Page 22 of Jasmine Street Blues

“I do now,” he said, sounding less than thrilled. “This is… Bubbles.”

Olive moved closer, then leaned down to scratch the mutt behind his ears. “He’s a big one, but who could be afraid of a dog named Bubbles?”

Mac sighed, yeah, yeah, I know.

“Where are you off to?” he asked.

Olive all but jumped up and down. She did rise up on her toes a couple of times. “I have a bit of paperwork to take care of tonight, and I have to work on my calendar for the fall. So many kids are signing up, I already need to add another class.”

“You’ll do great,” he said. “How on earth are you going to manage dance classes, the event planning thing, helping your sister, and planning a wedding?”

She grimaced. “I thought I could do it all, but Dawn might have to hire some help for the boutique. I don’t mind filling in now and then, I really don’t, but retail isn’t exactly my thing.”

They both looked toward the street as a truck drove by more slowly than was necessary. Sonny Baxter, handyman for pretty much the entire town, almost came to a stop. Instead he took a long look at Bubbles, waved like any friendly neighbor might, and moved on.

“Would you watch the dog for a couple of minutes?” Mac asked. “Loran is taking too long. I’m starting to worry, but when we walk inside the mutt goes nuts.”

Olive reached for the leash lead. “Probably the pirate, Giles.”

Ghosts. He really didn’t want to know…

“Whatever,” he grumbled.

Olive moved down into the yard, talking to the mutt as she walked away from the steps.

Mac opened the door. At least it wasn’t locked…

“Everything okay?” he asked as he walked toward the back of the house. From the hallway he saw the bed, with a bag partially packed, and a yellow dress crumpled there as if it had been discarded. A light down the hallway got his attention and he headed in that direction.

Loran stood at an easel, her back to him, so focused on the canvas before her that she didn’t hear him coming. The paintbrush in her hand moved slowly, with deliberation.

She’d left him waiting outside so she could paint? Not a word of explanation. Not even a head stuck out the door to tell him to go home, alone.

“If you changed your mind…”

The sound of his voice startled her. She jumped and spun around, and when she did he saw the painting behind her. His heart dropped to the floor, his breath caught in his throat. How was this possible? How did she know?

“Why are you painting my stepdaughter?”

7

Her breath wouldn’t come. Loran stood in front of the portrait that had called to her, the inspiration or compulsion to finish this painting vanishing in the face of Mac’s question. His question sounded very much like an accusation. He moved closer; her heart pounded. Stepdaughter?

Mac stared not at her but at the portrait of the pretty dark-haired young girl. His eyes narrowed, the way they did when he was thinking over one problem or another. His focus was entirely on the portrait. For a few long moments Loran wondered if he’d forgotten she stood beside him.

Then he spoke, his words soft. Maybe they were for her, but maybe the words were just for him, a memory relived. “Carrie was three when I married her mother. God, she was adorable. Funny, loving, demanding the way only a toddler can be. Except for her hair color, Carrie was a miniature Kylie. Kylie hated that Carrie had her father’s dark hair. He’d died when she was a baby, or so I was told. Who knows what really happened to him? The kid was so much like her mother. Too much, maybe. That girl was a firecracker.” He went silent for a few long seconds. “She couldn’t say Max…”

His steely eyes turned to her. “I haven’t seen Carrie since she was a kid, but that’s her. I see the child in this woman, I see it so clearly. I’ve been looking for her for years, since I found out my ex-wife died, and I’ve found nothing. How is this possible?”

Loran had tried to dismiss the ridiculous notion that her landlord saw and spoke to ghosts, because if she believed it to be true she’d be compelled to talk to him, to share her own secrets. She wasn’t ready for that. But here she was again, found out, put on the spot, needing to explain herself and not knowing how. She didn’t want to run from Mac, and she didn’t want him to withdraw from her. Not this time. Could things be different? Could she tell Mac the truth?

“I don’t actually see ghosts,” she said. “Not like I hear Colt does. But something from another place moves me and I.… I just paint. I can’t explain how or why. A face calls to me, it demands to be painted, and I…”

“She’s dead?” Mac’s face went pale; his eyes narrowed.

Loran whispered, “I don’t know. Maybe. In the past the portraits have always been of those who’ve passed on, but this one is different. It feels different. She feels different. The colors aren’t faded browns and grays, which I usually reach for when ghosts or whatever they are come to me. For her I reach for bright red, blues, yellow, greens that seem alive. Her complexion isn’t gray; she looks almost like she’s blushing.”

“What does that mean?” Frustration made his voice sharp.