"No, that can't be. I'd have heard of it." Malory pushed herself to her feet and began to pace. "Who's the artist?"
"Nobody seems to be sure."
"Just not possible," Malory continued. "A major talent like that, I'd have heard. I'd have seen more of the artist's work."
"Maybe not. According to Brad, nobody seems to know much about the artist. The Daughters of Glass was last seen in a private home in London. Where it was, by all accounts, destroyed during the Blitz. In 1942."
Chapter Eight
Malory closed herself in her apartment for two days. She submerged herself in books, telephone calls, E-mail. It was foolish, she'd decided, to run around chasing a dozen different angles and suppositions. Better— far better—to conduct the search with technology and systematic logic.
She couldn't function, simply couldn't think , in disorder. Which was why, she admitted as she carefully labeled yet another file, she'd failed as an artist.
Art, the creation of true art, required some mysterious, innate ability to thrive in chaos. Or that was her opinion. To be able to see and understand and feel dozens of shapes and textures of emotions at one time.
Then, of course, there was the little matter of possessing the talent to transfer those emotions onto a canvas.
She lacked the gift, on all levels, while the artist of The Daughters of Glass had it in spades.
The painting at Warrior's Peak, or one done by the same artist, was the path. She was sure of that now. Why else did she keep coming back to it? Why had she somehow in her dreams walked into it?
Why had she been chosen to find the first key, she thought, if not for her knowledge of and contacts in the art world?
She'd been told to look within and without. Within the painting, or another by the same artist? Did "without" mean to look at what surrounded the painting?
Opening a file folder, she studied the printout of the painting again. What surrounded the daughters? Peace and beauty, love and passion—and the threat to destroy it. As well as, she mused, the method to restore it.
A key in the air, in the trees, in the water.
She was damn sure she wasn't about to pluck a magic key out of the air or from a tree branch, so what did it meant And which of those three was hers?
Too literal? Perhaps. Maybe "within" meant she was to look inside herself to her feelings about the painting, both the emotional and the intellectual response.
Where the goddess sings, she reflected as she rose from her piles of research to pace. No one had been singing in the dream. But the fountain had reminded her of music. Maybe it had something to do with the fountain.
Maybe water was her key.
And, she thought in frustration, she might not have left her apartment, but she was still running in circles.
There were only three weeks left.
Her heart jumped at the quick rat-a-tat on her glass patio doors. There stood the man and his dog on the other side. Instinctively she ran a hand over the hair she'd yanked back into a ponytail sometime that morning. She hadn't bothered with makeup or with changing out of the baggy cotton pants and tank she'd slept in.
Not only was she not looking her best, but she was pretty sure she'd dipped below her personal worst.
When she opened the door, she decided Flynn verified that when he took a good, hard look at her and said, "Honey, you need to get out."
She felt, actually felt, her face arrange itself in a sulk. "I'm busy. I'm working."
"Yeah." He glanced at the neat stacks of research materials on her dining room table, the pretty coffee carafe and china cup. There were small containers, all in matching red plastic, that held pencils, paper clips, Post-its.
A glass paperweight swirling with ribbons of color anchored a few typed pages. A storage box was tucked under the table, and he imagined she placed everything that related to her project inside it every night and took it out again every morning.
It was amazing to him, and oddly charming. Even alone and at work she kept things tidy.
Moe bumped her leg with his snout, then gathered himself to leap. Recognizing the signal now, Malory stuck out a hand. "No jumping," she ordered and had Moe quivering in his desire to obey.
As a reward she gave him a congratulatory pat on the head. "I don't have any—"
"Don't say it," Flynn warned. "Don't say any food words. He loses his head. Come on, it's great out." He caught Malory's hand in his. "We'll go for a walk."
"I'm working. Why aren't you?"
"Because it's after six, and I like to pretend I have a life outside of the newspaper." "After six?" She glanced down at her watch, remembered she hadn't put it on that morning. It was just another sign that the efficient train of her life had jumped its tracks. "I didn't realize it
was so late."
"Which is why you need to go for a walk. Fresh air and exercise."
"Maybe, but I can't go out like this."
"Why not?"
"I'm in my pajamas."
"They don't look like pajamas."
"Well, they are, and I'm not going out in them, and with my hair all horrible and no makeup on."
"There's no dress code for walking the dog." Still, he was a man who had a mother and a sister, and he knew the rules. "But if you want to change, we'll wait."
He’d dealt with enough women to know the wait could be anywhere from ten minutes to the rest of his life. Since he'd learned to think of the female grooming process as a kind of ritual, he didn't mind. It gave him a chance to sit out on the patio, with Moe flopped over his feet, and scribble ideas for articles in his notebook. In his opinion, time was only wasted if you didn't do something with it. If the something was staring off into space and letting the mind drift on whatever current was the strongest at that moment, that was fine.
But since that current was how he might get his hands on Malory again, he figured it would be more productive all around to channel his energies into work.
Since Brad was coming back to the Valley, the Dispatch would need a solid feature on him, on the Vanes, on HomeMakers. The history of the family and their business, the face of that business in today's economic climate, and any plans for the future.
He would handle that one himself, and combine his professional and personal interests. Just as he was doing with Malory. So he began to note down various aspects that described her.
"Blond, brainy, beautiful" headed his list.
"Hey, it's a start," he said to Moe. "She was picked for a reason, and the reason has to have something to do with who or what she is. Or isn't."
Organized. Arty.
He had never met anyone who managed to be both.
Single. Unemployed. Huh. Maybe they should do an article on twenty- and thirtysomething singles in the Valley. The dating scene in small-town USA. If he gave that to Rhoda, she might start speaking to him again.
He glanced up when he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye, and watched Malory walk to the patio door. It hadn't taken her as long to transform herself as he'd figured it would.
He got to his feet, hooking a hand in Moe's collar before the dog could leap on Malory. "You look great. Smell even better."
"And I'd like to keep it that way." She leaned down, tapped a finger lightly on Moe's nose. "So, no jumping."
"Why don't we take a drive down to the river? Then he can run around like crazy."
She had to give him points. He'd managed to turn walking the dog into a date and had done it smoothly. So smoothly, she didn't realize she was on a date until they were sitting on a blanket by the river eating fried chicken while Moe raced around barking hopefully at squirrels.
But it was hard to complain when the air was cool and fresh, and the light softening as the sun sank lower in the west. When it dropped beneath those peaks, everything would go soft and gray and it would be cooler yet. She would need the light jacket she'd brought along—at least she would if they stayed to watch the stars come out.