Color My World Read online

  Missy was about to say, “It’s nothing, you’ve been writing crime novels for too long—you’re suspicious of everything.” The words were on her lips. But what came out instead, in a torrent of emotion that few on the island had ever seen, was “That was my life you just described. That was me.”

  Chapter Three

  Ella took a long sip of coffee and said, simply, “Tell me.”

  Missy wrapped her chilled hands around her mug of tea, staring for a long moment into its golden depths. Taking a deep breath, she looked up at Ella, and began.

  “Levi knows some of my story. I could not, in good conscience, come to work for him, move into the cottage and later, freely wander in and out of this house—his home—without telling him about me.” Missy laughed bitterly. “The man is such a softie. I could have been an axe-murderer for all he knew. He looked at my beat-up shoulder and thought he knew everything about me. He was sure I was an abused wife or girlfriend, on the run. And he gave me shelter. That’s when I knew he was Dr. Stray Dog Magnet, not Hottie Rock Star. Although he is pretty hot.”

  Nodding at the near perfect-description of her husband, Ella patted Missy’s hand. She motioned her hand in a “go on” gesture, encouraging her friend to continue.

  “So, he was wrong about me. I wasn’t an abused wife. But, I was running away. From my life.” Missy took a sip of tea and glanced out the window at the still green vista, the bright blue sky. “I can’t get used to not seeing snow on December first. I still miss the snow.” She turned back to Ella. “I grew up in Boston. Back Bay Boston. My parents were successful importers, very committed to their careers. And to each other. My mother got pregnant at 45. She thought I was the onset of menopause. But, I was, as she later told me, an unfortunate accident. I think she considered an abortion but my father was Catholic and against it. And, as it turned out, she was almost five months pregnant when she discovered her upset stomach and fatigue was me and not chronic indigestion.”

  A disdainful snort from Ella had Missy ruefully smiling. “Yeah, I know. What kind of mother tells her daughter that she was a mistake? My mother, that’s who. She got through the pregnancy easily and I was born without much fuss. I think she was back in the office within three weeks. And I was in the hands of a nurse, then a nanny, then the housekeeper and cook. I was in pre-school and after-school programs from the time I entered kindergarten. Someone on staff dropped me off and picked me up. The housekeeper supervised my homework and the cook gave me breakfast and dinner. Sometimes, two or three days would go by when I did not see my parents.”

  Missy paused. Ella’s face was unreadable but her fingers were tightly wrapped around her coffee mug, knuckles white against her pale golden skin.

  “Don’t get me wrong. It was no great loss. Many kids I knew were in similar situations. Busy parents, with lots of money, who could hire people to do everything parents are supposed to do. Except be parents. But, I was not unhappy. I liked being alone with my books, my dolls, and my stuffed animals. I read to them, made them tea parties. I took piano lessons for years and I would set up all my ‘babies’ on the settee in the music room and perform for them.” But she had been lonely—and the loneliness of those years swept over Missy as she related her story to Ella. Shaking off the cold fingers of the past, she continued.

  “I graduated from prep school and went off to college. Smith—my mother’s alma mater. I wanted to major in education; I wanted to teach little kids. But, my parents pushed me toward something with more of a future, as they described it. I got a double degree in government and economics, spent a year in Paris. My parents were from France, so they were pleased that I was being exposed to my heritage. Though there was not much of my mother’s family left after the Nazis. My mother was Jewish.” Ella’s gasp of astonishment stopped Missy’s reverie.

  “You’re Jewish? Does Levi know?” Ella was shaking her head. “My god, Missy, that’s a lot of information for me to process first thing in the morning.”

  “Yeah, I told him. He was amazed I could make brisket. So, I told him I was Jewish. What I didn’t tell him was that I learned how to make it by watching Food Network on my laptop. Like I learned how to cook or bake everything. Almost everything I do around here, I learned by watching television or by Googling it.”

  “You’re amazing, Missy. I can’t believe you run this house and this property and do all that you do. All I can do is write.”

  “Yeah. I can write, too. Though not like you.” Missy’s laugh was hollow. “After college, I went to DC. I got a job in a political consulting firm. You know that show ‘Scandal’?” That was me. We represented mostly politicians. I wrote position statements, news releases—just about everything. Then, I got involved in organizing campaigns. I’m great with details and what I don’t know, I know how to find out. I did well; I was kick-ass good. I had a townhouse in Georgetown, more money than I could ever spend, and fabulous shoes!” Looking down at her beat-up moccasins, Missy shook her head in wonder at what her life had been. “But, I wasn’t happy. I just worked and worked. I wanted to be the best, I guess, to make my parents finally notice me. But, they never did. I was still an unnecessary amendment to their lives. They died four years ago. My father went first—a stroke took him early one morning as he was reading the papers. Within three months, my mother suffered a massive heart attack in her sleep. The housekeeper found her.”

  “Oh, Missy, I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine losing both parents so close to each other. How dreadful for you!” Ella gave her a fierce hug.

  “Thank you, but you know, it was better they went almost together. They were each other’s whole lives—no one else mattered. And it was as if I was superfluous again. All the arrangements had been made—funeral, cremation, sale of the house and everything in it, distribution of their assets to various endowments and charities. And a trust for me. Quarterly stipends until I reach forty. Almost thirty-five years of my life disposed of within weeks. It was numbing. Oddly, I missed them. I came to the realization I had no one in the world who was connected to me in any personal way, whatsoever.”

  Getting up from the stool, Missy stretched then moved over to place her mug in the sink. Leaning back against the counter she faced Ella, rubbing both her arms as if she were freezing. But she was trying to find the words to finish her narrative—to tie her former life up into neat details.

  “And that’s when things got really interesting. I guess, because I was lonely, I finally accepted one of the offers that frequently came my way in Washington. Powerful men look for women with power and/or money. I had both. He was handsome, intelligent, and an influential lobbyist. I let him seduce me. It was a whirlwind at first, very heady. Then, I began to think we might actually have some kind of future. Until I came home late one night and found him in bed with another woman—some senator’s administrative assistant. I ran out of the house so fast, I missed the last three steps. That’s how I wrenched my shoulder. But, I rented a car and drove south. I’d heard about Casa Blanca Resort and Spa from a woman at work who’d come here for a wedding. That’s why I came to Mimosa Key. And it was good strategy because I figured everyone would be expecting me to go back to Boston. By the time I arrived here, my arm was really hurting. So, I ended up in Levi’s clinic. He ‘adopted’ me and offered me a place to live with interesting work to do. I’d thought to hide out at the resort—not the best idea, maybe. But no one would look for me working as a caretaker and living in a tiny cottage. Oddly, I became a damn good housekeeper, cook, dog sitter, and handywoman. And I love it. I love my cottage, I love this property, and I love Hersch and Lady. And you guys. You and Doc are my family. My first real family.”

  Missy walked back to where Ella sat with her eyes wide in astonishment, Ella’s low wolf whistle—of admiration?—was loud in the silence of the kitchen. Missy held out her hand to Ella and said, “Since I’ve just spilled my guts to you, I should probably introduce myself. I’m Melisande Emond. Nice to meet you.”

  Chapter Fo
ur

  The light coming through the windows was too bright. Don looked up from the painting. Outside, the sun was almost directly overhead. He glanced over at the clock on the microwave oven. “Jesus. It’s almost noon!”

  Wiping his hands on a rag hanging from the side of his easel, he stepped back to survey his morning’s work. He’d captured the deep indigo blue of the sky just beginning to lighten from the rising sun. The middle of the seascape was still blank, to leave room for the colors of the sunrise. Shades of ultramarine blue and turquoise made up the bottom of the painting, the darkness of the sea waiting for the sun to cast diamonds of light upon its surface. Don felt the muscles in his face stretch in a satisfied grin, remembering the words of one of his favorite instructors at art school. “It’s a good start.”

  The sound of fists pounding on the front door of his shop forced him to turn away from the canvas and hurry down the creaking staircase to the first floor. He could see Clay Walker peering through the glass insert in the front door. “Calmati, calmati. Calm down,” he was muttering as he opened the door to one of the few people he liked and trusted on Mimosa Key.

  “Were you sleeping or painting? I’ve been hammering on this door for ages!” Clay pushed past him into the dim shadows of the gallery. “You haven’t even turned the lights on in here! What’s the deal—too late a night or too early a morning?”

  Shaking his head and smiling, Don closed the door and stepped into the gallery, flipping on lights as he moved into the large space. The walls were covered with scenes from Mimosa Key and the Florida coast, all painted in oils by Don in the years since he moved to the small island community. Early on, it was his framing business that produced the most income. But since the building of Casa Blanca Resort and Spa, designed by Clay and owned by his lovely wife, Lacey Armstrong, his oil paintings of the beautiful beach at Barefoot Bay had been his best sellers.

  Clay stood in the middle of the gallery, hands on his hips, his eyes roaming the walls. “Man, I am in need of some paintings. Like, right now!”

  “Well, you’ve come to the right place because if there’s anything I’ve got, its paintings. Because, as you may have noticed, I’m an artist.” Don was laughing as he threw his arm over the younger man’s shoulder. “What has you so riled up today? Are you having an art emergency?”

  “Laugh all you want, old man, but that is exactly what is going on. My wife, the lovely and talented Lacey, is in dire need of at least ten large seascapes for the villas at Casa Blanca.” Clay’s voice was not at all amused.

  “What do you mean? Every one of the villas has at least one of my paintings in each bedroom and another in the living room. A few more in the large villas. Is she tired of them and looking for replacements? I thought she loved those paintings.” Even as the resort was being built, Lacey had commissioned Don to produce oils that showcased Barefoot Bay and other Mimosa Key landmarks, like Pleasure Pointe Beach and Barefoot Mountain. His paintings hung in all the villas and several were prominently placed in Casa Blanca’s main building and Junonia, the resort’s restaurant.

  “She loved every one of those paintings. But you know my wife, she’s a canny businesswoman. We had a large family reunion booked through Thanksgiving. The mom and dad were the last to check out, just a couple days ago. The family had such a fantastic time at the resort that they’ve already booked five villas for next year. But, the parents decided the best Christmas gift they could give to their children was the artwork from the specific villa each of their children and grandchildren stayed in! So, almost every piece of art from Bay Laurel, Artemisia, Saffron, Acacia, and African Daisy were shipped out today. Lacey sold them all and she made a damn good profit, let me tell you.” Clay pulled an envelope from his pocket and shoved it in Don’s hands. “She was reluctant to sell them but the father just kept upping his offer until it was more than twice as much as we paid you for them. Lacey couldn’t say no to that. Especially with the possibility of losing the reservation for five villas for next year if she didn’t acquiesce. So, here’s a check for half the profit from the sale. And we need replacement art pronto because all the villas are rented for most of December.”

  Don stared at the envelope and then at the agitated architect. And burst out laughing. “You just said too much, my friend. Now that I know how desperate you are, I could jack up the price on every painting in here. You are no business man. You should have sent Lacey!”

  Clay just grinned at the amused artist. Don’s reserve and reticence to talk money were almost as well known in Mimosa Key as his talent with a paint brush. Most of the time, he seemed almost reluctant to name a price for his work—especially if the customer was a local. Tourists paid the full price most of the time, unless Don took a liking to them or felt sorry for them or any of a dozen other reasons. Clay worried a bit about his friend, wondering how he managed to live on what must be an erratic income. But, looking at him, he knew the answer. Don was usually dressed in old chinos or jeans, often with a paint stain somewhere, and worn sweatshirts or T-shirts. He had one suit for weddings and funerals, lived in rooms above his shop, and drove an ancient Jeep. Clay had heard Don say more than once that his only luxuries were Russian sable brushes and imported San Marzano tomatoes for his famous spaghetti sauce.

  “I’ll be honest with you. I’d probably pay any price you name. Lacey’s on a tear and I don’t want her upset with the holidays approaching. But, I know you and you won’t screw around with me on this—you love my wife too much.” Clay turned back to count the framed paintings hung in the small gallery. “Buddy, I have to tell you, I’m just about going to clean you out here. I need all of these…and then some.”

  “These are just the paintings I’ve had time to mount and frame. Come upstairs and I’ll show you the rest. I can have them framed and ready to go in a couple of days. The ones down here you can take with you today. That should put a smile on Lacey’s face.” Don headed out of the gallery and up the stairs. He turned and laughed at Clay. “That is until you get my bill.” The younger man’s groans followed Don up the stairs.

  Walking into the studio, Clay’s eyes immediately fell on the painting Don had begun that morning. He was literally pulled to the unfinished canvas and stood, studying it for several minutes. “That’s the north shore. Levi’s beach. I don’t think we have any paintings like this. I must have this one. How soon can you finish it?”

  Clay turned to the artist, determination evident in his expression.

  Don schooled his face into an impassive mask, resolving to withstand any argument or offer his friend made. He shook his head. “That one is not for sale.”

  “C’mon, man. Lacey will love it. She might even want it for herself. You gotta let me have it.”

  “Nope. Not for sale.” Don’s voice was firm. He was not going to sell this painting and he was not exactly sure why. Staring at the brilliant blues he had spent the morning mixing and layering on the canvas, the answer suddenly came to him. The sky and the sea were the color of Missy’s eyes. Deep, dark blue, with just a hint of green. “It’s a gift for someone.”

  “Are you giving it to Levi and Ella? Damn, they already have a dozen of your paintings—not to mention Levi’s infamous mural. Cut me a break—I know Lacey will love it. It will be the perfect Christmas present.” Clay was used to getting his way.

  “It’s for Missy.” The words were out of Don’s mouth before he knew it. Where had that thought come from? Then he smiled to himself. Missy would love the painting. It would look perfect hanging above her white wicker bed.

  “For Missy? Well, damn, I can’t argue with that. She’s a lucky woman. I am sorry I pushed you, but I didn’t know you two were getting serious. I don’t know what she sees in your scraggy ass but this painting will keep her too happy to notice what an old curmudgeon you are.”

  Startled, Don just stared at Clay for a moment. Serious? He wasn’t serious about Missy. They were good friends, but that was all. Well, that and the mind-blowing sex—but that was i
t. Wasn’t it?

  Determined to avoid further speculation by Clay, Don quickly went over to the wall and began turning finished canvases toward his eager buyer. Within the next thirty minutes, Clay had selected another dozen paintings, including one that was destined for Lacey. By the time the two men had loaded the dozen framed paintings from the gallery into Clay’s SUV and come to terms on their price and the amount that would be due when Don delivered the remaining art work in two days, the sun was dipping low in the sky. The studio and gallery were almost empty and Don’s stomach was rumbling.

  Back upstairs, he stared into a barren refrigerator and cursed himself for not stopping at the Super Min that morning. Now, he would have to drive over to the convenience store and deal with Charity Grambling’s inevitable cross-examination or try to sneak in and out of South of the Border without being pulled into a conversation over one or two beers. He was not in the mood for socializing.

  “Don, are you upstairs?” The melodic voice of Ella Anderson drifted up from the first floor.

  Another interruption. Slightly annoyed, he moved toward the stairway to call down to her. “Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

  “Don’t bother. I have something for you. Can I come up?” He heard her footsteps on the creaky stairs. Damn. Plastering a pleasant smile on his face, he emerged from the studio just as Ella reached the top step.

  Her spiky blonde hair was windblown and her cheeks were flushed. In her hands was a casserole dish wrapped in a bright blue dish towel. “Here.” She thrust it into his hands. “It’s hot and its heavy. Damn thing weighs a ton!”

  The spicy aroma of sauce and cheese wafted up from the heavy stoneware as he carried it into the kitchen area and placed it on the stovetop. Ella was digging in the tote bag slung on her shoulder. “Missy made a ton of eggplant parmesan today and two loaves of garlic bread. When I said I was coming into town to speak to you, she insisted I bring this with me. She figured you’d be painting all day and since she wasn’t going to see you tonight, she wanted to make sure you had something to eat.”