Beneath the Scars

At the back of the gallery was a beautiful collection of paintings. There were numerous different artists featured, but one person’s work caught my interest. Several pieces hung in their own small room; the artistry evident even to my untrained eye. Ocean views, deep forests, scenic beaches; all so vivid, with attention to detail so great, it was as if you were looking at a photograph. The use of light and color was flawless and stunning. There was no signature in the corner—only the initials Z D A in bold script adorned the pieces. One painting in particular captured my attention, and I was spellbound by the beauty. It was the image of a storm moving toward the shore, coming closer, as though it was aiming for me. Its ferocity and power had been captured to perfection. The steel gray and white of the angry clouds, as they whipped up the violent waves on the water, crashing on the rocks, were so striking I could almost feel the cold coming off the canvas. The swirling mass of colors the wind kicked up in the water was mesmerizing; their chaos so equally matched it was almost impossible to tell where the water started, and the clouds ended. It was as if the artist had caught my own churning emotions and had thrown them on this canvas for everyone to see. For several moments I stood, staring at the picture until a noise startled me. I felt someone brush past behind me, and I gasped softly as I inhaled. The scent of the ocean, with all its heady, earthy fragrances hit me. It was as though the sun, sand, and water itself were slipping by me.

Turning, I caught the briefest glimpse of a tall man moving away from me in hurried strides. The collar of his coat was up, shielding most of his face; a knit beanie pulled low on his head. His broad shoulders tensed as he opened the door leading out the back of the gallery. Before he disappeared from view, I caught a quick glimpse of his profile—a straight nose and stubbled jawline. His long fingers rested for a brief instance on the doorframe as he yanked the door open. There was something on the back of his hand—a birthmark or scar perhaps? He hurried so fast I couldn’t be certain.

I had the strangest feeling; I wanted to call out to him and halt his departure, to come back, but I stopped myself. I realized my hand was extended toward the picture, hanging midair as I stood in front of the art. Self-conscious now, I lowered it, unsure what had caused that reaction in me. The squeal of tires out back let me know whoever had left, was in a great rush to do so. I groaned in frustration. I seemed to be causing all men to run away from me today.

The mystery man was forgotten, however, as I brought my eyes back to the painting, once again swept away by its power. Captivated by the beauty, I was determined. I had to buy this one. I needed to own the painting.

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Another man appeared beside me. He was tall; his gray hair caught back in a long ponytail. His smile was open and warm, and I found myself returning it.

“It’s mesmerizing,” I replied, my smile now fading. “The pain in it…it’s so blatant, I can feel it.”

“One of our most popular local artists.” He held out his hand. “I’m Jonathon. My wife and I run this gallery.”

I shook his hand. “Your gallery is beautiful. I’m Megan.”

“Thank you. My wife, Ashley, makes all the jewelry and scarves. Are you passing through, Megan?”

I shook my head. “I’m staying up at the bluffs.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Friend of the Harpers’?”

I laughed. “How did you know?”

“There are three houses on the bluffs. The Smiths never have visitors, you aren’t a friend of Zachary’s, but you’re the perfect age for Karen.” He grinned. “Karen is a frequent visitor, when she’s here. She and my wife get along very well.”

I wasn’t a friend of Zachary’s.

The rude neighbor.

Interesting—maybe I wasn’t the only one to whom he was rude.

“You’re very astute.”

He started to laugh. “I may also have heard from Mrs. Cooper that a friend of Karen’s was coming to town.”

I joined in his laughter. “I guess I’m big news.” I’d been greeted and made welcome everywhere I went that morning. I turned back to the painting. “I see why this artist is so popular. All his work is astounding. I’d like to buy this one, though.”

With a slight shake of his head, he indicated a small sign in the corner. “This one is not for sale. The artist was kind enough to loan it to us for a short time.”

“I see. I noticed there’s no signature.”