Color My World Page 3

  The low rumble from Don’s stomach had Ella laughing as she placed the foil-wrapped bread on the kitchen island. “I don’t know how that woman always knows when someone needs to eat, but she’s almost never wrong.”

  Don didn’t know what to say. His mind was awash with conflicting emotions. He was grateful for the food but annoyed Missy felt she had to send him dinner—like he didn’t know how to take care of himself. He wanted to be alone today, but he had enjoyed dickering with Clay over the price for his paintings. He guarded his privacy but it was nice that Ella, his best friend’s wife, felt comfortable just walking into his space. He realized then that the barriers he had built around his life, around his heart, had been breached in many small ways by his few close friends on Mimosa Key.

  “Well, thank you. And thank Missy too. I forgot she had that soap-making class tonight with Frankie. My refrigerator is empty, so you’ve saved me a trip to Charity’s lair.”

  Ella grimaced at Charity’s name. The woman loved Levi but merely tolerated Ella. “I’d settle for peanut butter on crackers before I’d voluntarily subject myself to another of her lectures about how lucky I am that Levi married me. I know she approved of our marriage but I still get the feeling she thinks I’m not quite good enough for him.”

  Ella glanced around the studio. “You’ve been busy today, Don. Looks like you have some framing to do and…is that a new painting on the easel? Oh, I love it! That’s our beach, isn’t it?” Like Clay, Ella was drawn to the unfinished oil. She stood, chin cupped in one hand, staring at the painting. “You had to know I would want this painting for Levi—and if he saw it, he would insist upon getting it for me. But, I’m not going to try to talk you into selling it to me because I know this view. It’s from the front of Missy’s cottage, isn’t it? I’m thinking it’s a Hanukkah present for her?”

  Turning to the painter, Ella was grinning. “She will love it, you know. The blues are perfect, exactly what the Gulf looked like this morning. And the water is the same color as Missy’s eyes.”

  “When I saw the beach view this morning outside the cottage, I knew I had to paint it. I spent all morning on it today. When I stepped back to look at it, I realized I had to give it to Missy. I’m sure I can finish it by Christmas, but what did you mean by Hanukkah present? Missy’s not Jewish…is she?” Don could not remember ever discussing religion with his lover. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember discussing anything of importance with Missy—just daily activities, harmless gossip about the island’s population. And amazing sex. They did it more than they talked about it. But they did talk about sex a lot.

  “Yeah, she’s Jewish. Her mom was Jewish and that makes her a member of the Tribe.” Ella laughed again. “So, that cuts into your painting time since Hanukkah starts on December twelfth, this year. A gift like this is definitely a ‘first night’ gift, so that gives you less than two weeks.”

  Ella walked back to Don, fumbling in her shoulder bag again. She pulled a photograph out of its depths and handed it to him. He saw a picture of Ella, driving down Levi’s driveway, in her red Mustang convertible, Hersch in the passenger seat, ears flying back and a big drooling grin on his doggie face. “This is the reason I came to see you today. I’m on the same deadline. I wanted to ask you to paint this picture into the mural in Levi’s surgical suite. He doesn’t have me or Hersch on his wall of toys and I think I rate at least as high as the ATV. I’m sure Hersch is as important as the Jaguar, or maybe a close second…” She broke off when Don started shaking his head, no.

  “I don’t do portraits. I can’t paint this picture on Doc’s wall.” His answer was curt, his tone clearly indicating that for him, the subject was closed. He should have known that his firm reply would do no good. Ella had been a high-powered criminal prosecutor before she began her writing career and she was not going to take no for an answer. Ella pulled another photo from her bag. This one showed the rear of the car, heading down the white seashell driveway. The short blonde hair on the back of Ella’s head caught the sunlight, her right hand was raised in a jaunty wave and only Hersch’s head was visible over the headrest on the passenger seat.

  “How about this one? No faces equal no portraits. C’mon, Don, you have got help me out. What else do I get for the man who has everything and who buys what he doesn’t have faster than my Grammy at a flea market. Say yes now because I gonna harass you ’til you do, and you know I’ll win. And I need it done before December twelfth. Pretty please!”

  It took another half hour to get Ella to leave. Or, he thought with real admiration for her skills, another twenty-five minutes for Ella to wear him down and convince him to put her and her hot car into Levi’s mural plus five minutes of her gloating, even after he named his price. Now, it was getting on to twilight, the sky was darkening and so was Don’s mood. He shoved Clay’s envelope and Ella’s check into a drawer in the kitchen island that served as his deposit box. When he saw the number of checks and the roll of bills crammed into the drawer, he swore softly. “Madre de Dio. I need to get to the bank in Miami soon. Maybe tomorrow morning. Early. And I’ll get some more supplies while I’m out. And groceries,” he thought, as his stomach growled again.

  He dished up some of the eggplant parmesan and let it cool while he poured himself a large glass of red wine. Turning on one light in the studio, he walked to the closet built into the wall just off the entryway. Don set his wine glass on the floor and fumbled with the lock. When the door swung open, he sank to his knees. Through the tears that were already flowing, he stared at the reasons he no longer painted portraits. From canvases and sheets of watercolor paper, the beautiful face of his wife, Gina, and his little son, his bambino, Raphael, stared back at him. Miei cari, miei cari…my darlings.

  Chapter Five

  “Damn. I make great garlic bread!” Missy sucked melted butter off her finger tips and reached for her glass of red wine. Lady Marmalade was sitting in the wicker chair next to her. The cat’s deep green eyes darted from Missy’s fingers to the near-empty plate on the small table between them. A tiny piece of bread remained and all that was left of the eggplant parmesan was a smear of red sauce, with a sprinkling of parmesan cheese.

  “You know I love you and you’ve been very polite, so here you go.” As soon as Missy put the blue stoneware plate down on the ground, the cat leapt gracefully from her perch. A thorough licking was accompanied by a satisfied purr. Missy leaned back in her chair to enjoy the view of cat, garden and sea.

  Her little patio off the cottage’s kitchen had just enough room for two chairs and the small pedestal table. A compact but efficient grill sat off to the side and that was it. But it was more than enough for Missy. Herbs and flowers filled the bright blue planters surrounding the patio, except for the walkway to the beach. White crushed seashells gleamed pearl-like in the waning sunlight, the path meandering between lush foliage and manicured lawn. Located on the side of the cottage away from the main house, this was Missy’s private oasis.

  Levi had offered to expand the cottage since Missy had moved in, but she had refused. As the owner, of course, Levi could do what he wanted with the property but he had generally acquiesced to Missy’s pleas to keep the cottage simple and small. “I have to clean your damn mini-mansion every day, Doc,” she often reminded him. “I don’t want to come home and have to do the same damn thing in my place.” The good doctor had been as understanding as his natural builder’s soul would allow. He had contented himself with ordering a new roof, new windows, new siding, a new bathroom, and a modern kitchen for the little cottage. If a few walls got moved during the upgrades, well, it made the Doc happy. And Missy did not begrudge him because she loved the cottage and was eternally grateful to Levi for giving her a home.

  “It doesn’t get much better than this, Lady.” Missy sighed the words as her cat leapt up onto her lap and curled, purring, into a mass of orange and white fluff. Levi might have found the bedraggled kitten near his office several months earlier, but the cat had become
Missy’s constant companion almost from the first. A fact which warmed Missy’s heart and satisfied Hersch, still the top dog on the estate.

  “I never had a pet before you, Lady. No animals allowed in that pristine Back Bay mansion or in that stylized Georgetown brownstone. Nope, my girl, you and I are both unwanted orphans. I guess that makes us family.” A feline headbutt to Missy’s hand was evidence of Lady’s agreement.

  They sat quietly in the dusky light, listening to the sound of the waves breaking on Levi’s dock. Missy sipped the dark red Barolo, enjoying its rich silkiness. It was the last of a case Don had brought over during the summer. The man liked his Italian reds, that was for sure. Her mind catalogued her lover’s tastes in wine—Italian, always—and food, steak or pasta and any kind of shellfish. He loved anything chocolate for dessert but he had a weakness for tiramisu. As her mind drifted, it occurred to her that he seemed to favor Italian cuisine, alcohol, and sweets.

  Hmm, maybe he comes from an Italian family? With a last name like Smith, he could be anything. In a nation of immigrants, she knew that many sojourners from foreign shores had ended up with new generic last names when they came through Ellis Island in the late 1800s through mid-1900s. Her own French-born parents had been immigrants after World War II but they had been allowed to keep their French surnames.

  The air was turning chilly, so Missy scooped up her sleeping cat and her dirty dishes and ambled into the cozy warmth of the cottage. After depositing Lady on her favorite chair and the dishes in the dishwasher, she made short work of cleaning up the kitchen. Yawning, she glanced at the microwave and realized that it was almost nine o’clock. And she hadn’t heard from Don. They had made no plans for the evening—they rarely did on the days she had soap-making class at Francesca’s goat farm—but there was almost always a daily text from him. Sometimes just checking in, sometimes with a chatty message—usually gossip he had picked up at the Super Min from Charity’s acerbic tongue. But, more and more frequently of late, it was an inquiry about spending some time together. Don got really pissed when she referred to their evenings, and some afternoons, together as “booty calls.”

  Missy laughed at the memory as she headed down the short hall to her bedroom. By the time she washed up and brushed her teeth, Lady was curled up in the middle of her bed. Within minutes, Missy was in her pajamas and snuggled up next to the snoring cat. Soon, she was drifting off to sleep, her head full of sexy images of her absent lover.

  It was a few months after her arrival on Mimosa Key when Missy first encountered the enigmatic artist. Levi asked her to stop by Don’s gallery to pick up some paintings he had purchased for the office. She was a bit surprised Doc was buying art from a local, and—as best she could tell—virtually unknown artist. But since Levi paid her to take care of his dog, the renovation of his house, and any other details of his life he did not have the time or inclination to manage, she had said nothing. That morning she had signed for delivery of the Jaguar and made sure it was properly parked in Levi’s newly constructed massive garage. She laughed as she pulled up in front of Don’s building. It was typical of Levi that the garage was complete weeks before the renovation of the house, but he so loved his “toys”—as she was beginning to refer to them—she was not terribly surprised.

  Her first impression of Don was that he had the darkest and saddest chocolate eyes she had ever seen. Her second impression was that he was truly a very talented artist. The series of four large seascapes that Levi had selected for the reception area of the new offices of FL-Ortho were stunning swirls and splashes of grey and white, depicting a stormy sea fighting torrential rain and wind. Missy had let out a low whistle of appreciation. She knew from personal experience with the waves off Cape Cod, that Don had perfectly captured the violence of a storm at sea. Then, she had laughed.

  “Well, damn, they’re magnificent. I just don’t know if that is what I’d want to be staring at while I waited to hear if I was going to need a new knee or shoulder.” Turning to Don, she added, almost apologetically, “But they are so amazing maybe patients will get lost in looking at them and forget to be scared….”

  Her words were interrupted by an amused laugh from the painter. He shook his head as he stared at her. “Doc said you were a piece of work and he was right. But, don’t tell him what you said. I don’t want to have to refund his money if he changes his mind.”

  Don was wearing what she later realized was his usual outfit of paint-stained pants and ratty T-shirt. Thinking he needed the proceeds from the sale of the paintings, she just smiled when Levi had asked her what she thought of them. That had been the beginning of her friendship with Don. They complemented each other and shared a deep affection for Levi. They probably would have remained just friends, good friends, except for the intervention of tequila.

  Earlier in the year, on a late spring night, Missy had been having a margarita at the Twisted Pelican with her friend and Yoga instructor, Libby Chesterfield, when a stranger, looking like some surfer dude, had approached her, claiming he knew her from somewhere. She had tried to put him off but he persisted, finally proposing a bet: if he could do five shots of tequila faster than Missy, she’d have to tell him who she really was. If he lost the bet, he’d pay for their drinks and leave them alone. Knowing her capacity for tequila and wanting to get rid of the guy, Missy took the bet. The surfer dude was good. Too good. The argument ensued when Missy had “accidentally” knocked over one of his shots. Rather than take the time to get a refill from the busy bartender, surfer dude had grabbed one of her shot glasses and downed the tequila. Missy had called foul and the stranger had gotten all up in her face.

  “Now I’m sure I know you! Wherever it was that I saw you, you were being argumentative and sarcastic with some guy, just like now. A real bitch.” His finger jammed the air in front of her nose.

  Missy had been about to lunge at the guy and shut up his trash talk when Don had stepped between them.

  He placed one hand on surfer dude’s chest and the other on Missy’s shoulder.

  Before he could say a word, though, Libby’s husband, Law Monroe, burst through the door of the kitchen and grabbed surfer dude by his collar. “You will apologize to the lady, now, or I will kick your sorry ass all the way to Naples. We don’t allow that kind of language in front of our women.” He started to drag the red-faced drunk out of the bar, calling over his shoulder, “Libby, honey, will you wait for me in the kitchen? And Don, can you make sure Missy gets home okay? Thanks, man.”

  Don’s hand grasped Missy’s elbow firmly, grabbed her purse from the back of the bar stool, then steered her toward the restaurant door. She had been fighting mad, mostly at the surfer dude who was about to blow her cover. Back in the day, she had occasionally appeared on the Washington political news shows and she’d been a tough opponent for some of the egotistical, condescending male talk show hosts. She figured surfer dude had seen her on one of the shows and recognized her, though she was a good deal thinner and her hair was much longer now. But she was more than a little pissed at Don, who had stepped in like she was some weak-ass wimpy woman who could not take care of herself.

  “You can take your fucking hands off me any time, painter boy.” She virtually snarled the words as they came out of the building and stepped into the parking lot. Missy was twisting her arm but Don was not letting go.

  “I was comfortably ensconced in my booth at my favorite restaurant, quietly enjoying a plate of truly amazing lasagna, along with a glass of delicious Valpolicella, when what do I hear but loud voices coming from the bar. And who was it? You! I get up to investigate and what do I see but a feisty brunette nose-to-nose with a big, tanned, scruffy man.” He actually shook her before he continued.

  “You are going to come with me back to my building and I’m going to drive you home. Who knows if that figlio di puttana is still lurking about in an alley or side street just waiting for round two.” He ground the words out, his hand like a vise on her arm.

  She struggled
with him down two streets and up the front steps of his building. He let go of her when they entered the foyer. She was sputtering mad.

  “I don’t need some guy dragging me around telling me what to do. You’re not the boss of me!”

  She gave him a shove, more out of embarrassment that she had used such a childish taunt than out of real anger. Astonishment and something else flashed across Don’s face before he reached out and spun her around. She was up against the brick wall at the bottom of the stairway and he was pressed against her.

  “Boss of you? Somebody sure needs to be the boss of you sometimes. What were you thinking getting into a barroom brawl with some drunk who was a foot taller and had at least a hundred pounds on you? That wise mouth of yours is going to get you into serious trouble someday.”

  “Well, it’s my mouth and it’s none of your business what I do with it.” The words had no sooner escaped her lips when Don whipped her back around. He looked like he had been struck. They stood staring at each other, chests heaving, eyes flashing. Then his hands were buried in her hair and his tongue in her smart, reckless mouth.

  It was like being engaged in a wrestling match. Hair pulling, teeth nipping, bodies grinding against each other. It had been three years since any man had touched her with desire—three years since she had been kissed. And no man had ever caressed her with such strong hands or devoured her mouth like Don. Missy did the only thing she could do in such a situation. She entwined her arms about his neck and hoisted her legs up and around his waist. He lifted his head to glare at her, his eyes as dark as bitter chocolate.