by V. E. Lemp
This book is s a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Trigger Warning: This book includes a scene depicting an attempted suicide.
Copyright ©2017 by Vicki L. Weavil
THE LIGHT FROM OTHER SUNS by V. E. Lemp
All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by
White Tulip Press
Print ISBN: 978-0-9981337-1-3
eBook ISBN: 978-0-9981337-0-6
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher or copyright holder, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Published by White Tulip Press
Edited by Annie Cosby, Cosby Company http://www.cosbycompany.com/
Cover Art by Anne Drury http://annemdrury.wixsite.com/annedrury
Cover and Interior Formatting by VBartles Design http://vbartles.com/design.htm
Cover Copyright © 2017 by White Tulip Press
For my husband, Kevin –
Who always believed.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART ONE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
PART TWO
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PART ONE
ONE
The meteor seared minds as well as the earth.
Everyone called it a rarity, a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence. But some at the faculty party felt it meant much more. One young English instructor claimed the flash of the meteor had opened his eyes instead of blinding him. “No time to waste,” he told the dean of his department before packing a bag and heading to the Himalayas. “No time to teach the same old stories. Must find new ones.”
Even if they weren’t as dramatically changed, other party guests later spoke of that night with awe, recounting tales of blazing light, and flame, and a crash that shattered china and eardrums. But when Karen Foster remembered that night, she recalled something brighter, and for her, far more dangerous.
She remembered a pair of blue eyes.
Karen was sketching before the meteor streaked across the sky. She wasn’t supposed to be drawing, of course. She’d been hired as a temporary caterer’s assistant for the party. Her roommate, Thea Christopher, worked for the caterer on a regular basis and had secured Karen this gig as part of a last-ditch effort to fund her senior art project. Karen would’ve preferred to spend the evening in the studio, but her parents’ lack of support had forced her to seek work. To be fair, they hadn’t cut off all funds when she’d changed her major from art education to studio art. But their refusal to pay for supplies on top of her college tuition left Karen scrambling to buy paint and canvas.
It was an easy job—all she had to do was wander the conference-center ballroom, holding out a silver-plated tray piled high with anemic tea sandwiches. Still, Karen wanted to flee several times, especially after stumbling upon a conversation about one of the paintings in the room.
“Now that would be lovely above the dresser,” said a woman with hair the color of taffy and skin so taut it looked as if her ears had been pulled behind her head. “So bright and cheerful.”
Karen gnawed the inside of her cheek to prevent a sharp retort. She’d studied with the artist, and the idea of reducing her mentor’s work to some decorative flourish was infuriating. No, the painting wasn’t “bright and cheerful and just the thing to hang in the guest bedroom.” It was a fierce indictment of wealth and greed, damn it.
A hand gripped her arm. “Maybe take a break? Before you say something I’ll regret, I mean.”
She glanced at Thea, who’d appeared at her side as if drawn by the anger seething behind Karen’s hazel eyes. “I don’t want to get you in trouble.”
“That’s why I think you should take a little break. Go on, I’ll cover for you.”
Karen examined her roommate. Thea Christopher was a short, plump girl with a tight Afro haloing her round face. But Karen also saw, with her artist’s eye, a natural beauty that could only be captured by the hand of a master. She couldn’t claim that title—none of her portraits had ever done Thea justice.
“Good point.” Karen fingered the objects she’d tucked into the pocket of her black skirt. The caterer would’ve thrown a fit had she seen the bulge, but Karen didn’t go anywhere without a sketchbook and pencil. “Think I’ll sneak out onto the balcony and dash off a drawing or two.”
Thea patted her arm. “Good idea. Boss won’t catch you out there. She’s too busy barking orders in the kitchen.”
Karen shot Thea a grateful smile before heading for the French doors that led outside. She drew in a deep breath of winter air and made her way to the concrete balustrade that edged the balcony. The conference center overlooked a small grove of trees. Thick pines were massed against taller, bare-limbed hardwoods, creating an intriguing play of shadows. Karen whipped the sketchbook and a stubby charcoal pencil from her pocket and began drawing, her quick strokes capturing the nuances of dark needles against gray branches.
“So are sketches something the catering service is offering now? How interesting.” A masculine voice sailed from the shadows on Karen’s right.
She slammed her sketchbook shut. “No, sorry, I’m not supposed to be drawing, but …”
“You couldn’t resist? Don’t apologize for that. Mark of a true artist.”
“Well, I’m obviously supposed to be working.”
“Obviously. But anyone can pass around hors d’oeuvres. Not everyone can draw. Carry on. I promise I won’t inform your boss.”
Karen squinted, but all she could spy was a tall, lean man wearing a suit. So, a guest. She’d probably get in trouble over this, despite the stranger’s claims. Which would get Thea in trouble. Lovely.
“Sorry if I disturbed you,” she said. “Didn’t see you there, or I wouldn’t have chosen this spot.”
“It’s all right. I’m just hiding out to escape another boring conversation. Please don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me.”
“I haven’t actually. Seen you, I mean. So you’re good.”
The man chuckled. “True.” He stepped into a pool of light spilling from inside the building.
Karen shoved her fist against her mouth to stifle a gasp. With hair as bright as a gilt halo, and features as perfectly etched as a da Vinci drawing, he was easily the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.
“Escaping someone?” Overwhelmed by a desire to capture that arresting face, Karen longed to flip to a fresh page in her sketchbook, but shoved her pencil into her pocket instead.
“You could say that.”
“Your boss?” she asked.
“No, the tyranny of the high-heeled well-heeled,” said the stranger, with a smile that could melt Antarctica. All of it. At once.
Karen smoothed down her hair. Yeah, that would help. Brush a few flyaway strands and transform into a raving beauty. Only, she wouldn’t. Because she was perfectly ordinary. Except for her talent, of course. But she’d learned from experience that artistic ability was not something that typically attracted men.
“I really should get back to work, but that crowd was so …”
“Tiresome? Yes, they are. Much nicer out here.” The man looked her up and down. “Aren’t you cold out here without a coat?”
“Cold? Oh, I hadn’t really noticed.”
“Another mark of a true artist, ignoring the elements. You are an artist, I assume?”
Karen forced herself to meet the man’s gaze. God, those blue eyes—so brilliant. She tightened her grip on her sketchbook. “Art student, anyway. I’m planning to graduate this semester. So, of course—working as a waitress.”
The man moved closer and laid one hand on her arm. His slender fingers were cool against her skin but sent a frisson of heat rocketing up her arm. “Alex Wythe, professor of psychology.”
“Karen Foster.” Her smile froze into an uncomfortable grimace. His name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
“You plan to pursue art professionally?”
“Yes.” Karen met his searching gaze without flinching. She had to pull herself together. She couldn’t allow some random guy to intimidate her. Not even if he was older than her by several years. And no matter how gorgeous he was.
“Nice. I’ve no talent for art, but I do appreciate it.”
Of course—Dr. Alex Wythe. A girl in her studio had taken his class and never stopped yapping about him. The charming, fatally attractive psychology professor who supposedly dated a new woman every month. But never students, much to her studio mate’s dismay.
“Nice to meet you, but I certainly don’t want to interrupt your moment of solitude.”
“Nonsense. I was just watching the stars. There’s supposed to be a meteor shower tonight, you know.”
“Is there?” Karen looked up. The night was clear. The dark sky was spangled with stars like sequins scattered over black velvet.
“Yes, I was waiting for that. It’s a bit later than I thought.”
“I don’t suppose you can schedule meteors, exactly.”
“Not meteors, no,” Alex Wythe said, in a tone that suggested other such things might be under his control.
Karen shot a quick look at him as he gazed at the heavens. “They’re almost impossible to paint, though. Can’t quite capture the quality of that light, and the depth of the darkness. How it goes on forever. I’ve attempted it, but the results always look flat and two-dimensional.”
“Paintings are two-dimensional. Color on canvas. But I suppose you’d argue it’s the artist’s task to make them into something more.”
“Depends on the artist.” Karen relaxed her taut shoulders. Talking about art was something she could do anywhere, with anyone. “Some people revel in the two-dimensionality, like they’re saying ‘what you see is what is.’ Others want to play tricks, fool the eye. Or maybe, capture reality in a way even a photograph can’t … Oh, crap, I’m going off on one of my favorite tangents. Sorry, sorry.”
“No need to apologize. I like people who are passionate about their work.” Alex leaned in, studying her face like an appraiser examining a canvas. “It’s a very attractive trait.”
Was he going to kiss her? No, that was absurd. True, she hadn’t been touched by a man since her breakup with Karl, over six months ago. Her feelings of deprivation were probably coloring her thoughts, but surely she wasn’t so far gone as to turn delusional. Karen flung up her hand to cover her mouth and coughed.
Alex stepped back. In the ensuing silence, Karen toyed with her pencil in her pocket.
After a moment, Alex motioned toward her sketchbook. “Might I see? I don’t mean to pry, but I’m curious.”
“Sure. Don’t expect finished work, though. It’s all quick studies.”
“I promise not to judge too harshly.” He flipped through the pages, pausing to examine a few drawings more closely. “Very impressive.”
Karen was glad the shadows hid her blush. “Thanks. I mostly work in oils and watercolors, but my draftsmanship isn’t bad, or so I’m told.”
Alex didn’t appear to hear her. He was staring at one of the sketches with an odd expression on his face—a focus so intense it seemed his gaze might burn a hole in the paper.
“This one,” he said, his voice cracking, “this one is different. Where’d you get the inspiration for this?” He moved closer, holding out the small notebook.
She’d forgotten that sketch—an extremely detailed drawing of some unknown object, as carefully drafted as the blueprint for a high-tech machine.
“Oh.” Karen’s thoughts raced, but she didn’t know if it was due to the sketch or Alex’s proximity. “That’s something I can’t explain. I have these dreams, you see …”
“Dreams?” Alex’s blue eyes were very large and bright and very close, extremely close.
Karen took two steps back. “Yes. I’ve always had vivid, strange dreams. Decided I might as well make use of them. They’re worthless otherwise.”
“You remember your dreams? In detail?”
“Yes. Sometimes …” Karen hesitated. Strangely, she wanted to tell this man the truth she hid from everyone. The sad reality only her parents, a few doctors, and Thea knew. But years of keeping secrets won out. “Well, sometimes when I wake I remember images and draw things. Things like that.” She pointed at the sketch. “Weird, huh?”
Alex snapped the sketchbook shut and handed it back. “Not as weird as you think.” He studied her face. “Know anything about my research?”
“Psychology? I mean, that’s what you teach.”
“Yes, but I conduct research too. Have you ever heard of the Morpheus Project?”
“No.” Karen concentrated on shoving the sketchpad into her pocket. “But I’m pretty focused on my art courses these days.”
“Never heard of Ian Vance?”
“Well, yes, but only because his family’s rich. Not that I care about people with money, but you can’t live in this town and not hear about the Vance family. They own that big estate outside town, right?”
“Yes, quite a place. Anyway, Ian Vance is my boss. He designed the Morpheus Project.” Alex checked his watch. “Not sure we’re going to see that meteor shower after all.”
His frown was puzzling. Karen understood having an interest in such a phenomenon, but not the concern that colored his words. There would be falling stars—or not. Surely it didn’t matter either way.
“Anyway …” Alex’s smile erased her errant thoughts. “I doubt this catering job is something you enjoy. I assume you just need money?”
“Yes, for art supplies. For my senior show.”
“Then you should consider the Morpheus Project. Could be just the thing, if you need a job.” He laid his fingers back on her arm.
“Job? What kind of job?” Karen fought the urge to pull away. Not because his touch was unpleasant. No, definitely not. And that was precisely the problem.
“We’re looking for student subjects. It involves dream research, so it might suit you.”
“People get paid to dream?”
“Well, to sleep in our facility, with monitoring equipment, then record dreams in the morning, yes.”
“That’s actually research? I mean, funded and everything?” Karen couldn’t keep disbelief from coloring her words.
Alex lifted his hand from her arm. Karen thought she’d insulted him, until she caught a glimpse of his smile. “Believe it or not, it is. And I think you’d make a perfect research subject. It offers decent pay, plus free room and board. Interested?”
“Maybe.” Why she did
n’t jump at this opportunity? To be paid to dream seemed like a dream itself, and the ideal way to make money for art supplies. Plus, no rent or paying for meals? Perfect. But a flutter in her stomach made Karen hesitate. It was true she remembered her dreams in great detail and wrote them down in a journal for artistic inspiration. But she hadn’t told Alex Wythe everything. She hadn’t mentioned her sleepwalking. If she joined his research study, surely they’d discover that little habit. And there was one other thing, even more disturbing—something that might expose her most embarrassing secret. The detailed sketch, the one Alex questioned her about, had been drawn in her sleep.
Her parents had tried for years to eradicate this behavior through doctors and drugs. Nothing ever worked, much to their disappointment. Always a disappointment, she thought, her lips tightening.
“Think about it.” Alex reached into his suit pocket and pulled out a business card. “If you decide to apply, just call the office number and tell them I recommended you. They’ll set up an interview straight away.”
