Touch Me in the Dark

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “Not as much as for me,” he said. She felt his eyes follow her out the door and down the hallway until she passed from sight.

  Ian took his easel to the garden several hours early. He wanted to set up and rough in the background before Sharon arrived. She’d gone out this morning, so he’d left her costume on a chair beside her apartment door where she couldn’t miss it when she returned.

  Although the ground was mushy, he found a wide section of the brick path large enough to accommodate his equipment, near a pink and white oleander hedge. The unevenness of the bricks made his easel tilt until he wedged one of the legs with a piece of cardboard from the garage.

  Mentally, he registered the glare of the post-storm light and the subtle menace of lingering clouds. A eucalyptus tree filled the air with its sharp fragrance.

  Ian had prepared the canvas, working in a batter-like substance called gesso with a putty knife. He liked the texture and absorbency that gesso added, although, since he used acrylics, he could work on raw canvas if he preferred. Unlike oils, acrylics, which were essentially pigment mixed with liquid plastic, wouldn’t deteriorate the canvas if applied directly. Neither would they crack, darken or fade over time, and they dried quickly to a tough surface.

  Best of all, from Ian’s perspective, acrylics could be thickened or thinned to mimic the effects of oils, watercolors or tempera paints without the drawbacks of those older media. Acrylics could even be piled thickly, adding depth and texture.

  He began by sketching the oleander from an angle, capturing the geometric shapes formed by the hedge against the sky. Today, he was going to paint a scene that might have existed at the onset of the twentieth century, during the era in which this house was built. Instead of showing old things emerging into the twenty-first century, he intended to go back in time completely and see what resulted.

  Vaguely, he heard people moving around in the house next door, but he was absorbed in blocking out his composition. At the back of his mind, he knew when Sharon’s car pulled into the rear parking area, but he didn’t look up and she went into the house without disturbing him.

  Nothing beyond his work existed for him at this moment, other than peripherally. When he painted, Ian came as close as was humanly possible to entering another world. His mind functioned on multiple levels, skipping back and forth so rapidly that he remained unaware of the shifts between impulse and calculation as he planned and developed his work.

  Perhaps that was why he became vulnerable to seizures while painting. It might be due to his state of altered consciousness and not a sensitivity to his artistic grandfather’s spirit. Today, with the sun shining and a gentle wind teasing his hair, the house towering behind him offered inspiration rather than threats.

  He heard the rustle of Sharon’s long skirt as she crossed the lawn. Had enough time passed for her to change? Apparently so.

  Without preamble, he directed her to stand at the head of the brick path, her parasol furled and her face uplifted. “You’re waiting for your lover,” he said. “Any minute, you expect him to come around the hedge.”

  She gave a nod and settled into place. Surveying her more fully, he saw that the lilac dress suited her perfectly. The angle of the hat wasn’t right, though.

  Setting down his brush, Ian strode over to make an adjustment. She’d left her auburn hair loose, and he fluffed out the strands until they floated beneath the small brim. As he’d expected, the locks felt like spun silk in his hands.

  When he returned to the easel, his mind snapped back into the world of the canvas. A century paused, slowed and vanished. The fresh but deadly blossoms of the oleander and the expectation on Sharon’s face were his only reality.

  As the minutes passed, he became aware that she had entered his mental frame instinctively. She held herself differently in the starchy costume, and there was a sweet innocence to the curve of her mouth that modern women had lost, even the young girls he saw at the mall, no doubt from a barrage of half-naked music videos and sexually explicit films.

  Emotions fleeted across Sharon’s face. She was waiting and hoping, he saw. Detecting a footfall and preparing herself to meet a man she loved, for whom she was ready to sacrifice her precious innocence.

  It’s their first time. The first time they’re going to make love.

  He catches sight of her from across the garden, before she spots him. The sun shines behind her, turning her dress almost transparent. Seeing the rise and fall of her bosom, he knows that when he takes her to his room, she’s going to be his.

  Even in his most inspired moments, Ian usually retained a subjective awareness of technique—the blending of pigments, the angle of the light, the selection of a wider or narrower brush, the way he applied the strokes to the canvas. But now he was lost in inspiration. He couldn’t lay the paint down fast enough to capture the way Sharon’s lips parted and her hair rippled in the breeze.

  His own stance altered to accommodate slim trousers and a cutaway jacket. He held his head with unaccustomed stiffness to keep his hat in place, although he wasn’t actually wearing one. He became the man just out of sight, hurrying toward his lover.

  “What’s that?” Sharon stared toward the hedge. “Did you see him?”

  “Who?” Ian could hardly rouse himself enough to respond.

  “A man in a top hat,” she said.

  “Where?” He dragged his head around to look. Nothing there.

  “Behind the hedge,” she said. “I saw his hat bobbing along and I thought he was going to turn the corner any minute, but he’s gone. Did you hire someone else to pose?”

  “There’s no path behind the hedge,” Ian said. “Only Jody’s winter vegetable garden. Lettuce and onions and broccoli.”

  “I saw a top hat,” Sharon repeated.

  Ian glanced down at his clothing, and was surprised to find that he still wore his jeans and work shirt. He’d expected to see an Edwardian vest and coat, with a watch chain dangling from the pocket.

  “Must have been my alter ego.” He ran one hand through his hair to make sure there was no hat. “I kind of think it was me. I imagined… Damn, I hope I didn’t suffer a seizure.”

  “Well, it wasn’t Bradley,” Sharon said. “They didn’t dress like that in the 1940s.”

  “Maybe the past really is intruding into the present.” Ian started to wave one hand to dispel the nonsensical remark, and barely stopped himself in time to keep from flicking paint in Sharon’s direction. “Sorry about that.”

  “May I see?” she asked.

  Since they seemed to be taking a break anyway, he said, “Of course.”

  Only when she came around did he step back to see what he’d painted. This time, the woman wasn’t that element that had changed. He’d caught Sharon’s high color accurately, as well as her innocence trembling on the brink of yielding. Her clothes were different, though, the Edward propriety turned gossamer, revealing the hidden limbs and tight pink nipples.

  “So much for wearing a costume,” she said.

  “Don’t be offended,” Ian said. “I didn’t mean to paint that.”

  “Well, you should have.”

  He examined the canvas again. Something was emerging here, not old versus new but sexuality cracking the shell of propriety. “You’re right. This is what the painting’s about.”

  “We’re being silly,” she said.

  He inhaled the fragrance of her hair. “Are we?”

  “You don’t want to paint me with clothes on.” Sharon made a wry face. “If Angela can pose that way, so can I.”

  “Nude?”

  “Isn’t that what you want?” Her green eyes regarded him frankly.

  “It’s what every artist wants.” Ian began packing his paints. He didn’t want to delay for a single instant. “I’ll set up in the studio.”

  “I’ll meet you there,” said Sharon, and crossed the lawn with quick, neat steps.

  She fumbled as she hurried to remove her dress. Off came her undergarments as well,
flung across the bed. She resisted the impulse to examine herself in the mirror. No woman past thirty could avoid finding faults, and Sharon didn’t want to become self-conscious.

  With a robe wrapped around her, she dashed down the hall in a pair of rubber-soled slip-ons. Nothing stirred, and she heard only the faintest of traffic noises from outside. The house felt suspended between moments.

  When she entered the studio, Sharon found Ian ready with a fresh canvas on which he’d already begun sketching a background. She caught a glimpse of the stark lightning-split tree before standing where he directed her. He’d left off the fluorescents, instead setting up dramatic backlighting using adjustable fixtures.

  Grateful for the warmth of a space heater, she removed her robe. “I’m painting the scene from last night,” Ian told her. “You’re standing in front of the flames, throwing out your arms to the storm.”

  For a moment, self-conscious about her nudity, Sharon wasn’t sure she could do this. She closed her eyes and remembered the demonic energy of the fire and the keenness of the wind. Her head lifted, her shoulders drew back and, her spirit filling with glee, she spread her arms in welcome.

  “Close, but not quite.” Ian came around and raised her chin. His hands moved down to angle her shoulders. “Put your weight on your right leg. Bend your knee.” He shifted her thigh.

  The flames from last night were inside Sharon now, heat and fire and smoke. She laughed, and enjoyed the way the sound rippled through the room. Her nipples tightened instinctively.

  “Perfect.” Ian strode to the easel.

  He worked with fevered intensity. Sharon could scarcely hold still. Tingling with silvery excitement, she arched her back in invitation.

  To the storm or to Ian? They were the same, she thought, facing him boldly.

  Through the skylight, winter brightness condensed in a column around Ian. Sharon watched dust motes swirl. She had the impression that he was surrounded by a kind of shimmering mist.

  Her breath caught. There was someone here, a spirit merging with Ian, yet he seemed unaware of it in his absorption with his painting.

  Perhaps she should have been frightened. Instead, the sense of danger filled her with joy. This is who I am, Sharon thought. Not some timid girl afraid of life, but a woman who dares to seize it.

  “Ian,” she said.

  He looked up. In the quiet room, his breathing grew ragged. She could feel him seeing her as a woman now instead of a model.

  She no longer wished to fight the inevitable. “Come here.”

  Appreciation warming his face, Ian put down the paintbrush. A spark blazed suddenly and vibrantly between them.

  The swirl of misty light moved with him as he approached. Strong hands ran across Sharon’s shoulders and swept down to her breasts. His tongue explored her mouth with endless yearning.

  She undid the buttons on Ian’s shirt and slipped his belt from its buckle. It seemed imperative that their bodies meet without hindrance.

  Sharon breathed in the earthy scents of paint and masculine desire. The bristly contours of his jaw and cheeks when she stroked them made her hands ache to touch the hollows of his hips. She lowered his zipper, and together they peeled away his jeans.

  Her marriage had never brought her this scorching need to take a man inside her. How had she lived without this?

  They moved toward the couch with one impulse. Ian lowered her, rubbing his body lightly over hers. Fire surrounded them—they were the fire—they were lost in blazing light.

  Braced above her on one arm, Ian smoothed Sharon’s thighs apart and penetrated her, his shaft large and powerful. With a gasp, she pulled him harder into her. This was what she’d sensed the first time she imagined posing for Ian, that inhibitions would fall away and she would give herself freely.

  He stirred her with thrust after thrust like waves of a storm. Sharon urged him on with an eagerness that bordered on compulsion.

  They poised on the edge of a volcano, touched by fire and fury. Ian poured into her like molten lava and pleasure exploded through her. They slid onto the floor, panting and crying and laughing.

  A glow surrounded them. The presence was still here. It had been with them, all along, Sharon thought.

  Lying against Ian’s shoulder, she understood at last. “This is how it happened,” she whispered.

  “How what happened?” his voice rumbled close to her ear.

  “Bradley and Susan,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They made love here,” she said, “when he was painting her. Painting them both.” A little frightened of what she was saying, she added, “He’s here now.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ian wanted to deny what Sharon was telling him. But he too had felt someone else sharing his passion and intensifying it. He had been himself, and, at the same time, he had been another.

  He reverberated with the completeness of their climax. It was an experience a man would take with him beyond the grave, if the spirit really did transcend death.

  “What did you see?” he said.

  “There was this brilliance around you.” Scooting into a sitting position, Sharon put her back to the couch. They’d landed on bare floor, but the space heater vanquished the chill. “I felt someone else here, and that he was happy for us. Doesn’t make sense, does it? Before, when I thought I saw Bradley, he terrified me.”

  Ian ran his hand along the auburn hair that draped over her shoulder. The contrast between the bright hair and the pale skin made him want to paint her again. “This room used to be Susan’s sitting room, although things were configured differently. There was a bay window, which must have provided the best light in the house.”

  Jody had converted her family’s home after selling the toy store, which was when she began renting out the second floor. Before Ian lived here, the unit had been divided into three cramped rooms like Sharon’s unit.

  For a while, he’d had his own apartment elsewhere. After the accident, living on disability pay, he’d moved into this flat at Jody’s invitation. Ian hadn’t wanted to complain even though he found the place claustrophobic, and then, during one of his early seizures, he’d smashed a hole in one wall. Inspired, he’d suggested opening up the whole place. Jody had pointed out what a great studio it would make with the addition of a skylight.

  “The baby.” Sharon rested her head against a cushion. Ian loved the way she didn’t bother to cover her nudity. She had the long, slender body of a model except for those full breasts still rosy with excitement. “I don’t think they planned to take that kind of risk. I think he was painting the portrait of them and they got turned on and made love, the way we did.”

  “I feel as if we’re caught in some kind of pattern.” Ian reached for her hand. “Not that I’m objecting. What happened today was special.”

  “For me, too,” she said.

  The warmth was draining from his skin, and he saw that the space heater had shut off. Outside the window, the daylight faded.

  Darkness writhed inside Ian. What the hell had he done? He knew he needed to keep away from Sharon, and then he’d gone and repeated the old cycle. How could he?

  His head felt too heavy for his neck. He was sliding away, losing his grip. This shouldn’t happen. I’m taking the damn medication, aren’t I? But he was sinking anyway.

  A low growl vibrated through his brain, blurred and echoing so he couldn’t make out the words. The threat, however, was unmistakable. In its depths, he heard the screech of car tires and the scream of crunching metal. A woman screamed—his mother, crying for the baby she didn’t want to leave.

  Sharon’s hand on his temple brought him back. The noises dulled into silence. His temples throbbed. “I should have known I’d have a seizure,” he said. “Something in this house doesn’t want us to be happy.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “No, I heard a voice.” Ian stretched his legs. How could a man fall from exuberance into a pit with such speed?
“Remember what I told you about my parents, about the curse this house seems to lay on people who love each other? I’ve been indulging myself because I want you here, but I should have stuck by my guns and sent you away.”

  “No, you shouldn’t,” Sharon said. “I wouldn’t have gone anyway.”

  “Are you going to deny that we’re becoming just like Bradley and Susan?” Ian demanded. “And we both know how that story ends.”

  She reached for her robe. “Don’t discount the power of suggestion,” she said. “You’re bound to be susceptible right now.”

  “Maybe.” He didn’t believe this was all in his head, though. And neither, he was sure, did Sharon. “We’re in danger. You certainly are, and possibly me as well. My father didn’t listen and look what happened to him.”

  She squared her shoulders. She wasn’t easily intimidated, he noted with admiration. “If there’s a warning, it might not necessarily be for us.”

  “Then for whom?”

  “I found out Jody was alone when she found Susan’s and Bradley’s bodies.” Sharon explained about Grayson Wright and his objections to letting the grave remain. “Think how traumatized Jody must have been. This anniversary could be hard on her. Even though she seems strong, she’s very old.”

  “She holds things inside. People used to believe that was healthy.” The only time he recalled seeing her cry had been when he was in the hospital, drifting in and out of a coma. If she’d broken down when his parents died, she hadn’t done so in front of him. “I told her this morning about finding Bradley’s grave. The news didn’t seem to faze her.”

  “The more I learn, the more I think she must be dragging around a heavy load of guilt or grief or both.” Sharon’s fingers traced the vee of Ian’s collarbone. They kissed lightly, but the passion was gone for now. “Possibly she was trying to reunite her sister and Bradley, and then he ended up killing her.”

  “What makes you think she could be the one in danger?” Ian asked.