Ghosts of Romances Past Read online

  Except it wasn’t Warren on the doorstep. It was Jamie, in faded jeans and a button-down shirt, armed with a big portfolio that could only be the edits for Storyhour’s holiday web designs.

  “Don’t look so excited,” he said, seeing her smile turn to surprise. “It’s just those minor changes I mentioned. They were thinking maybe the snowman could have a silver star motif for his scarf and hat, that kind of thing.”

  “Yes, of course.” She ushered him inside and cleared a space on the nearest side table. “Sorry for the second-rate greeting,” she added. “I got a late start on the day.”

  “Been doing a little redecorating?” He nodded towards the scrapbook on the floor, the broken picture frame with its glass splinters.

  Alice felt her face heat under his questioning gaze. “Just rearranging some things. Want some coffee? I was just about to make some, anyway.” She moved to the kitchen and opened the cabinet, removing mugs decorated with teddy bears.

  “Green tea for me, thanks,” Jamie called.

  She heard the sound of sketches being spread across the table, then a pen scratching on a pad. Stirring sugar into Jamie’s tea, she watched the amber liquid twist in a whirlpool. Why did she feel relieved that it wasn’t Warren on the other side of the door? Because she didn’t have an answer to his question, yet?

  An awkward thought, with the memory of Aunt Phylis’s pain fresh in her mind despite thirty years of time. She shuddered as she laid aside the spoon. Too many ghosts were occupying her thoughts, right now.

  She entered the living room. It was empty, except for a series of edited sketches of her holiday paintings on the table. In the entryway, she could see the door of her studio standing ajar.

  The room was partly dimmed, the drapes drawn so only a trickle of light streamed across the floor. Jamie stood amidst the canvases and paint pots, a series of colored pencils in one hand, the other holding up the tarp that covered her latest painting.

  His eyes swept across its surface with admiration. A simple painting of flowers along the riverbanks, a weeping willow’s leaves drifting across the skeleton of an old boat along the shore. He lowered the cover again, unaware of her presence.

  “Like it?” she asked.

  Startled, he turned towards her. “It’s beautiful. I haven’t seen you paint in watercolors in ages. Not exactly the medium for most advertisements, I guess.” He reached for the cup of tea.

  “I just took it up again,” she said. Actually, she painted this one right after they began collaborating—something she neglected to mention. “Lately, I’ve been feeling a little bit restless. I don’t know how to describe it. Like something’s pulling me in a different direction. Maybe it’s time for something new in my life.”

  The familiar joking grin disappeared from Jamie’s face. “So, I’m guessing maybe this has something to do with you and Warren.”

  “Not necessarily; I’m just saying something different is happening to me.” She knew the look on her face betrayed more than her words. Even though the painting wasn’t connected to her feelings, she found herself linking her artwork with her heart. Confused, she played with the paintbrushes in the jar on the table.

  “When you say ‘different’ I assume you don’t mean just your artistry,” he said. “You can say if it’s your heart, Ali. And I promise not to force opinions on you, like yesterday.”

  She felt the heat in her face again as she returned his gaze. “I don’t know yet,” she admitted. “But I do feel I’ve reached a crossroads emotionally.”

  He took a sip from the steaming mug, his dark eyes studying her with interest above the rim.

  He was making it difficult to keep laying her heart’s burdens in front of him. “Do you think…as a friend, do you think I’m ready for a commitment?” She bit her lip, dreading the answer. Based on their past history, he had every right to scoff at the notion of a mature, confident Alice Headley.

  He was silent for a moment, his eyes breaking from hers to stare into the mug of tea. “I don’t see why not. If that’s what you want, if that’s what you think God has planned for you.”

  “Sometimes I think He does. But what if I’m making a mistake in thinking that? When can I be sure I have the right sign, so I don’t mess up?”

  She sat down on the artist stool and drew knees towards her chin, wrapping arms around them.

  There was a soft ceramic clink as Jamie set the mug of tea on the table and drew a second stool closer.

  “I don’t want to be alone for my whole life,” she said. “Even when I don’t see myself as ready for marriage, I don’t picture a lifetime of singleness. But sometimes I think if I don’t change something, I’ll be stuck that way. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Of course,” he answered softly. “We’re all afraid of that, Ali. It’s part of who we are; we can’t change those fears, we just have to be stronger than them.”

  A shiver pricked her spine as she recalled Aunt Phylis’ years of regret, envisioning herself in similar circumstances if she turned her back on the opportunity to love.

  “Look, I…” Jamie shrugged, a half-hearted smile tugging his features. “I’m no expert on matters of the heart. And I’m more than a little biased when it comes to yours.” He scooped up the bundle of colored pencils and nodded towards the dining room. “What do you say we get back to my one field of expertise?”

  “Yeah, of course.” Shaking off the dark mood, she slipped off the stool and followed him into the next room. “So, speaking of artwork, how come I haven’t seen you with a brush and palette lately?”

  “Not in the mood, remember?” He cradled the cup of tea again, moving towards the table. “Work keeps me busy, you know.”

  With a groan, she followed, knowing criticism of her sketches awaited. “Don’t try to make this all about work. I spilled my guts to you, so I think maybe you should open up to me a little on this subject.”

  He didn’t turn around as he piled the pencils on the table. “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m too busy to paint, just like I’m too busy to find somebody special right now. Or at least nobody I would tell you about.” With an inscrutable glance, he shuffled through the papers on the table.

  “Jamie,” she began, her mind wondering back to his mysterious appointment from yesterday. She started to say more, but something in his gaze checked her. A look somewhere between pain and caution, clouding the connection between them.

  “Just let it go, Ali. That’s my final answer on the subject.” With that, he turned his attention back to their work. “Got an eraser I can use?”

  She tossed him a small one as she moved to the opposite end of the table, glancing over the edits penciled onto her drawings. Unfamiliar handwriting requested a different size for the graphic version, a white Easter rabbit instead of a brown one.

  Jamie’s pencil flew over the first sketch, varying the shading to illustrate some of the changes. Alice watched his strong fingers alter a dancing leprechaun to hold an armful of shamrocks instead of a pot of gold.

  “I sometimes sketch a little on the weekends,” he said suddenly. “Mostly buildings downtown, people I see in Willow Park. That sort of thing.” His gaze met hers with an apologetic look.

  “This, from a guy who used to be a great painter. I saw the way you looked at that picture of the river in the studio—like a baker who wants to assemble a two-layer cake on the spot.”

  With a laugh, Jamie tossed his pencil back into the pile and reached for another one. “I’m happy with the graphics work. It’s just a different kind of artistry, working with pixels instead of with paints.”

  “It’s not the same,” Alice answered, stirring the pencils with her fingers. “You were a true artist, Jamie. Twice as good as me. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be doing half the designs we’re assigned for this job.”

  His pencil added a few snowflakes around the New Year’s snowman. “I don’t exactly feel it these days. I lost my muse somewhere.”

  She let the draw
ing slip to the table again. “You used to tell me about all the ideas you had for the canvas. Maybe you should put them on paper sometime instead of leaving them in your head where no one can see them.”

  With a finishing flourish, he shoved the modified sketches across for approval. “I have an unfinished canvas. But it’s not anything I’ll ever get just right.”

  She glanced over the changes on the paper. Subtle details that were almost unnoticeable to anyone but the original artist. She could tell by the notations that the Storyhour representative had suggested only a handful of edits, meaning the website was pleased with their work.

  “I promised them we’d have the sketches finished in the next couple of weeks,” Jamie said. “Unless you’ve got big plans and need more time?”

  “No,” she answered, deliberately ignoring the hint. “In fact, I just started the last installment in the circus series. Monkeys on a trapeze.”

  “Sounds great.” He checked his watch. “Guess I better get started on these guys. I may run across some questions as I’m animating so look out for text messages.”

  “Sure you can’t stay for breakfast? I was thinking about making a skillet of scrambled eggs. I know I’m not the world’s greatest cook, but it’s better than fast food junk, right?”

  “Thanks, but I already had a bowl of cereal. Some of us don’t spend our mornings sleeping in the living room.”

  Her heart jumped. “How did you know?”

  He gave a knowing grin as he gestured towards the sofa. “The afghan’s practically on the floor, along with some of your old family scrapbooks. Plus, the clothing pile in the hall suggests you freshened up in between rooms, so I’m guessing you slept in your clothes.”

  She hid her surprise by crossing her arms and trying to look tough. “So you think you know me that well, do you?”

  He laughed. “I do know you that well. Which is why I’m pretty sure that next you’re going to tell me you were on your way to the laundry just as the doorbell rang, so you piled those on the floor. And that you left that scrapbook out while rearranging the cabinet yesterday.”

  “I refuse to respond to that,” she said, feeling the heat of a blush under his teasing glance. “But if you know me so well, why not give me an honest answer about having a mature relationship?”

  A tired look invaded his brown eyes. “Because you and I both know I’m the last person to give advice where your heart’s concerned.” He hoisted the portfolio case. “I better go.”

  “Wait.” She jogged to the living room, where the lovebird canvas sat fully finished and waiting. Smiling, she placed the picture in his hands. “Notice anything different?”

  “You didn’t have to,” he said, tapping the rainbow design. “Like you said, art should reflect something about real life. And I’m starting to agree about that hopeless romantic stuff.”

  His words drifted across her heart, like a ghost emerging from her closet of emotions. Fighting back a lump in her throat, she followed him to the door, careful to close the open studio as she passed, shutting the paintings and projects out of sight.

  He leaned across and touched her cheek. “Hey, don’t worry, butterfly. The answer will come when you need it. Just keep looking ahead, right?” He closed the door behind him.

  With one hand, she pressed fingers carefully against the knot on her forehead, feeling the swollen spot. The warmth imparted from the cup of coffee was welcome relief to the dull ache in her temples.

  Jamie was right about looking ahead. The past was gone; and she was wasting her time in the present.

  Ghosts Of Romances Past

  11

  Until four months ago, Jamie would have been the last person Alice chose to ask for relationship advice. But a lot changed with the right moment.

  At the time, Alice had just received an exciting freelance offer to design the characters for an online children’s bookstore called Storyhour. The long-term project offered her creative license to create icons, banners, backdrops, and even holiday themes, with limited interference on their part.

  She agreed, partly due to the large fee offered for her services. She was eager to earn extra income to put towards a new set of skis for the day excursion on the slopes Warren had promised her as a birthday gift.

  “There’s just one stipulation,” Storyhour’s representative, Rick, explained when they spoke on the phone. “We want the designs adapted in a digital medium by a digital designer. You’ll be teamed with another contract artist to create the final version of each one.”

  “I don’t have a problem with that,” Alice answered. “Sounds great.”

  Two weeks later, she met Rick at a coffee shop called Café au Lait, the first proofs of the cover in hand. No sooner was she seated at the table, when he gestured towards the door.

  “There’s your graphic illustrator,” he announced. She followed his gaze with a welcoming smile on her face, until she saw the person entering the coffee shop doorway. An attractive, dark-haired man whose muscular frame was evident beneath a faded denim jacket and dark shirt.

  “Alice Headley, this is Jamison Lewis.” The chair across from her was now occupied by the man, his portfolio sharing the table space with her designs.

  His gaze was trained on Alice, his expression somewhere between amazement and a trapped animal; similar to the look she wore on her face, no doubt.

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said, faintly, aware her heart had dropped somewhere in the proximity of her toes.

  He smiled, a familiar lopsided grin. “Likewise.”

  Self-consciously, she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, avoiding those dark eyes. She was struggling to keep her personal astonishment out of sight as she listened to Rick discuss the website’s motivations and message.

  Of all the graphic designers in the city, did he have to choose this one?

  She sneaked a quick look in Jamie’s direction now that his face was turned towards the Storyhour representative. His profile revealed a five o’ clock shadow, close-cropped dark hair slightly spiked with gel. He had changed significantly since they last saw each other—a little older, a little more mature in appearance.

  No sign of a ring on his left hand, she noticed, as his fingers idly flipped the pages of his sketchbook. She reproached herself for even looking. As if his romantic life was any of her business now.

  “So, you two ready to make this project happen?” Rick asked, giving them each a broad smile.

  “Absolutely,” Alice answered, hoping her voice suggested enthusiasm. Her new partner didn’t say anything.

  “Then if you two will excuse me, I have a meeting at ten. I look forward to seeing your finished project.” He rose with his briefcase, leaving Alice and Jamie at the table. For a moment, awkward silence reigned.

  “So,” she said. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah,” he answered. He glanced around, making her wonder if he was looking for a waiter to rescue them from conversation. “I guess it has been.”

  “I didn’t even know you were in Charleston,” she said. “I mean, last time I saw you, you were thinking about moving to New York.”

  “Well, I did,” he said. “But I decided not to stay. Maybe I was just away from home too long, maybe it was the atmosphere. Either way, it was time for a change of scenery.”

  The waiter approached to refill their coffee cups. It was the moment to choose whether to go or stay, but if they couldn’t share a cup of coffee together, there was no way they could make this work. With a quick prayer for courage, Alice took the first step.

  “I’ll have a raspberry Danish, please,” she ordered. “With a side of sliced melon. And you?” she glanced at Jamie.

  “Make it a plain donut,” he said. Then he reached for her sample sketches and flipped through them.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Though I think you should use something bolder than pastels. Storyhour’s book illustrations are typically pretty colorful. And I can match those colors a little bett
er when I animate it.”

  She raised her eyebrows, impressed. “I’ll keep that in mind.” She shuffled through the papers, mentally noting the details in need of editing, and then posed a more personal question. “So when did you become a graphic artist? I thought you loved painting.”

  “This was a good way to earn a living. I got a full scholarship to study it while I was in New York.” He took a sip of coffee. “Besides, I kind of lost my taste for painting a while ago.” His tone was cool, making Alice’s cheeks burn.

  “Well, it’s a shame, because you were great at it,” she answered. “Not that there’s anything wrong with graphics work, I mean.”

  The waiter arrived, bearing plates of pastries. Grateful for the distraction, Alice moved aside her coffee and sketches to make room.

  “You haven’t changed.” Jamie ignored his donut, his attention focused on her. “I guess I somehow expected if I ever bumped into you, I wouldn’t recognize you. Funny how we get those irrational ideas.”

  She forced a laugh. “You’ve changed a little. I didn’t think you would look so...” she trailed off, her face heating as she searched for a better word.

  “Older?” he provided. “I’ve grown up a little since those days. Thanks for noticing.” He took a bite out his donut.

  She played with the stir-stick in her coffee cup, embarrassed her remark was so obvious. But he had come a long ways from the boy she used to know. His strong build, the curve of his jaw, the way he carried himself…he was the type that made some women go weak in the knees.

  But he still had the same crooked smile and irresistible charm.

  The proofs sat between them, waiting for their full attention. Now was the moment to leave them there and walk out before things fell apart. It was bad enough to run into your past somewhere, even worse when it was someone you unintentionally hurt. But Alice seemed rooted to the spot.