Cedar Cove Collection

“Okay, yes. I want to draw people.” He made it seem like a big confession.

“You didn’t show me any of those pictures.”

“No, I—”

“Why not?” Although she asked the question, she already knew. Shaw was afraid her criticism would rob him of the joy he derived from his portrait work.

“Show me one,” she said.

He straightened. “I didn’t bring any.”

“Yes, you did, otherwise you wouldn’t have mentioned it.”

He blinked as if he couldn’t believe she’d read him so easily.

“Let me see.” Tanni wasn’t taking no for an answer.

Shaw stared down at the table. “It’s no good. I did it fast and—”

“I don’t care. I want to see it. Besides, you asked me to look at your art. That’s why I’m here, remember?”

His hand hovered protectively over his backpack.

“Did you feel anything while the pencil was in your hand?”

A hint of what could’ve been a smile flickered in his eyes. “Yeah, I felt something.”

“That’s great.” She waited and when he continued to sit there in silence, she said, “So, are you going to show it to me or not?” She was getting impatient. Either he showed her his real work or she was out of there.

Slowly, reluctantly, Shaw reached inside his bag and withdrew a second sketchbook. He hesitated before he slid it across the table.

Tanni opened it. When her eyes fell on the picture, her breath froze in her lungs.

“It’s me.”

“Yeah … I know.” He spoke in a low, halting voice.

“Tonight, while I was at the bonfire.”

“Yeah.”

In a few quick lines Shaw had captured her defiance and isolation, her anger and pain. Her long straight hair was flung about her face by the wind, half-covering her mouth and her chin. Her posture revealed a combativeness, a sense of lonely struggle. In those simple, economical lines Shaw had revealed her. He’d drawn the essence of her, Tanni Bliss, as she was right now.

Her throat thickened with tears.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

She couldn’t answer him.

“I told you it was no good.”

“Wrong,” she whispered, despite the lump in her throat. “It’s some of the best portrait work I’ve seen.”

Shaw stared at her intently. “You aren’t just saying that, are you?”

She shook her head, regaining her composure. “Nothing I ever did was this good. Besides, I’d never tell you something was good if it wasn’t.”

She could see that pleased him. “Maybe we could get together again,” he suggested.

Tanni nodded. “I’d like that.”

“When?”

“Anytime,” she said softly.

“Tomorrow? Oh, forget that, it’s Thanksgiving and you’re probably tied up with family and stuff.”

“What time?” She didn’t care what day it was; she wanted to be with Shaw.

“You can get away?”

She nodded again.

“Five?”

“I’ll meet you here at five,” she promised.

Shaw stretched his hand across the table and clasped hers. He held on tightly, intertwining her fingers with his own. Perhaps, Tanni thought, she’d found a friend, after all.

Four

Early Thanksgiving morning, Emily Flemming tiptoed into the kitchen, moving as quietly as possible. She didn’t want to disturb her sleeping husband or the boys. As was their tradition, her parents had driven over from Spokane to spend the holiday with her family. She could hear her father snoring in the back bedroom, the sound comforting as she made a pot of coffee.

Soon the house would be bustling with activity. Dave and her father would be watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on television, while the boys raced around the house and Emily and her mother worked in the kitchen, preparing the twenty-two-pound turkey for the oven. Most likely these few moments of peace were all she’d get. If she was going to pull off today’s dinner without her mother suspecting anything was awry, then Emily would need this time.

She’d always been close to her mother, and it wouldn’t be easy to fool Barbara Lewis. Emily sat at the kitchen table, taking deep calming breaths, trying to control her emotions. Her unopened Bible rested in front of her. She’d begun reading it every morning, seeking and finding solace in Psalms.

The coffeepot gave one last sizzling refrain. She got up and had just reached inside the cupboard for a mug when her mother strolled into the kitchen.

Barbara tied her long housecoat at the waist and covered a yawn. “I thought I heard you up and about. My goodness, what time is it, anyway?”

“It’s early, Mom.”

Barbara frowned at the oven clock. “It isn’t even five!”

“I know.” As it was, Emily had awakened before three, tossing and turning before giving up any hope of going back to sleep.

Her mother sat down. “The coffee smells great. Is it ready?”