A few steps away, a magician waved a traditional black wand over a top hat to draw spectators. He was appropriately suited in an old tux, the fabric shiny with wear. They stopped and watched him ceremoniously pull a bouquet of brightly colored feather flowers from the hat. He leaned over and tickled a young boy under the chin with the bouquet. The boy let go of his father’s hand and grabbed at the feathers, but the magician was too fast. He pressed the flowers under one arm, clapped his hands, and when he raised both arms into the air the bouquet was gone. There was scattered applause. The magician stepped forward, leaned over to say something to the child, and in a sweep of his hands, the feathers appeared once again. The applause was more enthusiastic this time, and the magician bowed to his audience.
Farther on, a young woman dressed in layers of flowing rainbow-colored chiffon spoke to passersby. As Christie and Cash approached, she touched Christie’s arm.
“Have your palm read, madam?” she asked. “See what’s in the future?” In an effort to gain Christie’s attention, she grasped her wrist. Startled, Christie drew away.
“Be a sport,” Cash said. “Make the lady happy.”
Christie had no intention of giving in to voodoo, but his remark sounded like a dare and she did not want to appear wimpy. She put her hand out and the woman cradled it in hers.
“Umm…” With her forefinger the woman traced the lines on Christie’s palm. “I see romance, adventure, mystery.” She paused a moment to look into Christie’s eyes. “There will be questions, important questions, but you will seek and find the answers.”
The fortune teller released Christie’s hand and looked at Cash expectantly. He withdrew a bill from his wallet and pressed it into the woman’s hand. Her head bobbing up and down, she thanked him profusely, and Christie knew that he had been generous.
“Romance, adventure, and mystery,” Cash repeated. “Interesting, but I’m disappointed I wasn’t included in the mix. You know: tall, dark, and handsome stranger?”
“First of all, you don’t fit the ‘dark’ description. Secondly, she uses an easy formula that I’ll bet every woman is pleased to hear,” Christie countered. “Not very original.”
Cash reached for her hand and squeezed it. “Something to look forward to, though, wouldn’t you say? The romance part, I mean.” He pulled her close in a spontaneous move that almost made her lose her balance.
A fortune teller, a balmy San Francisco night, a crescent moon, and an attractive man, she mused. No wonder her heart was hammering in her chest.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Christie could hardly believe she had signed up for an art class. She had taken Margo’s rhapsodizing about painting to heart, and had plunked down $150 on art supplies, and an equal amount on class fees. What had she been thinking? There was no time for such frivolous pursuits.
She slammed the car door and tried to balance her easel, folding stool, and paint box while she trudged through the parking lot to the amphitheater. About a dozen people were ahead of her; most had set up their equipment and looked eager to get started.
She removed the clip from her hair, ran her fingers through it, and stuck the clip back in place. She looked around, checking out the other people. Was she the only rank beginner? Their easels and wooden cases were smeared with old paint, while hers were pristine. She put the case on the ground and set up the easel. Others were already squeezing paint onto their palettes.
The instructor, Scott Cooper, introduced himself and told the class what he planned to cover during the morning session. “Before you put paint on your canvas, study your subject. Take time to know what you want to say with your paintbrush and palette knife. Is the foreground interesting or unimportant? What textures touch you emotionally? You want to paint what you feel, not just what you see. If you are only interested in reproducing a scene, a camera will do a better job.”
Time passed quickly. The instructor demonstrated techniques and lectured on mixing colors. He walked from easel to easel and gave each student advice on their work. Christie was pleased with the picture that was developing on her canvas. It would not win a ribbon, but you could tell it was a fountain surrounded by red geraniums. She took the instructor’s advice and did not mimic a camera. A black cat was dozing beside the flowers, not in reality, but in her mind and through her brushstrokes.
By the end of the day, she was close to finishing the painting. She stood back and appraised her work. It was pleasing. A few more hours at home and that would be it. The instructor walked over and examined her picture.
“Next weekend we’ll be painting in Big Sur. The coast, cliffs, and mist are an artist’s dream. Accommodations are available at the campground and at the lodge. I hope you’ll join us.”
“I don’t know if I’m ready for that.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Christie. Your work shows promise.”
She was pleased with the instructor’s approval. Painting was relaxing. It also gave her a feeling of accomplishment apart from her job.
At home later, after she spooned a small portion of canned cat food into Tosha’s dish, she called Margo on the kitchen phone. “I’m so excited,” she said. “The instructor thinks I have promise, and Margo, I love painting! I’m going to Big Sur next week for a two-day workshop.”
“Well, I guess I’m going to have competition,” Margo teased.
“Oh, sure. I can tell that you’re worried.”
“Actually, I’m jealous. If I weren’t so far along in my pregnancy, I’d fly out and join you. Big Sur is a popular location for artists and photographers. I hope to get there one of these days.”
After Christie said good-bye, she bent to pat Tosha on the back. It was obvious by the way the cat wove in and out between Christie’s legs that she felt neglected.
“Don’t be temperamental. You know I love you, Tosha. Soon as I fix a cup of tea, you can sit on my lap.” Tosha meowed as though she completely understood what Christie said.
After brewing a cup of mint tea, she settled onto the couch and pulled the blue afghan over her lap. Tosha favored the woolen blanket and Christie gave in to her preferences. Picky cat, she mused as she ruffled Tosha’s neck hair. Tosha tilted her head and stared at Christie. “Okay, go back to sleep. Sorry I bothered you. I swear, I don’t know if you curl up on my lap because you love me, or if you think I’m a piece of upholstered furniture.”
It had been a long day, and she had turned down a chance to go to dinner with Cash so that she could focus on the first day of the art class. It had seemed sensible at the time, but now she felt quite alone. Perhaps she had been hasty in turning down the invitation. They could have gone out for a late dinner. But she didn’t feel confident enough about their relationship to start calling the shots. Besides, she had to admit she was tired.
They hadn’t seen each other in four days. Cash had been tied up with Moreno’s case and then he’d attended a seminar in San Diego, with a side trip to see his family. She missed him.
When he phoned the following evening, her heart soared. But it was business, not pleasure, that had initiated the call. The detective he had hired to locate Elliot had contacted him with a hot lead. A Benson lived in a seniors’ gated community near the American River. Cash asked her to accompany him when he contacted Benson. He thought that a woman’s presence might soften the man if he was determined not to reveal Elliot’s whereabouts.