Brush Strokes

by Shirley Hailstock

  Moments later, the door opened, and Michaela got a glimpse of the crowd outside the small office. She was too stunned to understand what was happening, but the small office was cleared. Zack was forced to leave and then she was alone with EMT's.

  It didn't take long for them to determine that all her signs were normal. They wanted to take her to the hospital, but Michaela refused. She knew what was wrong with her and there was nothing medical science could do to alleviate her symptoms. She was only sorry that Zack had seen her reaction to the invisible cloak.

  The EMT's left, sending her a warning look. They said something to Zack before they took their equipment and left the gallery.

  "What did they say?" she asked when Zack entered the office and closed the door.

  "That you refused treatment."

  He pulled the blinds closed so the concerned artists outside had no view.

  "Thank you." Michaela sighed and leaned back in her chair.

  "Are you all right?" he asked.

  "I'm fine," she said again.

  "Don't you think you should go to the ER and have that, whatever it was, checked out?"

  She shook her head. "No ER can help me."

  Zack looked taken aback. "Then who can?"

  "No one," she said.

  Chapter 3

  Standing up, Michaela came around the desk. She adjusted her shoulders, feeling the weight shift into a more comfortable position. She wanted to show Zack she was all right. Walking across the room, she reached for the short cord that adjusted the blinds. Before she could open them, Zack walked up behind her. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

  Michaela jumped, moving out of his reach. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "I didn't expect that."

  "I shouldn't have done it. It's just that you've rolled your shoulders three times now," he said. "I was only going to massage them for you."

  Again, he reached for her. Michaela turned slightly. Zack's hands descended on her shoulders and gently he began to knead her muscles. The feeling was heavenly. Her head fell back and rolled as Zack's massage adjusted to her movement. She heard the pleasurable sounds of her voice as her body relaxed and warmth penetrated through the invisible shield.

  "You don't have painter's hands," she crooned.

  "What are painter's hands?"

  "I don't know. I can't explain it, but your hands. . ." she stopped, gasping at the pleasure that fissured through her. "Your hands are. . ." She wanted to say magical, but that was the wrong word. "Penetrating," she finished. "They seem to reach down into my skin and find the place needs them."

  "Are you saying, my paintings don't show depth?" He laughed, the kind of laugh that was asking a serious question.

  "No," she stated. "Your paintings have great depth. But your hands seem to get under my skin." Immediately, she wished she hadn't said that. It was revealing in a way she had not planned. She meant his fingers seemed to get under the cloak in a way that no one else ever had.

  He smiled silently. Michaela couldn't see his face, but she felt his smile. She wanted him to go on, continue this form or foreplay, but they both had work to do.

  Turning around, she stepped aside, forcing him to stop touching her and feeling the weight descend on her again. She wanted to roll her shoulders, but that's how this had started.

  "I'll be all right here," she told him. Her smile was forced. She hoped he couldn't tell. "Go set up your paintings."

  Zack stared at her for a long moment. She could tell he had questions, wanted to ask her something. She knew he didn't have the words or even know what words to use. After a while, his shoulders dropped, and he opened the door and went through it.

  Michaela dropped down on one of the guest chairs, thankful that the blinds were still closed.

  He was going to wait her out, Michaela thought. She'd been in the office for two hours. It was nearly lunchtime and most of the hammering and buzzing drills had died away. Each time she peeked through the blinds, she saw Zack. He was either helping another artist or staring into space.

  Michaela thought about the cloak. She had to tell him. There were very few people who knew her secret, but she felt compelled to include Zack in that small circle of trusted friends. She laughed at herself. Zack wasn't a friend. She'd never set eyes on him until yesterday and here she was wanting to trust him with her most private secret. She thought the feeling would go away. It was why she'd remained cloistered in the office.

  But he was waiting her out.

  Michaela made a phone call. Then she opened the door and stepped in the canvas filled space. Zack was there almost before she closed the door.

  "Does anyone need help?" she asked, knowing he'd been all over the floor, a place she should have been.

  "They're all fine, almost ready."

  She nodded. Michaela knew she needed to see for herself. It took some time to get through everyone, saying hello and spending a few minutes discussing everything from the weather to her fall in the office.

  "Join me for lunch?" she said to Zack when she returned to his area. No canvases graced the easels she'd set up for him, but the rest of the area had been arranged into a living room setting.

  Zack didn't mention that only a few hours ago they had joined each other for breakfast. This time she had something to tell him.

  He followed her out to her SUV and silently they got inside. The Painted Ladies were only a few minutes away. She parked outside a lavender and white house with gingerbread decorations along the roof and porch. Huge purple and white flowers were gracefully arranged along the foundation.

  "We're having lunch here?" Zack inquired as they got out of the car.

  There was a basket waiting for them on the porch. Michaela unlocked the door and picked it up before going inside. The air was clear and fresh. She had a caretaker who'd come in and aired the place out for her. There was water and drinks in the refrigerator and all the utilities were functioning.

  "This is your family home?" Zack stated.

  He stood in the center of the living room, looking at the furniture and the mantle of photographs that showed Michaela's evolution from Kindergarten to college graduate.

  "Is that you?" he smiled, picking up a frame.

  "In all my pink glory," Michaela acknowledged. She was wearing a pink tutu with white stockings and ballet slippers. She remembered the outfit. She was so proud of it. It made her feel like a beautiful ballerina.

  "How old were you?"

  "Five." She looked at the photo over Zack's shoulder. He glanced at her and their closeness had then exchanging a breath.

  Michaela held her breath. She stayed in place for a long second before moving back, going to the kitchen and setting the basket on the table. Zack came in a few minutes later. She had all the food on the table.

  "I hope you like seafood," she told him. "Any allergies?"

  "None," he said, taking a seat at a place setting. "Where did this come from?"

  "I called a local café. They delivered it."

  "You must have connections. This wouldn't happen in Boston."

  It could these days. All you'd need is a phone and an app, but she didn't bring that to his attention.

  "I brought you here for a reason," she said.

  "You're going to tell me what happened to you?" It was a statement, but Zack posed it as a question. "Why you refused medical care? And that what happened in the gallery has happened before."

  Michaela nodded. "I feel like I have to."

  "You don't," he began, but she stopped him.

  "I have to. It's not like I have a choice."

  "We always have a choice."

  "Let's eat first," Michaela said.

  "I don't want to," Zack said. "This is too intriguing for me to eat. I've lost my appetite and my heart is beating faster than normal. So, if you're going to tell me, do it now."

  Michaela nodded. She moved into the living room. It was a place where she felt comfortable and the smell of the food wouldn't distract her.

&nb
sp; She thought about the first time it happened, the first time she felt the cloak covering her. She'd boarded the ferry with only her suitcase. Everything else was already waiting for her in this very house. The trip was normal, uneventful. Then the sky changed.

  "Everyone called it a miracle," she began.

  "What?" Zack asked.

  "My survival."

  "So other people know about this?" He spread his hands in question.

  "My parents." She looked directly at him. His soft brown eyes were steady and inquiring, filled with concerned.

  "What about Jim?"

  Michaela shook her head. She heard the cynical tone of the question. The two men hadn't met. She'd told Zack about Jim, but knew they wouldn't like each other.

  "Only my parents and a couple of doctors. No one else."

  "So, what happened?"

  Michaela gathered her thoughts, not sure where to begin. "I arrived on the island. Jim, who usually picks me up was away, so I got my rental car. The sky changed, but the storm didn't start until I got inside the car. It was a strange storm."

  She stood and walked to the windows. She looked in the direction of the beach as if she could see that storm from all those years ago.

  "Strange how?" Zack asked.

  "I don't know." She turned back. "The sky was blue when the ferry left Woods Hole. Beautiful billowy clouds high over the water. The air was warm and calm. The trip over was uneventful, meaning nothing happened on the boat. It was the weather. The sky changed from blue to cracked gold, although I'm not really sure it was the sky."

  Michaela moved back toward the sofa. Tucking her legs under her, she sat down.

  "I felt like I was looking through a gauzy curtain."

  "How long did it stay that way?"

  "Until the ferry docked. But the other people on the ferry didn't seem to know it. They talked to each other, used their cell phones, went about the trip as if everything was as it should be."

  "Then the rains came. Everyone noticed this. They rushed to their cars and put up umbrellas or newspapers to protect themselves. I got in the rental car and drove here. My parents had already moved to Arizona, so I was alone. When I got out of the car. . ." She stopped remembering the day, the pain. "The house has no garage, only a small driveway that fits a compact car. I had a van, so I parked on the street. I got out and reached for a package. As I got to the steps, lightning struck me."

  "Struck you?" Zack was practically out of his seat.

  "That's where the miracle comment came from. The lightning hit me. The impact lifted me off my feet and threw me against the porch. The railing and banister that had stood for decades split like toothpicks."

  "And you survived," Zack stated. Michaela heard the incredulousness in his question. She understood it and she didn't understand it either. It was a miracle.

  "I don't know how long I lay on the porch. When I woke the storm was over, and throngs of my neighbors had gathered. There were police cars and EMT's looking down at me. I went to the hospital and spent a couple of days there, but no one could find anything wrong. I had no broken bones, only a few bruises that healed practically overnight. By the time the Art Walk started, there were no visible effects of the accident at all."

  "What were the invisible effects?"

  Zack was very perceptive, Michaela thought as she gazed at him.

  "First there was the invisible cloak. I feel it every time I step on the Vineyard. It's here and only here."

  "Cloak? Invisible?"

  She knew it was impossible for Zack to understand what she said. And it was hard for her to put her thoughts into coherent or even chronological order.

  "You're going to think I've lost my mind," she said. Still she had to go on. She'd begun this tale and she would complete it.

  "What does this cloak do?" Zack asked.

  "Follow me," she said. Michaela unwound her legs and got up. She led Zack to the small room where she painted. When she lived in the Painted Lady, it had been her bedroom. The painting for the Walk was crated and sat near the door. Others were concealed inside a locked closet.

  "It does this," she said, turning to indicate the paintings strewn around the room. "I painted these while I was on the island. I tried doing something like them when I'm wasn't here. The results compared to these were extremely poor."

  Going to a closet, she produced a key and unlocked the door. One by one, she pulled canvases from the inside and turned them around.

  Zack's mouth dropped open when he saw the most famous paintings by some of the greatest master artists being leaned against the bedroom walls. Degas' Ballet Dancers which should be in the Metropolitan Museum in New York was in front of him. Cézanne's Chestnut Trees at Jas de Bouffan' should be in Minneapolis. Going to them, he examined them closely.

  "Where did you get these?" he asked, his voice in such awe that his normal pitch level was nearly inaudible.

  Michaela looked at him. "I painted them."

  "What. . .what?" he stuttered. Seemingly speechless, he stared at her. She didn't know if he was waiting for her to retract her statement or explain that she'd been joking. She kept her face still.

  "You're serious," he said.

  Dropping down on one knee, he scrutinized the painting. She watched as he looked one canvas over, then moved methodically from one section to the next, following the brush strokes, looking for any indication that the painting for a fake.

  "I'm no expert on art forgeries, but these look so authentic that if anyone ever sees these, they could ruin you."

  "I've thought of that. I just can't make myself destroy them."

  "I see why. Their perfect. Even the brush strokes don't give them away," he said.

  "They won't stand up under testing," she told him. "And I've signed my name so there'll be no question of authenticity.

  Zack nodded. "Why did you tell me? Why did you let me see them?"

  Michaela stared at him for a long time. "I had to," she finally said. "I know you know me. I know you knew who I was before you arrived."

  "How could you know that?" He was in front of her almost before she saw him move.

  "I can't tell you why you called me. I wouldn't have asked you to come. I thought the show was too small for a man of your reputation. But the very morning after that thought, I found a message to contact you. You've already told me why you called."

  "Not totally," he said.

  It was his turn to explain. Just as Michaela had gone to the windows and looked out on the tourists in town, so did Zack. He stood contemplating the glass, the street, the people, until he'd made up his mind what he wanted her to know. Michaela instinctively knew this.

  "Like your world turning a strange color and no one else seemed to see it, I saw a message from you." He turned around, shaking his head. "Like you said, this is going to sound crazy."

  Michaela waited. After what she'd been through, nothing sounded crazy to her anymore.

  "It was my handwriting. The message was written in the clouds. It was night, not during the day when things are easy to see. There was a full moon. I could read it as clearly as anything I'd ever written. The next day I began painting again. This time it was a portrait and I had to call you."

  "Whose portrait was it?"

  "You'll see it tomorrow," he said a little evasively. However, Michaela didn't pursue it.

  "What do you think it is?" she asked.

  "It?"

  "It," she repeated. They both knew what she meant.

  "Fate, the universe, magic, pick one. I have no idea," he said.

  "Has anything like this ever happened to you before?" she asked.

  "Nothing like this." He paced the room for a moment. "There was a time when I was away at school. My brother was involved in an accident. And I knew it. I knew the exact moment when the car hit him. I felt the impact."

  "Are you twins?" Michaela asked.

  He shook his head. "We're what you call Chinese twins. It has different names in different culture
s. It means we were born within a twelve-month period. We're ten months apart. So, while we didn't share the same gestation period, the terms are so close together that some twin-type connection exists between us. That doesn't account for anything psychic outside of the two of us. And he had no message from you."

  "You asked him?" Fear gripped Michaela.

  "Not directly. I made up a story about having a feeling he was sending me a message to call. And ask if he'd sent or received any messages."

  "Did you two often share these kinds of stories?"

  "On occasion. Usually, there was something between us that made us seek out the other for confirmation that everything was all right. I told him I was thinking of coming to Martha's Vineyard for a vacation. He said he'd never been here and maybe would go one day. He gave me no indication that he'd seen a message in the sky or anything about an Art Walk or the Vineyard."

  "Then why would we have a connection?" she asked, pointing back and forth between herself and Zack.

  "I have no idea, but I assume by the end of the Art Walk we'll have found out."

  The ominous tone of his words sent a chill through Michaela. The cloak covering her seemed to increase in weight, reminding her it was there, and it wasn't going away.

  Michaela sprang out of bed on the morning the Walk began. Nervousness wouldn't let her sleep anyway. Planning on a quick breakfast and leaving for the gallery, she was waylaid by Blythe who stopped her with a full meal. Blythe's efforts proved a better decision than Michaela's since she needed the fortification for the day to come. With that, she arrived early.

  Thinking about the two canvases Michaela still had to set up before the doors opened, she was halted in mid-step when she saw Zack's display.

  Her heart stopped, but it sped up, pounding in her ears at what she saw. The paintings Michaela planned to exhibit were in a crate on the carpet where she had an easel waiting. The placard saying exhibit only was already in place. The painting on the first easel, Zack's easel was hers. No, not hers, like hers – exactly like the one still boxed in the crate.

  How, she asked herself, then rejected the thought. She didn't know the full answer, only that things she couldn't explain happened while she was on this island. However, this was the first time she'd ever seen an exact replica of what she'd done. What she painted by an artist she'd had personal contact with.