Beneath the Scars

Zachary had been right. The streets and shops were far busier than when I’d been to town last time. The café was full and sidewalks more crowded, bustling with people talking and laughing. I felt a small uneasy feeling stirring as I wondered if the gallery was this busy and if Zachary was all right. I finished my purchases as fast as I could and hurried back to the truck, glad to see all the groceries in the back.

I drove to the rear of the gallery and waited for a minute. When Zachary didn’t appear in the doorway right away, I shut off the engine and went in to find him. Several people were milling inside, but I didn’t see Zachary anywhere. The door to Jonathon’s office was shut, so I assumed Zachary was still inside talking to him.

A pretty color caught my eye, and I went over to a display of beautiful silk scarves. I picked up a brilliant red one, the design shot with gold and orange, thinking how much Karen would like it when a gentle voice spoke up. “Ah, one of my favorites. I only brought it in today.”

I met the eyes of a lovely woman, who came up beside me in a wheelchair. Her soft brown hair was a mass of curls, tied back with a scarf and hanging down her back. Dressed in a long flowing outfit, she reminded me of a bygone era with her bohemian look. Kind, smiling, blue eyes met mine as her hand smoothed over the silk of the scarf. “It reminds me of the exquisite sunsets we have here.”

“It’s beautiful. I was thinking how nice it would look on my friend. She would love it.”

“Karen?”

“Yes,” I answered, surprised. “How did you know?”

She extended her hand. “I’m Ashley. Jonathon’s wife and co-owner of this gallery.” I shook her hand as she continued. “You must be Megan.”

“I met your husband the other day.”

She laughed, a light trilling sound in the air. “It wasn’t my husband’s portrayal that made me recognize you.” She winked at me. “Zachary was far more…descriptive.”

I felt the blush creeping over my face. “Oh.”

“The artist in him, you know. Somehow the words, ‘the beauty with the melting copper-colored hair’ would never cross Jonathon’s lips. He is far too pragmatic. Zachary mentioned you would be here shortly.”

The room got a little warmer. That was how Zachary described me? Beautiful?

Unable to resist the chance, I edged a little closer. She seemed so familiar with him, at ease with mentioning his name. “You know him well—Zachary, I mean?”

She regarded me, a shrewd gleam in her eyes. “As well as he allows anyone to know him.”

“He speaks highly of you. He told me you were the reason he allows his paintings to sell here.”

A look of sadness crossed her face. “I understand Zachary.” Her hand reached up to brush a wayward curl away from her face, the loose sleeve of her dress falling away from her arm. My eyes widened as I took in the puckered, scarred flesh on her skin. She met my eyes calmly, nodding. “I know his pain.” Her arm lowered and she moved her wheelchair closer to the counter, untying the scarf I was looking at moments prior. “Those of us, who have known physical pain, tend to band together, so to speak. Besides”—she shrugged— “he’s too talented not to show his work. It took me a while to convince him to allow us to display it, but I refused to take no for an answer.”

My eyes drifted to the back where I could see Tempest hanging. “He’s amazing,” I murmured.

She gazed over at the painting. “I remember the day I met him. He was sitting on a bench in the park, the entire place deserted. It was overcast and gray, far too miserable for anyone to be out, yet there we were, him sketching and me out driving myself around in my electric wheelchair, like I do when I’m restless.” She smiled up at me. “As you can imagine, he wasn’t very happy to see me, nor was he very friendly.”

I nodded, not speaking. I didn’t want to interrupt her and have her stop talking. I wanted to know as much about Zachary as I could.

“At first, aside from an abrupt hello, he refused to talk to me, or even let me see what he was doing.” She laughed softly as she shared her memory. “But then I leaned over and grabbed his sketchbook out of his hand.” Her voice became quiet. “He saw my scars…and for the first time, met my eyes.”

“And?” I breathed.

“What do you see when you look in his eyes?”

“Pain, anger,” I whispered. “Fear.”

“That is what I saw as well, but I didn’t give up. I kept talking to him until he started talking back.” She smiled as she recalled pushing him. “I think he was torn. He was so used to being angry and alone—”