The Notebook (The Notebook #1)(22)

She passed an art gallery, almost walked by it in her preoccupation, then turned and went back. She paused at the door for a second, surprised at how long it had been since she’d been in one. At least three years, maybe longer. Why had she avoided it?

She went inside—it had opened with the rest of the shops on Front Street—and browsed among the paintings. Many of the artists were local, and there was a strong sea flavor to their works. Lots of ocean scenes, sandy beaches, pelicans, old sailing ships, tug-boats, piers, and seagulls. But most of all, waves. Waves of every shape, size, and color imaginable, and after a while they all looked alike. The artists were either uninspired or lazy, she thought.

On one wall though, there were a few paintings that more suited her tastes. All were by an artist she’d never heard of, Elayn, and most appeared to have been inspired by the architecture of the Greek islands. In the painting she liked the best, she noted the artist had purposely exaggerated the scene with smaller-than-life figures, wide lines, and heavy sweeps of color, as if not completely focused. Yet the colors were vivid and swirling, drawing the eye in, almost directing what it should see next. It was dynamic, dramatic. The more she thought about it, the more she liked it, and she considered buying it before she realized that she liked it because it reminded her of her own work. She examined it more closely and thought to herself that maybe Noah was right. Maybe she should start painting again.

At nine-thirty Allie left the gallery and went to Hoffman-Lane, a department store downtown. It took a few minutes to find what she was looking for, but it was there, in the school supply section. Paper, drawing chalk, and pencils, not high quality but good enough. It wasn’t painting, but it was a start, and she was excited by the time she got back to her room. She sat at the desk and started working: nothing specific, just getting the feel of it again, letting shapes and colors flow from the memory of her youth. After a few minutes of abstraction, she did a rough sketch of the street scene as seen from her room, amazed at how easily it came. It was almost as if she’d never stopped.

She examined it when she was finished, pleased with the effort. She wondered what to try next and finally decided. Since she didn’t have a model, she visualized it in her head before starting. And though it was harder than the street scene, it came naturally and began to take form.

Minutes passed quickly. She worked steadily but checked the time frequently so she wouldn’t be late, and she finished it a little before noon. It had taken almost two hours, but the end result surprised her. It looked as though it had taken a great deal longer. After rolling it up, she put it in a bag and collected the rest of her things. On her way out the door, she looked at herself in the mirror, feeling oddly relaxed, not exactly sure why.

Down the stairs again and out the door. As she left she heard a voice behind her.

“Miss?”

She turned, knowing it was directed at her. The manager. Same man as yesterday, a curious look on his face.

“Yes?”

“You had some calls last night.”

She was shocked. “I did?”

“Yes. All from a Mr. Hammond.”

Oh, God.

“Lon called?”

“Yes, ma’am, four times. I talked to him when he called the second time. He was rather concerned about you. He said he was your fiancé.”

She smiled weakly, trying to hide what she was thinking. Four times? Four? What could that mean? What if something had happened back home?

“Did he say anything? Is it an emergency?”

He shook his head quickly. “He really didn’t say, miss, but he didn’t mention anything. Actually, he sounded more concerned about you, though.”

Good, she thought. That’s good. And then, just as suddenly, a pang in her chest. Why the urgency? Why so many calls? Had she said anything yesterday? Why would he be so persistent? It was completely unlike him.

Is there any way he could have found out? No . . . that was impossible. Unless someone saw her here yesterday and called. . . . But they would have had to follow her out to Noah’s. No one would have done that.

She had to call him now; no way to get around it. But she didn’t want to, strangely. This was her time, and she wanted to spend it doing what she wanted. She hadn’t planned on speaking to him until later, and for some reason she felt almost as if talking to him now would spoil the day. Besides, what was she going to say? How could she explain being out so late? A late dinner and then a walk? Maybe. Or a movie? Or . . .

“Miss?”

Almost noon, she thought. Where would he be? His office, probably.... No. In court, she suddenly realized, and immediately felt as if she’d been released from shackles. There was no way she could talk to him, even if she wanted to. She was surprised by her feelings. She shouldn’t feel this way, she knew, and yet it didn’t bother her. She looked at her watch, acting now.

“Is it really almost twelve?”

The manager nodded after looking at the clock. “Yes, a quarter till, actually.”

“Unfortunately,” she started, “he’s in court right now and I can’t reach him. If he does call again, could you tell him I’m shopping and that I’ll try to call him later?”

“Of course,” he answered. She could see the question in his eyes, though: But where were you last night? He had known exactly when she’d come in. Too late for a single woman in this small town, she was sure.