Quiet as the Grave by Kathleen O`Brien Page B

nearby.
    Don’t, don’t, don’t ….
    Debra’s mind was empty of anything that could be called thoughts. Just the one word, cycling over and over, as if she were trying to communicate to him telepathically. Don’t…don’t break my heart .
    But of course, nothing went through. Rutledge was an action man, not an empathizer. He never noticed nuance. He could see her crying over her checkbook and still ask to borrow money. He would pronounce their lovemaking “the best ever” when she’d felt nothing at all.
    So why would he hear her silently begging now?
    He didn’t. He wrapped his muscular arms around the woman, who was laughing, and twirled her around triumphantly. And then he kissed her, so long and hard and sexy that people passing by started to stare and grin.
    Finally, Debra’s mind formed a real thought.
    But wasn’t it just so typical? Out of the hundreds of outraged, furious, scathing things she could have, should have , thought, she chose this pathetic doormat’s lament.
    You’ll never get that diamond ring now.
    Â 
    â€œO H , S UZIE , I LOVE IT .” Isabel, who had been Suzie’s best friend, roommate and biggest fan during the years they attended art classes together, turned around with tears in her eyes. “It’s…it’s poetry.”
    Well, that was an exaggeration, but Suzie had to admit the portrait had come out okay. She’d painted Isabel lying on Suzie’s sofa, with the light from the window pouring over her. Isabel’s infant daughter, Phoebe, was stretched across her stomach, sleeping.
    Painting babies was tricky. It could go wrong in so many ways…they could be blobby, or way too cute, or just generic.
    But she’d nailed this one. It was all about the light, about the halftones that made mother and infant seem to be separate, and yet not separate. Two bodies, but still, for a little while, at least, one spirit.
    â€œYou always were the best,” Isabel said without any apparent resentment. “Guess that’s why you can make a living at it, and I can’t.”
    Suzie laughed. Isabel’s postmodern cubist canvases hadn’t yet caught on, but they were beautiful, like the inside of a kaleidoscope.
    â€œNo, I can make a living at it because I’ve sold out. I paint what people want. You’ve stuck to your own vision. And besides—” She extended a finger and let Phoebe grab it. “You’ve been busy creating some other cool stuff.”
    In the month since Suzie had last seen Phoebe, the baby had changed so much. She seemed to be growing every minute, features sharpening, consciousness dawning. Someday, Suzie realized, Isabel would be awfully glad to have this painting, which had captured a sacred but painfully ephemeral moment.
    That was the real reason people spent thousands getting their children’s portraits painted. They weren’t driven by vanity, as she’d originally thought, but by a wistful awareness that this child, this day, would never exist again.
    The phone rang. Since she didn’t have any commissions right now—and this picture of Isabel and Phoebe had been a gift—Suzie couldn’t afford not to answer it. Nor could she afford to open with one of the grouchy joke greetings she used to employ back when she was a teenager working at the sheriff’s department in Firefly Glen.
    Snaking her finger free from Phoebe’s little fist, she clicked the “talk” button of the cordless phone and said, “Strickland Studios!” in her most welcoming, professional voice.
    The pause on the other end had a distinctly nervous quality.
    â€œUmm.” The voice was male, and quite young. “This is Gavin Frome. Is this Suzie?”
    Well, that was a surprise. “Hey, Gavin,” she said, putting a genuine smile in her voice. “How are things?”
    â€œPretty good,” he said. “I’m sorry to