Ghosts of Romances Past

by Laura Briggs

  She stumbled along with her suitcase, trying to unfold the sheet of paper from her sweater pocket at the same time. On it was the location for the girl’s dormitory, as well as a diagram of all the institute’s classrooms, cafeteria facilities, and studios.

  “Hey, you, put that down right now!” The voice was young, male, and extremely stern.

  Without hesitating, she dropped her suitcase and froze. A pair of tan fingers wrapped themselves around the handle and picked it up.

  “That’s better,” the boy announced. He stood taller than her, a lean body with dark hair tousled slightly above his brown eyes. He stuck out his hand in greeting. “Name’s Jamie Lewis. Let me give you the grand tour.”

  “Alice,” she answered automatically. “Are you one of the teachers?” A ludicrous question since he looked barely fifteen. Eighteen was the youngest age for eligible students, but he possessed the confidence of a seasoned veteran.

  He laughed aloud. “Relax, I’m a student. But I’ve been here for two hours, so I figure that gives me an advantage over newcomers.”

  A few other students were milling around outside the welcome center, making sketches of the campus.

  Jamie pulled the piece of paper from her hand and studied it.

  “You’re in the Waverly Building,” he said, “so that puts you on the west side of the campus. And I’m gonna guess since you have Redmon studio circled you must be a painter—that’s across from the student dining hall, by the way.”

  “You guessed right.” Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she tried not to feel self-conscious beneath the gaze of those friendly dark eyes. “I do oils, but I love watercolors.”

  “Me, too,” he answered softly. “Well, anyway, let’s get you to your destination, shall we?” He gestured towards the gravel path leading away from the campus’s welcome center.

  Jamie, she would learn over the next few days, was overly-confident about everything. He was in both her painting and drawing classes, where he asked a great many questions and made very few sketches despite the instructors’ encouragement to draw freely during the lecture. Alice sat towards the front, but couldn’t help but glance now and then at the strange boy who seemed to be gunning for the role of class clown.

  But Jamie was a fantastic painter; that couldn’t be denied, no matter what anyone else said. As Alice learned by accident during the first few days of class.

  It was late one night after her second charcoal sketch class, as she made her way back to her dormitory with a flashlight. The bulb’s weak beam was rivaled by the brilliantly-lit windows of Redmon studio, making her curious enough to glance inside, partly in hopes the painting instructor, Mr. Greysen, was at work.

  She slipped up the steps and pushed the door open. The studio’s main room was empty except for a lone figure seated in the middle of the room, bent in concentration over an easel.

  A field of wildflowers stretched across the canvas surface. Red poppies, black-eyed susans, tall, green grass that seemed stirred by an invisible breeze. Faint white clouds gathered in the sky overhead, with curves so soft Alice felt she could reach out a finger and touch them.

  The artist’s brush swirled alternately between his palette and a jar of water, creating soft shades of color with each stroke. He glanced briefly towards a black and white photo pinned to the top of the easel, a similar meadow scene which possessed neither color nor variety in comparison to his canvas.

  “It’s beautiful,” Alice said.

  Jamie paused in mid-stroke, brush poised over the scene. He turned towards her, a hesitant smile on his face. “Is that one painter to another? Or just a classmate being nice?” He laid aside the brush as she moved closer to study the painting.

  “It’s as an artist, trust me,” she answered. “I wish I were half as good.” Her paintings were good; there were enough compliments from local artists and instructors to prove it. But there was nothing this alive in her own canvases.

  “Could you always do this?” she asked. “Did one of your parents paint, or did you have an incredible instructor?” She was embarrassed a second later, realizing she implied that only genetics or training could make him skillful.

  “Neither. Mom died when I was eight, but I don’t remember her ever doing anything artistic. And Dad was more of a gardener than a Monet fan.” He wiped his brush on a torn painting rag. “I didn’t take art lessons until high school. But I used to draw tons in old notebooks. Comics, pictures, optical illusions; you name it.” He cleared his throat. “So what about you? Are you from generations of Renoirs?”

  “I took lessons since I was five,” Alice answered. “I guess I always wanted to paint. My parents were pretty understanding about it. They said I came by it honestly, since a lot of our family had those skills. My great-grandmother was even a published poet.”

  Jamie shoved his stool away from the easel. He stood and stretched, and suddenly seemed much taller than before. Reaching for his palette and brush, he glanced at her, shyly.

  “I could paint you if you wanted,” he offered. He changed his serious tone to teasing. “You’d look good on canvas; you could be the first red-haired Mona Lisa.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think I’m canvas material,” she answered.

  He covered the palette and soaked the brush in a container of clear water. “So, were you heading somewhere?” he asked, with a pointed look at her flashlight.

  She glanced at her watch, realizing the late hour. “I was on my way back to the dormitory. I guess I got a little distracted by the sight of someone in the studio.” She waved the flashlight towards the overhead lamps, turned to the brightest setting.

  “Let me walk you there,” said Jamie. His hand was poised over the light switch. Alice’s fingers found the doorknob, tightening their grip as the room vanished into darkness. “It’s probably pretty safe to walk there alone.” She hardly knew this boy, much less anyone else at the institute. Was it safe to go for a walk with a stranger?

  “Better safe than sorry,” he answered, pressing the knob’s button to lock the door. “Besides, my dorm’s only a few yards from yours, anyway.” He struck off in the direction of the Waverly Building as Alice hurried to catch up, fumbling with the flashlight button in the dark.

  “If you waited for me, you might be a more effective escort,” she said.

  He slowed his pace until she was beside him, the faint flashlight beam illuminating a circle on the path.

  “Sorry.” He grinned. “But if that’s all the bulb you’ve got, I think we’d be better off with moonlight.” He took her arm in a way that reminded her of classic movies, when men escorted women along the streets in an old-fashioned stroll.

  The yard lamp was still burning in front of the Waverly Building, now dark with sleep. Alice jogged up the steps and fumbled for her keys, then slowed as the terrible realization dawned. “No keys,” she wailed. “I must’ve left them in the charcoal classroom. And Miss Pyle locked it.”

  She slumped against the door, feeling stupid. What on earth would her classmate think of her, a ditz who couldn’t keep track of her own room key?

  “No problem,” Jamie announced. He disappeared around the corner of the building, where Alice heard a scraping noise a few minutes later.

  She hurried down the steps and rounded the side in time to see Jamie’s legs disappear through a half-open window.

  “Wait!” she called. Scrambling up the frame, she followed him. Her elbow bumped a stack of books on the window seat and sent them crashing to the floor.

  “Yikes,” he hissed. “Keep it down, will you? I was going to unlock the front door for you, but I guess that gentlemanly gesture will have to wait.” His hand reached down in the darkness to help her up.

  “Sorry,” Alice answered. As her eyes adjusted to the room, she spotted an overstuffed armchair and rows of bookshelves filled with art volumes. Reaching down, she picked up the volumes on Degas and Vermeer which had landed on the floor.

  “I guess you’re okay
now,” said Jamie. “So I should probably be going.” As he slid past the piano, he reached down and struck three keys to form a resounding chord.

  Startled, Alice whirled around. “What are you doing? They’re all asleep upstairs!” she hissed.

  He grinned in her direction.

  “Would you like to be partners on the mural project?” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t have anybody yet, but I’d prefer to work with a painter. If you want.”

  She stared at him. This was a strange moment to ask her the question, given that he was supposed to be making his escape before they got caught. Somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to say no.

  “Yes. Whatever. Just don’t do that again,” she answered.

  His grin broadened as she spoke. He slipped through the darkened doorway towards the dormitory’s entrance. “See you tomorrow.” With that, he disappeared.

  Ghosts Of Romances Past

  20

  For the next three weeks, Alice and Jamie spent most of their time together, thanks to the mural project. Students were paired together, either willingly or by assignment, to cover large canvases with creative scenes. Pottery and mosaic artists turned theirs into mixed-media creations; sketch artists and painters stuck to traditional methods.

  Alice envisioned her canvas as a traditional scene of flying birds over a sunset river. Jamie had other ideas: notably, an elaborate scene inspired by a series of verses from the book of Proverbs.

  In the end, Alice persuaded him to bend to something more practical—a design inspired by the lion and the lamb together. To her surprise, he eventually agreed.

  “Do you always try to do things the hard way?” she asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I know what it’s like to be impetuous.”

  She knew Jamie had already seen evidence of her personality in the extra interests she enthusiastically pursued and then dropped after a few sessions.

  “I don’t think giving up on pottery makes you flighty by nature,” he replied. He was referring to Alice’s last craze, one they made a pact to pursue together. Until they successfully coated the walls of the studio with wet, flying clay in various attempts to make a pot.

  “I don’t mean that.” She stood on a ladder to better reach the mural’s top edge, which she feather-brushed with green paint. “I’m talking about the way you approached this project. You were so...well, passionate about your idea. To tell the truth, I didn’t think I’d talk you out of it.”

  He slapped together brown and black, forming a tawny shade of gray. “I don’t like changing my mind. Some things you just know are right. Other things you know are worth fighting for. It’s all the stuff in between that you can afford to let go.” He tested the paint within the borders of the penciled outline for the lion.

  “I’m guessing that’s a small category,” she answered.

  He was so busy concentrating, he didn’t hear her.

  With a sigh, she dipped her brush in paint and continued to outline the tree’s branches.

  They worked on it every day from three to five. They took a fifteen minute break, during which Alice usually ate an apple and wrote her weekly letter home.

  Jamie spent his time working on a “secret project” he wouldn’t show her. It was a canvas he kept propped in his room, a design he said was separate from his final painting for the institute’s program.

  “You could show it to me, you know,” she countered. “I won’t laugh, honest.” She rather imagined it must be something Picasso-like; Jamie knew she wasn’t a fan of modern art.

  “Forget it,” he answered, giving her a mocking grin from the other side of the canvas. “You can’t see it until it’s finished. And I’m not making promises of when that’ll be.”

  “Fine,” she answered, plopping back down on the grass. “I guess I’ll write and tell my parents that you’re being mean to me. Then we’ll see who’s sorry.”

  “You mentioned me to your parents?” The look on his face was a mix of curiosity and pleasure. Butterflies fluttered through Alice’s stomach.

  “Of course I did. Why wouldn’t I?” Her pen sketched over the pages, although it seemed to be drawing little daisies instead of writing words.

  “I’m just a little surprised, that’s all,” Jamie answered. She noticed his fingers were playing with the handle of his brush, instead of painting.

  He slid from his stool to the grass beside her. “What do you think of me, Alice? I know I’m not the most handsome guy here…” He trailed off with a lopsided grin.

  “What does that matter?” she asked, avoiding his gaze as she answered. His expression grew gentle as he reached across and touched her arm.

  “It kind of does,” he said. “At least to me. Sometimes I can be a little crazy, I know, but I’m trying to be serious with you.” His tone was awkward, his fingers pulling blades of grass from the lawn and rolling them into balls.

  Alice felt herself tremble. “You know the craziness isn’t a big deal,” she answered, hunkering over her letter as if studying an important document.

  He bent closer to meet her face. “You’re sure about that?”

  Gazing into his dark eyes, she felt a warmth surge through her heart in a way she’d never felt before. “Positive,” she whispered.

  Leaning down, he let his lips brush against hers. Hers reached up to return the kiss, her fingers tracing his cheek gently. It lasted for a brief moment before they drew back, gazing at each other tentatively for a reaction.

  “You’re not surprised, are you?” he asked. The look of concern on his face seemed comical after the last few minutes.

  She giggled. “No, I’m not. Not really.”

  Jamie’s familiar grin returned as he pulled the pen from her fingers. “You want to go back to work on the mural or take the afternoon off? We could go get some coffee. Or go for a walk or something.”

  “No flashlight this time,” she answered, scrambling to her feet as the pages scattered across the lawn.

  ****

  “Are you ready?”

  Jamie slipped a dollar in the photo booth slot and settled himself beside her. The faded velvet curtain rustled beside them, a clear sign that a customer waited just outside.

  “Let me fix my hair,” Alice protested, struggling to re-fasten a barrette that pulled free from her curls.

  “You look perfect,” he scolded her. Ignoring her protests, he pushed the button and leaned close to her. “Smile now!”

  “No!” she squealed.

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and pulled her against him. There was a flash of light, a series of clicks, and a mechanical whir from somewhere inside the old machine. Leaning over, he gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  A photo shot out of the slot a few minutes later to reveal black and white images of the two of them. Alice shrieked with laughter at the sight of her curls in disarray, the silly grins on both their faces.

  “Perfect, no?” Jamie tore the slip in half. “Half for you, half for me,” he said. “I think maybe this is the best photo taken of me yet. I don’t know about you—”

  “It’s awful,” she answered. “But I love it, just the same.” Her fingers brushed his as she took the slip of photo paper carefully between her own.

  She clipped her photos to the mirror of her bedroom on campus that night.

  Jamie carried the one of her in his class notebook. She knew because he spent hours watching her paint her final project. His was finished weeks before it was due, giving him plenty of time to spend with her.

  He walked her to and from her drawing tutorial. They added final details to the mural, kneeling side by side to create blades of grass, soft lamb’s wool, and a shaggy lion’s mane on the canvas surface.

  So what happened next shouldn’t have been a surprise for Alice, but it was. Jamie slipped the box onto her lap. She opened the lid and saw the stone winking from a bed of jewelry padding.

  “Will you marry me, Ali?” he asked.

  Ghosts Of Romances Past
r />   21

  “Well, what do you say?” Jamie’s dark gaze locked with hers. Alice wondered what he saw. Fear? Excitement? She wasn’t sure herself.

  “Jamie,” she breathed. “I don’t know...I don’t know what to say.” Her heart was pounding, like hailstones hammering the pavement.

  He took the box from her fingers and shook it into the palm of his hand. The large green stone looked like glass, surrounded by tiny diamonds in its silver setting.

  “I know it looks a little cheesy,” he admitted, “but it’s real, believe it or not. The big stone is jade, the little ones are diamonds. The guy at the antique shop said he’s never seen anything like it before.”

  The stone hugged her finger, sending warmth through her frame.

  “It’s gorgeous,” she whispered. “But Jamie…” She swallowed hard, torn between joy and uncertainty. “We’ve only known each other a month. Are you sure about this? We’re so young.”

  “We’re eighteen,” he scoffed. “We’re adults. This is a decision we can make, believe it or not.” He reached down and cupped her face between his hands. “I love you, Ali. I’ve known it from the first week we met. I promise you, it’s not just a crush or a passing fad.”

  Her heart throbbed with the tender words, melting some of her initial reserve. “I know that, believe me. But there’s so much to think about. I’ve got acceptance letters at home for art schools—”

  “So do I,” Jamie said. “So who cares? We’ll tear them all up and start from scratch if we have to.” He took her hand, cradling her fingers. “Wherever you want to go, we’ll go. I can get a job and take night or part-time courses, whatever it takes.”

  “Oh, Jamie.” Admiration and anxiety battled in her heart as she considered the emotional pledge. “I can’t ask you to give up painting for me.” She ran fingers through her hair, pulling on its roots with frustration.

  “So what’s the problem?” he asked. His tone grew gentle when he saw the tears gathering in her eyes. “Do you not feel the same way?”