Page 5 of Jasmine Street Blues

“One word.” She spelled it for him. “My mother wanted to give me an uncommon name. I’m sure she had good reason, but that just means I have to spell it wherever I go. I’ve never found a mug or a keychain with my name on it.”

That got a crooked smile out of him. She liked it. Dammit, she couldn’t afford to be charmed by any man’s smile. It didn’t matter how much she liked Seawolf Beach, how well the business was going, or how many friends she’d made. Eventually she’d have to leave this place just as she’d had to leave all the others. In a hurry, in the middle of the night, her heart pounding and her breath caught in her throat.

“Good night, Chief,” she said as she turned her back on him.

“Good night, Loran,” he responded, as if he were testing her name on his lips.

She didn’t turn around to look at him, much as she wanted to. He was just another test, a complication, a reminder of what she could never have.

Loran let herself into the house and flipped on the lights. The small living room was simply laid out. Like the rest of the house it was suitable for her, perfect for one or two people. She didn’t require much. All she really needed was what waited for her in the second bedroom, which she’d turned into a home studio. She headed there, as she did most nights, and turned on the bright overhead light. It wasn’t as good for her work as natural light, but it would have to do.

Several canvases were stacked against the far wall, one in front of another. They were all sizes — some as small as 11x14, a couple 18X24s. Most were somewhere in between. A few of the paintings were more than three years old, and a couple of them had been completed in the most recent place she’d lived, not long before someone had looked at her in a way that alarmed her and she’d decided it was time to go.

Her current project sat on an easel in the center of the room, half finished. No matter where she went the faces called to her.

Loran Raine sold landscapes and florals. The paintings she sold were never going to grace a museum, but they were good. She knew it. But flowers, lakes, and fields weren’t what compelled her to paint. They weren’t what drove her.

Her newest subject was a pirate. He was a bit rough, but his face was pleasant enough. His clothing had seen better days. No peg leg, no eye patch, but he was obviously a pirate, a mischievous ne’er-do-well. His pose, the hat, the sword, they gave him away.

On the plus side, no one should be looking for him. He’d been dead a long while, she imagined. It wasn’t normal that she paint someone who’d been gone such a long time, but it had happened a time or two. She didn’t question who, or what, called to her.

She wasn’t compelled to work on the pirate’s portrait, not tonight. Loran kicked off her shoes and quickly changed into loose-fitting paint-stained clothing. After propping the pirate’s latest portrait against the wall with the others, she grabbed a fresh canvas and placed it on the easel, then began to sketch an outline. Not the pirate this time, someone new. A young girl, maybe late teens? As her clothing took shape, on the canvas and in her mind, Loran realized that the young woman hadn’t been dead a long time, like the pirate. The jeans and colorful blouse were too modern.

Why her? Why now? Someone was looking for this girl, thinking of her, drawing her essence into the world of the living. Loran knew it, in the way she often did. It was as if a deeply buried part of her brain grabbed onto memories not her own, as if someone not of this world whispered to her.

Instead of the dull colors and earth tones she normally used for these particular portraits, Loran reached for brighter, more vivid colors. She wasn’t sure why, but then she was never clear-headed when she was compelled to paint these lost ones. As she painted, she stepped into the girl’s mind for a split second. She hated it when that happened! Some of her subjects were more insistent, stronger than others. She couldn’t explain anything about the secret paintings, and she’d never tried. All she wanted was for the compulsion, the need to paint these dead people, to go away.

The reasons that drove her to paint a portrait weren’t always the same, but it seemed that on occasion memories or unmet needs called something of a spirit back from the dead and into Loran’s mind.

The pretty girl had had a tough life, but now she was at peace. She’d left the darkness of her life behind. She was happy, content, as the pirate seemed to be. The pirate wasn’t nearly as forceful as the new girl.

It was odd that the colors of this portrait were different from the other paintings of the lost, more like the colors Loran used for her florals and landscapes. They were vibrant, bright, happy. Loran didn’t give that fact much thought. She just painted as she always did, as if she had no control over the details.

The girl on canvas looked alive, she felt alive, but Loran knew from experience that she was not.

* * *

Loran’s studio was closed on Monday, as many downtown Seawolf Beach businesses were. After a busy weekend, having Sunday and Monday off gave her a chance to clean, do laundry, and buy groceries. She might even grab a book, read a while, then take a nap in the middle of the day.

On this Monday what she really wanted to do was paint. Not a colorful floral for sale, not today. The bright girl on canvas begged to be finished.

Unfortunately there was a leak under the kitchen sink, and the handyman Colt was sending over to fix it would arrive between ten and one. Sonny Baxter was the local handyman. Colt owned and managed several rental houses, and Sonny had worked in all of them. Loran didn’t like having strangers in the house, but she wasn’t capable of fixing the sink on her own. She wouldn’t even know where to start.

If she followed her instincts and began painting, she wouldn’t want to quit. She might not even hear the doorbell, if she was totally engrossed as was often the case with these portraits. She shut the door to the second bedroom so the handyman wouldn’t be able to peek in. Besides, if she couldn’t see her work in progress maybe she wouldn’t be as tempted to paint for a few minutes as she waited for him to arrive.

There were times she didn’t even remember painting what came up on the canvas. It was like she was possessed, driven, lost between worlds like the souls she painted.

Sonny arrived just after eleven, which suited Loran. When he finished and left she’d have time to paint. Maybe when this one portrait of the young girl was done she’d be able to move on. One and done. That had happened a few times, though not often enough. The pirate seemed quite fond of having his portrait done.

Sonny Baxter was around her age, she’d guess, maybe a little bit older. Mid-thirties, likely, though sometimes it was hard to guess a person’s age. He was handsome enough, in a cute way. Not quite pretty, but getting there. He bordered on thin. Wiry might be a better word for his build. That was probably normal for a man who was on the go, and she imagined his size made it easier for him to slip into small spaces and fix whatever needed to be fixed.

Like her sink.

He was a talker. With his head under the sink Sonny chattered on about the town, this house he was so familiar with, the summer weather. Loran didn’t have to say much. She hummed a response now and then, and that seemed to be enough for the chatty jack-of-all-trades.

While he talked about the best places in town to eat, Loran’s head filled with images of the girl whose portrait she was desperate to finish. Her fingers itched, literally, to return to her work. Her newest subject had pushed the pirate right out of her head. How did he feel about that? Fine, apparently. She’d painted three portraits of him — well, two and a half — so maybe he was done. At the very least, he was gentlemanly enough to step aside and let the lady have a go.

Sonny made quick work of the leak, slid out from under the sink, and gave Loran a grin. He could fix anything and had a charming smile. He wasn’t her type, she didn’t have a type, but he was probably popular with the ladies.