if I can get my head back into what I was doing. Close up when you’re done.”
“Sure. I’ll see you tomorrow. Need anything before I go? Want me to order some food?”
“Hmm, no, thanks. Maybe I’ll order something later. See ya.”
* * *
Upstairs in her studio, Desiree put on her smock and returned to her unfinished work. It was an abstract of 125th Street in Harlem back in the bebop days, complete with strings of nightclubs and men and women dressed in the finery of the era. It was almost the way she wanted it, but not quite. She picked up the brush, dipped it in the electric-blue paint that was her signature color and went to work.
The next time she looked up it was nearly 2:00 a.m. Her eyes were burning, her fingers were stiff and she’d swear her back was locked in a permanently hunched-over position. Slowly she stood and felt every muscle in her body scream in agony. She’d been sitting in the same spot for nearly nine hours straight. But when she sat back and looked at what she had accomplished, every ounce of pain was worth it. This was her best piece yet. She’d put her foot in it, as the folks would say. If it wasn’t so late she’d call Rachel, the one person other than Cynthia who could understand her elation, her pride. But it would have to keep until tomorrow.
Desiree picked up the canvas from the easel and carried it across the expansive room to the other row of paintings that were in various degrees of drying. Some she would return to and add some additional touches, maybe another layer, others were fine as they were, while a few just didn’t make the grade—at least in her mind.
She turned out the light on that side of the loft, took a quick shower and crawled into bed. If she wanted to put in a full day tomorrow she’d have to be up by six. Barely four hours of sleep, but she would do what needed to be done. Her dream was within the palm of her hand and she had no intention of losing her grasp on it. Her work was all she had since she’d walked out of Lincoln’s life. She’d claimed that he could not compete with her real love—her art. How many nights had she lain awake on the fence of indecision: let him go and simply pursue her dream or cling to him and lose a part of her soul? Or—tell him the truth? She’d made her choice. Yet, the idea of them as one was never more than a whisper away from her thoughts.
As she drifted off to sleep, unwanted images of Lincoln danced in and out of her head. She tried to force them away, send them back where they belonged, but she was too tired to fight them any longer and finally drifted off to sleep with her and Lincoln dancing under the moonlight.
Sometime during the night, the light from the moon turned a blazing brilliant red, the clouds turned thick and black, choking her, seeming to enter her pores and fill her lungs. The cool evening turned warm…warmer, until her skin felt as if it were baking beneath the desert sun. The stars became blazing flashes of lights, spinning, and the sounds of her and Lincoln’s laughter turned to screams and wails. She tried to open her eyes and couldn’t, the black clouds were too thick, blinding her. She couldn’t breathe as the room grew hotter. Coughing and gagging, she struggled to get up in the darkness as the horror of what was happening engulfed her.
Fire! Fire was everywhere. Flames leaped from the doorway, blocking her escape as they ran across the ceiling, licking the beams like a hungry lover. She lifted her gown to her face to cover her nose and mouth and stumbled blindly toward the windows, banging in futility against the reinforced glass.
She crawled along the floor, searching for a pocket of air, praying that someone would find her, get her out of this hell. Tears, mixed with terror and black soot, slid down her cheeks. The last thing she remembered before everything went totally black was a thunderous crash, the sound of breaking glass, and then nothing.
Chapter 2
“Desi, Desi… Can you hear me, sweetheart?”
Desiree struggled toward the sound of the familiar voice, hoping that it would finally lead her toward safety. The air in her lungs
