that might be dead, or should she? She didn't have an answer, but at least the door wasn't closed anymore.
CHAPTER SIX
Slowly Sara descended the stairs, her slippers quiet on the heavy carpet. She gazed around in amazement. When Roarke had brought her here weeks ago, she hadn't had time to really see anything. "It's lovely," she whispered, awed by the serene beauty of the foyer. The wide, open arch on the left revealed the living room, and she regarded the elegant furnishings for a few minutes. She could partially see the dining room through another arch at the end of the living room, its massive crystal chandelier sparkling in the sunlight, tossing prisms of color on the cool white walls.
She noticed two doors on the other side of the entry. One was closed, but the other was slightly ajar. Peering into the slight opening, she pushed the door open and recognized the room from Martha's description. This had to be her den, she thought. Paintings, paints, and easels were stacked against the one wall, and an easel was standing in the corner just as Martha had told her.
She went over to the easel and examined the canvas that was propped on its crossbar. The firm material was covered with a pale wash of colors. She reached out and touched it.
How did I know it's called a wash
? she wondered as she ran her hand over the resilient canvas. Turning around, she scanned the entire room. It wasn't large, but was bright with the light coming through the wall of windows. The only furniture was a love seat, a small table, and one chair. There were books on a row of shelves against the wall by the door—books about painters, museums, galleries. Paintings hung on the third wall—a profusion of paintings with no rhyme or reason, a riot of color and subjects. When she moved closer, she realized they all had a single name on them, just Alexander, no first name. But she knew they were hers.
Moving over to the stack of canvases that leaned against the first wall, she bent over and sorted through them, glancing at each one quickly. Then she stopped abruptly and pulled one out and placed it in front of the stack. She backed up to the love seat and sat down and studied it in rapt concentration. It was the finished painting she had seen herself sketching in her flashback. It was Roarke sitting on the beach, his hair ruffled by the ocean breeze, the sand, tall grass, ocean, and sky surrounding him, making him an integral part of the scene. It was bold and exciting, just like Roarke.
Leaning back, she looked around her in wonder. Even though so much of herself was missing, she somehow knew she was good: She had talent. It was a part of her, a part that hadn't disappeared with the accident or her memory loss. It was as instinctive as breathing, writing, talking, and loving Roarke. She was impatient to pick up a brush and paint. Maybe through her painting and her loving she could find all the missing pieces and put herself back together.
She picked up a sketch pad that lay on top of the table, opened it, and saw a drawing of a garden and an old woman in a floppy straw hat stooped over, digging in the earth around some bushes. She tore it out of the pad and, as she stared at the bent-over figure, she picked up a pencil and began sketching a face on the tablet.
The lines of the face began to take form and shape. The eyes were lively but held a hint of pain, or was it sadness? The mouth was small, but its smile filled the face. Wrinkles were a cross-stitch over the skin, but they added character to the features. The hair was brushed back severely away from the broad forehead and caught in a large chignon at the nape.
Sara laid the pencil down; it was the face of the old woman she had dreamed about, and the face was still a vivid imprint on her mind.
"I wondered where you had gone!"
Sara's head shot up, startled by the voice that had intruded on her brooding.
"I went up to see if you wanted some lunch, and I couldn't find you." Martha sat
CHAPTER SIX
Slowly Sara descended the stairs, her slippers quiet on the heavy carpet. She gazed around in amazement. When Roarke had brought her here weeks ago, she hadn't had time to really see anything. "It's lovely," she whispered, awed by the serene beauty of the foyer. The wide, open arch on the left revealed the living room, and she regarded the elegant furnishings for a few minutes. She could partially see the dining room through another arch at the end of the living room, its massive crystal chandelier sparkling in the sunlight, tossing prisms of color on the cool white walls.
She noticed two doors on the other side of the entry. One was closed, but the other was slightly ajar. Peering into the slight opening, she pushed the door open and recognized the room from Martha's description. This had to be her den, she thought. Paintings, paints, and easels were stacked against the one wall, and an easel was standing in the corner just as Martha had told her.
She went over to the easel and examined the canvas that was propped on its crossbar. The firm material was covered with a pale wash of colors. She reached out and touched it.
How did I know it's called a wash
? she wondered as she ran her hand over the resilient canvas. Turning around, she scanned the entire room. It wasn't large, but was bright with the light coming through the wall of windows. The only furniture was a love seat, a small table, and one chair. There were books on a row of shelves against the wall by the door—books about painters, museums, galleries. Paintings hung on the third wall—a profusion of paintings with no rhyme or reason, a riot of color and subjects. When she moved closer, she realized they all had a single name on them, just Alexander, no first name. But she knew they were hers.
Moving over to the stack of canvases that leaned against the first wall, she bent over and sorted through them, glancing at each one quickly. Then she stopped abruptly and pulled one out and placed it in front of the stack. She backed up to the love seat and sat down and studied it in rapt concentration. It was the finished painting she had seen herself sketching in her flashback. It was Roarke sitting on the beach, his hair ruffled by the ocean breeze, the sand, tall grass, ocean, and sky surrounding him, making him an integral part of the scene. It was bold and exciting, just like Roarke.
Leaning back, she looked around her in wonder. Even though so much of herself was missing, she somehow knew she was good: She had talent. It was a part of her, a part that hadn't disappeared with the accident or her memory loss. It was as instinctive as breathing, writing, talking, and loving Roarke. She was impatient to pick up a brush and paint. Maybe through her painting and her loving she could find all the missing pieces and put herself back together.
She picked up a sketch pad that lay on top of the table, opened it, and saw a drawing of a garden and an old woman in a floppy straw hat stooped over, digging in the earth around some bushes. She tore it out of the pad and, as she stared at the bent-over figure, she picked up a pencil and began sketching a face on the tablet.
The lines of the face began to take form and shape. The eyes were lively but held a hint of pain, or was it sadness? The mouth was small, but its smile filled the face. Wrinkles were a cross-stitch over the skin, but they added character to the features. The hair was brushed back severely away from the broad forehead and caught in a large chignon at the nape.
Sara laid the pencil down; it was the face of the old woman she had dreamed about, and the face was still a vivid imprint on her mind.
"I wondered where you had gone!"
Sara's head shot up, startled by the voice that had intruded on her brooding.
"I went up to see if you wanted some lunch, and I couldn't find you." Martha sat
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