Beneath the Scars

“No. He’s very private.”

I frowned, feeling sad. “Would he listen to an offer?”

Jonathon shrugged. “I could ask him next time he’s in. He seldom changes his mind, but perhaps if the offer was right, he may reconsider. Leave me your number and I’ll ask him. How long are you here for?”

“A couple of weeks—maybe three.”

“He’ll be in again next week. He left only a short time ago, actually.”

I paused, looking at the initials on the painting. Z D A. The tall man—the stranger who had rushed by me and smelled like the ocean—was he the unfriendly, mysterious Zachary? How many people lived in the area whose first names started with ‘Z’?

“Just now?” I asked. “In a dark overcoat?”

He hesitated before answering. “Yes.”

My neighbor had been wearing a long overcoat when I caught a glimpse of him this morning. It had to be the same person.

He must have recognized me from the beach and, it would seem, had no desire to meet me at any point. I looked over at the painting. I still wanted it. What the man lacked in social graces, he made up for with his paintbrush. Something about this painting called to me.

“Our dogs met on the beach this morning,” I offered. “Zachary was also wearing his overcoat then.”

Jonathon only offered a slight nod of his head but didn’t confirm or deny my statement.

I wrote down my number for Jonathon and said I would check in the next time I came to town. I also told him I would be happy to speak to “the artist” myself, if he so wished, seeing as he was my neighbor. Jonathon smiled sadly, the same strange look I had seen passing over Mrs. Cooper’s face showing on his. “No, as I said, he’s very private. If there’re any negotiations to be done, he prefers me to do it on his behalf. I suggest you don’t bother him, since it, ah, might end any chance you have of purchasing the painting. Which, my dear, I must caution you is slight. As I said, he seldom changes his mind.”

I nodded, confused. It was clear Zachary took his privacy to the extreme, but if it meant I could have that painting, I would do whatever it took to get it.

My eyes drifted back to the imposing canvas and its brilliant imagery.

I had to have it.3Zachary“No.” I shook my head in frustration. I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation again.

Jonathon’s voice was patient. “Think of all the opportunities this would open up. Your name’s becoming huge, Zachary.”

“My initials, you mean. That’s all they get. We’ve discussed it before, Jonathon. I don’t need any opportunities. I’m very happy with the current arrangement and the way my life is now. I don’t need my name out there.”

“Zachary…”

“I said no.”

Jonathon leaned back in his chair, regarding me in silence. “People want to know the man behind the brush.”

“Well, they can’t have it or me. Either you sell my paintings as we agreed, or I’ll pull them.” I wasn’t backing down—it was the only way.

He held up his hand. “No need to be so defensive with me.” He hesitated. “We could do voice interviews and only use your first name.”

“No promotions. I let you show my paintings on your website and sell them here. That’s it. No interviews, no meet the artist, no first name, nothing.”

“There may come a time you can’t say no.”

I shrugged, well aware of that fact. “Then I’ll stop painting.”

“Don’t say that—wasting your talent would be criminal. Fine, I’ll drop it. You can remain just a set of initials on a canvas.”

“It’s what I want.”

He sighed. “I don’t understand why, but it’s your choice.”

He didn’t understand?

My eyes narrowed as I looked at him, struggling to remain calm. Of course, he didn’t understand. There was a time I wouldn’t have understood, either, but my name out there meant a door to the past could be opened up. Questions, pictures, people looking at me, talking about the past; the gossip and memories that could resurface. I couldn’t allow that to happen. I was happy with the way things were. People liked my paintings. I enjoyed making them. It was a simple, easy process; one I wasn’t willing to change, no matter how much Jonathon wanted me to. Internally, I shook my head, knowing it wouldn’t be the last time he brought up the subject.

“It’s my choice, Jonathon. The subject is closed.”

“Fine. I’ll shut up. I don’t want to lose your paintings. Business would slide, and besides that, my wife would kill me.”

I allowed a small smile. Ashley was a huge supporter of my work. It was because of her friendship I even allowed my canvases to be available for sale. She and I shared a bond Jonathon didn’t—couldn’t—understand; as much as he loved his wife. Her connection was a small light in my dark world, but one I would give up if I felt I had no choice.