The Law of Nines. Terry Goodkind

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       9.

      WITH THE ROLLED-UP RUINED CANVASES under one arm and the painting that he’d carefully wrapped in brown paper tucked under his other arm, Alex left Mr. Martin’s gallery without an argument. Despite how much he was fuming, there wasn’t any point in arguing. Mr. Martin was afraid.

      Alex couldn’t really blame the man. Alone as he was most of the time, he was a sitting duck in the gallery. The stranger could come back at any time. What was Mr. Martin supposed to do? Alex couldn’t expect the gallery owner to have it in him to be able to handle an altercation that could become violent.

      Conflicting emotions raged through Alex’s thoughts as he made his way out into the elegant halls. He was depressed, he was furious. He wanted to run home and lock himself away from a world where such people roamed free. He wanted to find the guy and shove the black markers down his throat.

      When Alex looked up, the woman was standing not far off in front of him, watching him approach. He slowed to a stop.

      She was in the same black dress, with the same green wrap draped over her shoulders. He thought that he saw wisps of vapor—a hint of steam or smoke—rising from her fall of blond hair and her shoulders, but as soon as he focused on it, it was gone.

      As impossible as it seemed, she looked even better than he remembered.

      “You come here often?” he asked.

      Her gaze never left his as she slowly shook her head. “This is only my second time here.”

      Something about the serious set of her features gave him pause. He knew that she wasn’t there to shop.

      His grandfather’s old mantra, Trouble will find you, echoed through his mind.

      “Are you all right, Alex?” she asked.

      “Sure.” The sound of her voice made him all right. “You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”

      A small smile softened her features as she glided a step closer. “I am Jax.”

      Her name was as unusual as everything else about her. He could hardly believe that he was really seeing her again.

      “I’d give anything to paint you, Jax,” he said under his breath to himself.

      She smiled at his words, smiled in a way that accepted them as a compliment, but didn’t reveal her view of them or her willingness to be the subject of a painting.

      He finally pulled his gaze away to check around, to see if anyone was close. “Did you hear the news on the TV?”

      Her brow twitched. “News? No. What news?”

      “You remember the other day when we first met out on the street? When that truck nearly ran us over.”

      “The pirates, as you called them. I remember.”

      “Well, later that same day those two cops who stopped the truck were found dead.”

      She stared at him a moment. “Dead?”

      He nodded. “The news said that both men had been found with their necks broken.”

      The method of murder registered in her eyes. She let out a long sigh as she shook her head. “That’s terrible.”

      Alex suddenly wished he hadn’t started the conversation with grim news. He gestured to a bench set in among a grouping of large round planters.

      “Would you sit with me? I’d like to show you something.”

      She returned the smile and at his bidding sat on the small mahogany bench. Huge split-leaf philodendrons created a green roof over the bench. The planters overflowing with plants to either side and behind made it resemble a forest retreat for just the two of them. The planters and vegetation blocked them off from most but not all of the shoppers strolling the halls.

      Alex set the rolled-up canvases on the bench to his right, on the side away from her. He placed the painting on her lap.

      “What’s this?” she asked.

      “A gift.”

      She stared at him a moment, then pulled off the brown paper.

      She looked genuinely stunned to see the painting. She lifted it reverently in her hands. Her eyes welled up with tears.

      It took her a moment to find her voice. “Why are you giving me this?”

      Alex shrugged. “Because I want to. You thought it was beautiful.

      Not everyone thinks my work is beautiful. You did. I wanted you to have it.”

      Jax swallowed. “Alex, tell me why you painted this particular place.”

      “Like I told you before, it’s from my imagination.”

      “No, it’s not,” she said rather emphatically.

      He paused momentarily, surprised by her words. “Yes it is. I was merely painting a scene—”