While She Was Sleeping...

by Isabel Sharpe

  “This isn’t the type of thing the foundation invests in.”

  “You could change that. Let me tell you the story of one kid…” She told him about a young talented man catering a party for extra cash, who met an art-loving couple and struck up a friendship. The couple hosted a party for him at their lakeside mansion, and one of their friends loved his work so much, he had his company buy paintings for its lobbies throughout the country. “We want to make it possible for this to happen on a regular basis, instead of leaving it to fate.”

  Sawyer nodded, interested after all, at least somewhat. “Go on.”

  Another story, another artist’s path to success through chance. Kids who didn’t want to sell out by getting a corporate job, who deserved a chance doing what they loved; a student whose parents were so furious he wanted to paint for a living, they kicked him out of the house. Another woman who could only afford studio space in a bad neighborhood was mugged and raped.

  Sawyer cringed, already feeling partly responsible. Debbie continued her well-planned pitch by painting her own picture—of a city young artists would be proud to call home, building on the success of the art museum’s new addition, broadcasting Milwaukee to the country as more than sausage, beer, cheese…“And the Green Bay Packers.”

  He grinned. “Lest we forget.”

  She went on, Sawyer paying serious attention now, caught up in her glowing description of the ornate stone building, her vision of its renovation—skylights installed, large windows to look over the river and let in the light, different directions and intensities at different times of day. Green heating and cooling systems, making use of steam already piped under the city streets for heating, plants on the roof for natural cooling. Studios on each of the six floors, partitioned but open, so artists could communicate if they wanted, so visitors could see finished works displayed, as well as works in progress. “Introducing the public to affordable original artwork, and giving young people a chance to see some financial rewards for their talent and hard work.”

  To reel him in, since she’d already hooked him, she listed the other powerful local companies who had already pledged to invest. She and her partners had nearly reached their dollar goal before they announced the project publicly. The Dalton Foundation would be able to put them over the top if it agreed to be the largest donor so far.

  “And not just painters, sculptors, photographers…” Her gaze turned sly. “Cabinetmakers, too.”

  He laughed. “You’ve definitely been talking to my brother.”

  “I’d never come to a meeting unprepared.”

  “Okay.” He sipped his coffee, definitely interested, excited even, he admitted it, and certainly impressed. The project seemed to promise something personal to him, though he had no intention of working in a drafty old building next to twenty-year-olds throwing paint at canvas to express their angst. But to be in charge of the foundation as a way to help other kids not have to sell their souls—at least not until they gave what they loved a real shot—that would be a job he could get behind. “No promises, but send me a proposal and I’ll look it over.”

  He’d do more than that, he’d do what his father wanted, for once gladly, and think seriously about taking the job, as long as he could give their grant-giving a different emphasis, away from energy and medical research, important as that was, and more toward the arts, making sure people who needed to keep creativity in their lives would be able to do so.

  He and Debbie finished their coffee, chatting about other topics. As he suspected, they had a lot in common. In any other circumstance he’d find out if she was involved, and if not, ask for her number to see what they could start. Today he had no desire to. Maybe that drug Phil gave him scrambled his brain permanently.

  Because as he waved goodbye to Debbie and headed back to his car, a crazy thought hit him. If he bought the building for Debbie, the building would need a manager.

  And if he could find some way to get Alana the job, maybe she wouldn’t leave Milwaukee.

  9

  ALANA TURNED another page of the photo album she’d pulled from a bookshelf in the living room and exclaimed again, laughing out loud at the picture of her and Melanie, ages twelve and ten, fighting in the backyard over the sprinkler on a hot day. She remembered that day, one of the few times she’d gotten the better of her younger sister. Grandad had taken the picture from the back steps moments before Alana wrested control of the weapon and chased Melanie all over the yard, soaking them both and beating the heat at the same time. Afterward, they’d come inside to freshly baked oatmeal cookies and lemonade with mint from Gran’s garden. After growing up with Tricia for a mom, it had been like moving from an inner-city war zone into an episode of Father Knows Best.

  Okay, she was exaggerating. Melanie would certainly say so, too, but Alana couldn’t quite forgive their mother for her neglect, or at very least, her complete lack of understanding about anyone’s needs but her own.

  Another page turned, another picture, this one of their dog, Carver, a Cairn terrier mix, in the act of jumping for a ball Alana was holding out to him. By the blurry image and Alana’s missing head, she’d guess Melanie took the picture.

  “Knock-knock?”

  Alana jumped and closed the album. “Sawyer.”

  “Did I startle you? Sorry.” He was polishing an apple on his white Nike T-shirt, glancing at the book in her lap.

  “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Catlike tread.” He took a big bite of the apple and grinned; her whole being responded to that smile. For God’s sake.

  “How was your coffee date with Debbie?” Acid showed through what she’d planned to be a casual tone. Oops.

  “Fun.” He came to the doorway of the living room and leaned an elbow up on the jamb, watching her intently. “But I’m not interested, and it turns out she isn’t after me at all.”

  “Oh?” She opened the album again. Her attempt to sound disinterested hadn’t worked, either; she sounded as if her heart had just started beating again.

  “She’s after my money.”

  “Oh, God.” Alana wrinkled her nose in disgust even as she wilted into relief. Call her Pollyanna, but the whole idea of valuing someone for what he had instead of who he was repulsed her. “How romantic.”

  “It was okay, though.” He examined the apple for another likely biting place. “I’ll tell you about it sometime.”

  She nodded, turned a page pretending to examine a photograph carefully while minutely tuned in to his presence.

  “Don’t you want to know when?”

  “What?” She looked up to find him chuckling, turning the apple around in his long fingers. “When what?”

  “Dinner tonight? Drink? Both?”

  She blinked, completely taken aback. “You and me?”

  “Uh…” He pretended to look confused. “Is there someone else in the room?”

  “Sawyer…” She hugged the album to her chest. “Thank you, but I don’t think that’s a good idea. I agreed to stay on during Cynthia, but it doesn’t mean—”

  “Melanie will be out tonight. She called me from work. I don’t think there’s much in the refrigerator, so I suggested going out.” He crunched into the apple, which he’d nearly finished.

  “I was going to go to the supermarket and—”

  “Great, I’ll come with you.” He ate the last few bites, grinning with sneaky triumph. “You drive.”

  Alana couldn’t help smiling. What a piece of work. She also couldn’t help a silly burst of satisfaction at his insistence that she drive. Sam never let her except on long trips, a ridiculous male ego stunt. She remembered Gran telling her long ago before she could really understand—she was probably all of eleven—when she’d commented on Grandad helping in the kitchen wearing an apron, that it took more male security and strength not to worry about appearances than it did to cling to stereotypes of macho behavior. “Fine. We’ll go. I’ll drive.”

  “Hey, are those old pictures?”
He gestured to the album. “Can I see?”

  She nodded, strangely reluctant.

  “I’ll wash my hands.” He disappeared toward the kitchen. Alana let her shoulders relax, realizing they’d been up somewhere around her ears. Why did this man set her so on edge? Maybe because she never knew what to expect next. Charm, teasing, seduction, friendship. He fascinated her, and tired her out, too. With Sam she always knew what to expect, right from the beginning. She’d never had such a smooth courtship. They drifted right into togetherness, each knowing it was what the other wanted, too. None of this agony of push-pull.

  But also none of this excitement. Was this a tiny version of the danger and thrills Melanie seemed to want from men? Alana would go gray in six months at her level.

  “Okay, clean and ready.”

  She held out the album but he crossed the room and sat next to her, close, so their hips nearly touched, his arm draped casually across the back of the couch behind her. He smelled of soap and Sawyer. Immediately, and predictably, her heart sped up, her shoulder wanted to lean into his. Had he implanted Alana-magnets under his skin?

  “The first half of the album is mostly pictures Gran and Grandad took.” She leafed through a few pages, conflicted, as if letting him into her past was like letting him into her life, which she guessed in a way it was. “This is Mom.”

  “Ah.” He peered intently for a few seconds. “Melanie never talks about her. Where does she live?”

  “This week? I don’t know.” She turned the page again, not wanting to go on about Tricia, hoping he wouldn’t ask. “Our dog, Carver. Melanie and me. My first birthday party.”

  “You’re a lot older than one…”

  “I was ten. But it was my first party. Mom didn’t go for that kind of thing. Here’s our trip to Williamsburg, Virginia.”

  He watched with her, listened to her explanations, laughed at the stories, didn’t press when she hurried past photos that pushed too many buttons. She felt warmed by his interest, cozy sitting with him here like this, in a truce, in a trance.

  Why couldn’t he fall for Melanie?

  She nearly snorted out loud. Who was she kidding? Her heart would crack and shatter. She might as well admit a large part of the reason she was still here was that he asked her to stay.

  “You said the first half of the album was pictures taken by your grandparents. What’s the second half?”

  “Oh. Pictures I took. I used to think I was a brilliant photographer.” She laughed nervously, closed the book and glanced at her watch. “We should probably go to the supermarket if we want to—”

  “Oh, no, you’re not getting off that easily.” He took the album gently from her, flipped halfway and started looking, turning pages, concentrating on each shot. She watched, trying to see the pictures through his eyes, fidgeting, painfully aware she was being judged. At the same time she was interested to see her own work again after such a long time. Gran and Grandad kept this album here; Alana’s originals were in some box she hadn’t opened in years. She watched critically, page after page, seeing both the promise and the limitations.

  Looking at the pictures now was like seeing an old friend and regretting having lost touch.

  “Wow.” He stopped on a shot she’d taken of the city just be fore dawn on a ridiculously cold winter morning from Bradford Beach, which jutted out into the lake north of the city. In the sky above, a half-moon pierced the blackness. Her flash caught mist rising from the lake, and the first suggestion of dawn had turned the downtown buildings into glowing orange-pink rectangles. “This is stunning.”

  “It was very, very cold. Minus ten or so. I was completely crazy to be out in it. But, yeah, I love the shot.”

  “Alana, this is incredible.” He flipped a few more pages, then turned to face her, his features serious and thoughtful. “You are talented. A real artist.”

  The flood of pleasure at his praise surprised her. “Thank you. I haven’t taken any pictures in years.”

  “Why not?”

  Alana shrugged, trying to remember when her passion had started cooling. “It wasn’t like one defining moment when I gave it up. More like a gradual waning. There was no money in the type of photos I wanted to take. I had a busy job—I don’t know. Seems if I were really cut out for it, I wouldn’t have been able to stop. Maybe I should start again, just for fun.”

  “You should.” He touched her knee, which made her want him to touch her again. And again. “I’ll tell you why I’m so sure you should, since you’re sitting there thinking it’s easy for me to say.”

  She lifted an eyebrow.

  “I wanted to be a cabinetmaker in high school, but in our family it was understood you’d get a high-paying, high-status job. I took a fairly wimpy stand, then folded and went to law school, became a lawyer. Once in a while I’d uncover my tools, do some work, but unless you can keep at it, it’s not satisfying. Or that’s what I told myself. Sometimes I think now I was punishing myself as thoroughly as possible.”

  Alana held her breath, thinking of how often she’d had the urge to take her camera out and how often she’d come up with reasons why she couldn’t. All of which seemed so crazy now. Had she been punishing herself, too?

  “Then when I had to quit my job six months ago, I took it up again. Now I have no idea how or why I chose to live without the satisfaction working with wood gives me. It feeds my soul, I guess. Without some form of creative self-expression, life is pretty barren.”

  His words jolted her. She knew exactly what he meant, and an odd sense of joy bloomed in her chest. She did miss the sometimes frustrating hunt for the perfect shot, the rare excitement in capturing precisely what she wanted in a frame, those precious times when she hit it—color, light, composition, all perfect. “That’s it exactly. Yes.”

  “I’m guessing your soul is hungry these days?”

  She nodded, holding his gaze, feeling the tension between them, not sexual this time but something deeper, some connection through absolute understanding. “I hadn’t even noticed.”

  “That’s my story, too. It’s probably pretty common. You don’t feel the emptiness until you slow down and take stock, whether someone or something forces you to or whether you’re a rare wise being who knows to do it yourself.” He traced the line of the horizon on her frozen winterscape near Pewaukee Lake. “I’m not making that mistake again.”

  “What happened to make you quit your job? If it’s okay to ask.”

  “Sure.” He settled his hand at the back of his neck, and as closely involved as she was with what he was saying, she couldn’t help observing him with sheer pleasure, the stubble speckling his cheeks and jaw, the vibrantly alive eyes, the well-developed muscles in his arms and chest—and how intimate his immediate acceptance of her personal question felt. “Let’s see, I was sitting in a late-afternoon meeting, reviewing a case that wasn’t going well, and I suddenly couldn’t breathe, had pains from chest to shoulder and could barely move my right arm.”

  “Oh my God.” She gripped the couch arm to keep from flinging herself at him in retroactive fear. “You had a heart attack? So young?”

  “Nah, my heart’s fine. I had an attack brought on by overwork, stress and anxiety. My body’s way of saying, ‘Hey, dope, I don’t want to be here and neither do you, but since you’re too stupid to figure it out I’m getting your attention the only way I know how.’”

  “So you’re okay.”

  “You worried about me?” He flashed her a sexy look that made her catch her breath. “Don’t be. I’ve never been better.”

  “And you’ve turned back to woodworking.”

  “I’m in the middle of making a bedside table.” He stood suddenly; she felt the loss of him beside her. “Do you have your camera here?”

  “It’s in a box on the way to Florida.”

  “Ooh, not good.” He reached down, pulled her off the couch. “We’ll have to buy you one. Or I’ll lend you mine while you’re here. Then we’ll go all over the city for t
he next couple of days and feed your soul.”

  She shook her head bemusedly, heart speeding with excitement at the idea of holding a camera again, yes, but mostly at the idea of spending all that time with Sawyer, that he wanted to spend it with her. “You certainly take charge.”

  “Only when I’m sure I’m right.” He backed toward the living room door, pulling her along, not that she resisted. “C’mon, let’s hit Sentry and get dinner supplies. What are you in the mood for?”

  You. “Oh, I guess a big salad with—”

  “Steak.” He made a sound of derision. “Salad. Girly eater.”

  “Caveman.”

  He turned at the back door, stopping abruptly so she nearly ran into his chest. She rebounded, half wishing she hadn’t been able to stop her own momentum. He caught her elbows, brought her up nearly against him, not quite. “Caveman, yes.”

  She pushed back, but not very hard. “You promised.”

  “Argh. The damn promise.” He reluctantly moved to one side, gestured her through the doorway half-filled by his body. She’d have to scoot close by him, turned either toward or away. “After you.”

  Fine. She decided on turned-away and slid by, brushing against him lightly as she passed. She heard him draw in a quick breath and felt vindicated. Teach him to play with fire.

  Except the way she was burning she wasn’t sure Sawyer was the only one tempting fate. Other boyfriends had made her feel respected, desired, but this remarkable fascination Sawyer had with her, insubstantial as it might be, and the electric force of his personality were heady and hard to resist.

  She had to remember that Melanie was the one who professed to love Sawyer, the one who’d be living with him for some time. She had to forget that Sawyer seemed indifferent to Melanie’s flirtations, which had redoubled since that one odd phone call. Alana had to think of her sister first, how much Melanie deserved a stable relationship.

  Alana rubbed at her arms uncomfortably. Something about her logic regarding Melanie’s chances with Sawyer was starting to ring false, which made her feel slightly panicky and she wasn’t sure why. She crossed to her car, her buoyant mood bogged down in confusion.