Beneath the Scars Read online

  “Don’t take it personally, dear. A wave is more than most people in town have had the entire time he’s been living here. As I said, he keeps to himself.”

  Her tone told me she had nothing more to say about my private neighbor. So, I smiled, thanked her again and told her I would see her in a few days.

  Once outside, I looked up and down the rather deserted streets. I could imagine, during the warm, summer season, the sidewalks would be full of people—tourists checking out the local wares and eating in the restaurants—but right now it was like a ghost town except for locals. A grim smile curved my lips; it was exactly what I needed.

  As I waited to cross the street, an SUV with dark-tinted windows drove past me and turned the corner. It was very new and shiny, which seemed out of place amidst the various older-style cars parked around town. I frowned, watching it drive away, having no idea why I even noticed it, other than the fact it was going so slow. I continued my exploration of the shops, stopping in at a couple of places. I picked up some more bread and cookies at the local bakery, a few bottles of wine, then went into the café and had a quick lunch. Mrs. Cooper was right—the food was very good, so I got some soup to go for the next day.

  After leaving my purchases in the car, I decided to visit the gallery Mrs. Cooper mentioned. The sign in the window told me they featured local artists; again I was sure in the summer they did a brisk business. A bell over the door chimed as I stepped inside. It was empty, but I could hear voices coming from the back of the shop. A man appeared a moment later, smiling, assuring me he would be right with me. I smiled too and told him I was browsing, so not to hurry.

  The glass cases held an impressive collection, and not what I expected. There were none of the cheesy, touristy things I expected to find. Instead, there was beautiful stained glass, delicately carved woods, handmade silk scarves and jewelry laid out in a tasteful manner. I suppressed a grin. Karen must love this place.

  At the back of the gallery was a beautiful collection of paintings. There were numerous different artists featured, but one person’s work caught my interest. Several pieces hung in their own small room, the artistry evident even to my untrained eye. Ocean views, deep forests, scenic beaches; all so vivid, with attention to detail so great, it was as if you were looking at a photograph. The use of light and color was flawless and stunning. There was no signature in the corner—only the initials Z D A in bold script adorned the pieces. One painting in particular captured my attention, and I was spellbound by the beauty. It was the image of a storm moving toward the shore, coming closer, as though it was aiming for me. Its ferocity and power had been captured to perfection. The steel gray and white of the angry clouds, as they whipped up the violent waves on the water, crashing on the rocks, were so striking I could almost feel the cold coming off the canvas. The swirling mass of colors the wind kicked up in the water was mesmerizing; their chaos so equally matched it was almost impossible to tell where the water started and the clouds ended. It was as if the artist had caught my own churning emotions and had thrown them on this canvas for everyone to see. For several moments I stood, staring at the picture until a noise startled me. I felt someone brush past behind me, and I gasped softly as I inhaled. The scent of the ocean, with all its heady, earthy fragrances hit me. It was as though the sun, sand, and water itself were slipping by me.

  Turning, I caught the briefest glimpse of a tall man moving away from me in hurried strides. The collar of his coat was up, shielding most of his face; a knit beanie pulled low on his head. His broad shoulders tensed as he opened the door leading out the back of the gallery. Before he disappeared from view, I caught a quick glimpse of his profile—a straight nose and stubbled jawline. His long fingers rested for a brief instance on the doorframe as he yanked the door open. There was something on the back of his hand—a birthmark or scar perhaps? He hurried so fast I couldn’t be certain.

  I had the strangest feeling; I wanted to call out to him and halt his departure, to come back, but I stopped myself. I realized my hand was extended toward the picture, hanging midair as I stood in front of the art. Self-conscious now, I lowered it, unsure what had caused that reaction in me. The squeal of tires out back let me know whoever had left, was in a great rush to do so. I groaned in frustration. I seemed to be causing all men to run away from me today.

  The mystery man was forgotten, however, as I brought my eyes back to the painting, once again swept away by its power. Captivated by the beauty, I was determined. I had to buy this one. I needed to own the painting.

  “Brilliant, isn’t it?” Another man appeared beside me. He was tall; his gray hair caught back in a long ponytail. His smile was open and warm, and I found myself returning it.

  “It’s mesmerizing,” I replied, my smile now fading. “The pain in it…it’s so blatant, I can feel it.”

  “One of our most popular local artists.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jonathon. My wife and I run this gallery.”

  I shook his hand. “Your gallery is beautiful. I’m Megan.”

  “Thank you. My wife, Ashley, makes all the jewelry and scarves. Are you passing through, Megan?”

  I shook my head. “I’m staying up at the bluffs.”

  His eyebrows lifted. “Friend of the Harpers’?”

  I laughed. “How did you know?”

  “There are three houses on the bluffs. The Smiths never have visitors, you aren’t a friend of Zachary’s, but you’re the perfect age for Karen.” He grinned. “Karen is a frequent visitor, when she’s here. She and my wife get along very well.”

  I wasn’t a friend of Zachary’s.

  The rude neighbor.

  Interesting—maybe I wasn’t the only one to whom he was rude.

  “You’re very astute.”

  He started to laugh. “I may also have heard from Mrs. Cooper that a friend of Karen’s was coming to town.”

  I joined in his laughter. “I guess I’m big news.” I’d been greeted and made welcome everywhere I went that morning. I turned back to the painting. “I see why this artist is so popular. All his work is astounding. I’d like to buy this one, though.”

  With a slight shake of his head, he indicated a small sign in the corner. “This one is not for sale. The artist was kind enough to loan it to us for a short time.”

  “I see. I noticed there’s no signature.”

  “No. He’s very private.”

  I frowned, feeling sad. “Would he listen to an offer?”

  Jonathon shrugged. “I could ask him next time he’s in. He seldom changes his mind, but perhaps if the offer was right he may reconsider. Leave me your number and I’ll ask him. How long are you here for?”

  “A couple of weeks—maybe three.”

  “He’ll be in again next week. He left only a short time ago, actually.”

  I paused, looking at the initials on the painting. Z D A. The tall man—the stranger who had rushed by me and smelled like the ocean—was he the unfriendly, mysterious Zachary? How many people lived in the area whose first names started with ‘Z’?

  “Just now?” I asked. “In a dark overcoat?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

  My neighbor had been wearing a long overcoat when I caught a glimpse of him this morning. It had to be the same person.

  He must have recognized me from the beach and, it would seem, had no desire to meet me at any point. I looked over at the painting. I still wanted it. What the man lacked in social graces, he made up for with his paintbrush. Something about this painting called to me.

  “Our dogs met on the beach this morning,” I offered. “Zachary was also wearing his overcoat then.”

  Jonathon only offered a slight nod of his head, but didn’t confirm or deny my statement.

  I wrote down my number for Jonathon and said I would check in the next time I came to town. I also told him I would be happy to speak to “the artist” myself, if he so wished, seeing as he was my neighbor. Jonathon smiled sadly, the same strange lo
ok I had seen passing over Mrs. Cooper’s face showing on his. “No, as I said, he’s very private. If there’re any negotiations to be done, he prefers me to do it on his behalf. I suggest you don’t bother him, since it, ah, might end any chance you have of purchasing the painting. Which, my dear, I must caution you is slight. As I said, he seldom changes his mind.”

  I nodded, confused. It was clear Zachary took his privacy to the extreme, but if it meant I could have that painting, I would do whatever it took to get it.

  My eyes drifted back to the imposing canvas and its brilliant imagery.

  I had to have it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “No.” I shook my head in frustration. I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation again.

  Jonathon’s voice was patient. “Think of all the opportunities this would open up. Your name’s becoming huge, Zachary.”

  “My initials, you mean. That’s all they get. We’ve discussed it before, Jonathon. I don’t need any opportunities. I’m very happy with the current arrangement and the way my life is now. I don’t need my name out there.”

  “Zachary…”

  “I said no.”

  Jonathon leaned back in his chair, regarding me in silence. “People want to know the man behind the brush.”

  “Well, they can’t have it or me. Either you sell my paintings as we agreed, or I’ll pull them.” I wasn’t backing down—it was the only way.

  He held up his hand. “No need to be so defensive with me.” He hesitated. “We could do voice interviews and only use your first name.”

  “No promotions. I let you show my paintings on your website and sell them here. That’s it. No interviews, no meet the artist, no first name, nothing.”

  “There may come a time you can’t say no.”

  I shrugged, well aware of that fact. “Then I’ll stop painting.”

  “Don’t say that—wasting your talent would be criminal. Fine, I’ll drop it. You can remain just a set of initials on a canvas.”

  “It’s what I want.”

  He sighed. “I don’t understand why, but it’s your choice.”

  He didn’t understand?

  My eyes narrowed as I looked at him, struggling to remain calm. Of course he didn’t understand. There was a time I wouldn’t have understood, either, but my name out there meant a door to the past could be opened up. Questions, pictures, people looking at me, talking about the past; the gossip and memories that could resurface. I couldn’t allow that to happen. I was happy with the way things were. People liked my paintings. I enjoyed making them. It was a simple, easy process; one I wasn’t willing to change, no matter how much Jonathon wanted me to. Internally, I shook my head, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time he brought up the subject.

  “It’s my choice, Jonathon. The subject is closed.”

  “Fine. I’ll shut up. I don’t want to lose your paintings. Business would slide, and besides that, my wife would kill me.”

  I allowed a small smile. Ashley was a huge supporter of my work. It was because of her friendship I even allowed my canvases to be available for sale. She and I shared a bond Jonathon didn’t—couldn’t—understand; as much as he loved his wife. Her connection was a small light in my dark world, but one I would give up if I felt I had no choice.

  His phone rang. “I’d better get that, then go out and see if I still have a customer.”

  I stood up, anxious to leave, my emotions raw from the day. “I’ll be in touch.”

  I opened his office door and slipped out, going my usual route of exiting the back of the building. Rounding the corner, I came to a complete standstill at the sight in front of me; my heart began to pound hard in my chest, as waves of small electric shocks ran through my body.

  It was the woman I had seen on the beach last night and again this morning. Elliott’s low bark had alerted me to the fact something was outside, and when I checked I saw her on the beach. She had stood, drawn in on herself and motionless, staring at the water. I wondered what she was looking at—what was holding her attention. This morning, she was running and playing with her small dog, her long hair blowing in the wind as she laughed, the lilting notes drifting up to where I stood in silence. The sound had fascinated me, and drawn me off my porch to get closer to the source of the sweet noise. As I watched her, the way she had twirled around on the sand and thrown her arms open made me smile. There had been something so simple and joyful in her actions; I even chuckled as she fell to the sand, the dog jumping on her and licking her face.

  Then she had waved when she saw me on the stairs, trying to get Elliott back to my side before she came over. I had barely acknowledged her friendly wave and slipped into the house. I didn’t want her to get some silly idea in her head of following me; that thought alone almost caused a panic attack as I rushed up the stairs to safety. Nonetheless, I had stood at the window and watched her disappear into her own house a short time later. I had seen her again, as I drove down the street on my way to the gallery to pick up some supplies Ashley had ordered for me. She was standing on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the street, not doing anything to draw attention to herself, yet I found her quite captivating. I had slowed down to watch her again, unsure of my reaction to this stranger.

  Now, she was standing, frozen, her hand outstretched in front of my Tempest painting. Her fingers were reaching, caught midair, not touching the canvas but simply hovering, trembling. She was mesmerized; her face a study of shock. It was as if her entire being was caught in the swirls of paint. I could feel her emotion from where I stood, gazing at her in wonder. Never before had I seen such a visceral reaction to that piece, prior to today. Her body was expressing the emotions I felt when I painted it. Pain, longing, and unending chaos were etched into that canvas, and she was feeling every stroke, living them herself. Her display of emotion caught me unprepared, and I steadied myself against the wall before I did something I would regret; like move forward and touch her. I wanted to feel the satin of her skin under my fingers.

  The angle I had offered me a perfect view while I stared; her entire being lost in my work. When I first saw a woman on the beach last night, I assumed it was my neighbor, Karen. I knew this morning, though, I’d been wrong. This was definitely not her. Small and petite like Karen, but her features were soft, almost delicate in a way. Karen carried an intense, confident beauty I remembered from our brief first encounter, when we bumped into each other in the shadows of the woods and a couple other awkward meetings. This woman’s stance was timid, her bottom lip caught up in her teeth as she worried the plump flesh. For some reason I yearned to step forward and pull her teeth away, wanting to see if her lip was as soft as it looked. I wanted to taste it. Sweep my tongue over it before I kissed her.

  I shook my head at the strange thought. I couldn’t remember the last time I wanted to kiss a woman, or be close enough to another person the way I wanted to be close to her.

  The gallery was filled with natural light and it caught the color of her hair: deep, rich coppery auburn, which contrasted dramatically with her pale skin. There was a smattering of freckles on her cheeks, standing out in contrast to her pallor. Her hand was small, the fingers tiny, as she reached toward the canvas. I noticed how tired she looked. Her dark, wide eyes were weary as she lost herself in the image in front of her, and her entire face awash in emotions. A sudden, intense longing tore through me—a feeling that seldom, if ever, happened in my life—I wanted to help her. The need to offer her comfort, to ease whatever pain made her look so vulnerable, had me reaching out, wanting to grasp her hand in my larger one and soothe her. However, I realized what I was doing when I caught sight of the back of my hand, bringing reality crashing around me. She would never want or accept soothing from me. No woman ever would.

  Putting my head down, I rushed to the back door, passing behind her. I could feel her as I went by in long strides, moving as fast as my feet would go. Her scent hung in the air around her, as soft and delicate as her sweet face. I
felt her gaze shift from the painting to me and I walked faster, hoping Jonathon didn’t come from his office and call my name for any reason. I wouldn’t stop, even if he did; my panic was too great.

  I groaned as I grasped the door and wrenched it open, almost running to the SUV, in my haste to get away from there. My hands shook as I struggled with the seat belt, finally hearing the click as the buckle connected. My tires tore on the pavement as I backed out of the lot and headed toward the house.

  I struggled to control my breathing as I drove away; my mind was a chaotic symphony of thoughts. One was more prevalent than the others.

  I wanted her. I wanted her in ways I hadn’t wanted a woman in years.

  A complete stranger.

  My mind saw us together; limbs entwined as I buried my face in her thick hair and felt her soft curves under me. Her subtle perfume lingered, and I yearned to be close enough again to breathe it in, to hold her scent deep in my lungs. My fingers ached to caress her pale skin, trace that trembling full lip with mine and taste it. I needed to know if it was as sweet as I thought it would be—or even sweeter.

  I wanted to see her reaction to other pieces of my work. Watch the wonder on her beautiful face as she studied the canvases.

  I could see her in my studio, her brilliant hair lit by the sun. I wanted to capture her image on canvas.

  I wanted so much more than that with her.

  Slamming my hand on the steering wheel in anger, I cursed. I could never have her.

  I could never have any woman.

  She would never want me.

  I needed to stay away from her, and keep her away from me.

  If she got close to me, I wasn’t sure I could resist her.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  From: Jared Cameron

  To: Megan Greene

  Subject: Running from the truth Megan?

  Did you think hiding was the answer here? Stop ignoring me. Why don’t you do the right thing—everyone makes mistakes. Recant your statement and let it go, and I will drop it. Don’t you think it’s enough I have to suffer not only finding out my assistant/girlfriend used me, but also tried to claim my work as hers? I’ve been hurt enough, Megan, and still, I forgive you. I have to in order to move on. I loved you once and your betrayal has cut me to the bone. Stop the pain for both of us.