Page 13 of The Light House

“Before I go,” she began at last, “could I ask you one last favor?”

Blake nodded. He shuffled his feet in the gravel driveway as though he was bracing himself.

“The two paintings I bought from Warren Ryan…”

“Yes.”

“They’re unsigned.”

The corner of Blake’s mouth twitched into the hint of a knowing smile. “And…?”

“Would you sign them for me?”

Blake fixed Connie with steely eyes. “You realize if I sign those paintings, it will double their value?”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you bought them? Is that the real reason you came here? To somehow compound your investment?” The words as he spoke them sounded callous, yet he had to know. He wanted to believe this woman had been genuine.

Connie shook her head. “No,” she said and her eyes became wide with a hint of hurt. “I told you last night – I am an art lover, not a lover of money. And those paintings are not for me. One will be sold to pay for my mother’s nursing home care. The other will…” her voice tailed off guiltily.

“Will what?”

Connie sighed. She felt a lump rise in her throat and a sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. “I’m in trouble,” she said in a rush. “The second painting will clear my debts, give me a fresh start.”

Blake watched her eyes, studied her face. Her embarrassment and hurt were genuine. He relented with a breath of relief.

“Then I will sign them for you,” he said.

13.

He carried the two paintings into the studio and cleared a space on a wide counter-top. He laid the paintings out and went to his easel to fetch paint and a fine brush. Connie stood back, not wanting to intrude. Blake hunched over the first canvas and pushed his face close. He squinted his eyes. After a moment he signed the bottom corner of the painting with his trademark flourish and then turned his attention to the larger painting.

“If I sign these in oil, they’ll take a week or more to dry,” he said over his shoulder. “So I’ve done the signatures in acrylic, okay?”

Connie nodded. She had her hands clasped in front of her hips and she was gnawing on her lip.

Blake turned back to the counter-top. He flipped each painting over, mindful of the drying signatures, and wrote an inscription in pencil across the back of each painting. Connie watched, holding her breath. She saw Blake blink in a curious myopic gesture, and then rub at his eyes with his knuckles.

He waved Connie closer and stood back from the counter.

“I’ve personalized a message to ‘my good friend Connie’. That should help the value a little, but the dates are from when I made the paintings. Do you understand why?”

Connie didn’t. She looked up into his eyes with unfeigned innocence.

“You’re to tell no one where I am, Connie. No one. You are to let me maintain my privacy. If I date these inscriptions for today, people will know you have found me, and I want to be left alone. Do you understand?”

Connie nodded. “I swear,” she said in a grateful gush, “that I won’t tell anyone where you are, Blake. You have my word.”

14.

They stood on the driveway, just a few feet separating them. Connie’s suitcase with the precious paintings was on the back seat. The driver’s door was open, and the engine idling in soft little burbles of sound. She had her purse in her hand. She offered Blake one of her business cards.

“In case you ever get a phone…” she said with a smile.

Blake glanced at the card and tucked it inside his shirt pocket. “You will be the first person I call,” he promised.

Ned came loping down the porch stairs to join them, his big head hanging between his shoulders, and he padded to where Connie stood and leaned against her.

“He wants a pat,” Blake said. “He knows you’re going, and I get the feeling he’s not too happy about it.”

Connie scratched behind the Great Dane’s ears affectionately. The dog closed its eyes and stretched its hind legs. His weight was enormous and Connie found herself giggling suddenly. She ran her hand down the dog’s back and his jaws hung slack. Then, quite suddenly, the big dog snatched Connie’s purse from out of her fingers and went scampering away towards the beach.

Blake looked on in stunned disbelief for a split second. Connie let out a little yelp. They stared at each other – and then went chasing down the sand in pursuit of the Great Dane.

Ned dashed out of sight at a scurrying run, his long powerful legs carrying him across the dry sand and down to the tideline, the vibrations of his massive weight through the ground as heavy as the drumming hoof beats of a horse. He hit the wet sand, turned with an excited wag of his tail, and then trotted off towards the southern end of the beach, Connie’s purse still clutched lightly in his mouth, his head held high with a prancing pride.

Connie and Blake ran after him. Blake’s footing went from under him and he rolled, then bounced back up to his feet. Beside him Connie was laughing. Blake dusted himself off, glared after the big dog, and then started to run again. Suddenly he was laughing too, and the sound was such a shock to him that it sounded foreign in his own ears. He pounded across the dry sand, then hit the hard wet sand at last, feeling the strain in his calves ease.

Connie had sprinted ahead and Blake watched her with covert delight as he chased doggedly; her legs were long and finely shaped, the jaunty roll of her bottom and hips a delicious provocation as they swayed with each stride. She was splashing through the white foaming wash, her hair streaming out behind her.

Blake heard the high tinkle of her laughter and realized he was grinning broadly.

At the end of the beach, Ned stood waiting. His tail beat against the air and his big chest heaved. He saw Connie slow and then approach with giggling stealth. Ned’s eyes were alight with mischief. He took two steps towards the waves and Connie shrieked. She made a lunge for him. Ned jinked one way, the weight coming onto his shoulders so that he hunched like a compressed spring, and then he ducked beneath the embrace of Connie’s arm and went trotting triumphantly back up the beach. Connie turned, knee deep in the surf – and then a wave swept in from behind her and burst against the back of her legs.

She squealed with the ice-cold shock of it, held her arms wide as the wave washed around her. The water sprayed up her back and she stood like a sodden scarecrow for long seconds, her mouth agape, gasping.

Blake stopped running… slowed to a dignified walk. He went towards the edge of the surf and could not conceal his mirth.

“Oh,” Connie’s voice became a sweet threat. “You think this is funny, mister?”

Blake put his hands on his hips. He was breathing deep but steadily. With the sun behind her, Connie looked like some beautiful vision that had risen from out of the watery depths.

She began to wade in towards the beach, her eyes fixed on Blake. Behind them Ned came down from the dry sand and gently set the purse at Blake’s feet, then trotted off again towards where two seagulls were bickering.

“Do you think this is funny?” Connie asked again. Her voice had become silky smooth and made menacing by the wicked gleam in her eyes. She flashed Blake a dazzling smile, and then bent and splashed him with water.

Blake flinched, then gasped. The water was a freezing shock. Connie laughed, and then saw Blake lunge at her. She wailed with delicious fright and went splashing away from him, lifting her legs in high steps above the surging water.

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