wind.
“It’s wonderful!” I said. “Especially the sky!”
“It’s the original of the print I released last year. I’m borrowing it to hang at the show. Maybe it will convince someone to buy a print.”
I hesitated. “I’ve got a question that’s sort of awkward,” I said, stiff with anxiety about how he would receive it.
He looked at me expectantly.
“Isn’t it a bit insensitive or crass or something to have this show at City Hall with Trudy just dead?”
Curt took a deep breath. “I thought the same thing myself, so I called Forbes Raleigh, one of the commissioners. He felt I should go on with things because the invitations were out, the show half-hung, everything moving full bore. He polled the others, and they agreed. To my relief.”
“You don’t think there will be an emotional backlash?”
“I sure hope not. This show provides well over half my income for the entire year.”
I blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Curt reached behind the painting and eased it from its position. “Spread that popcorn wrap on the floor, will you? And I’m not kidding. I’ve a lot riding on this weekend.”
I helped Curt wrap the picture securely, and we left the office, taking care to turn out the lights and lock the door. We walked down the quiet, shadowy hall. When Curt turned out the hall light, we were in darkness except for the faint red gleam of the emergency light and the weak glow of a streetlight that shone in the parking lot.
Unconsciously I moved closer to Curt.
When we went outside, the bitter wind leaped upon us, pushing its way up sleeves and down collars.
“It feels like your picture looks,” I said.
We looked skyward: no stars. Chicago’s snowstorm would soon be ours.
I hunched my shoulders against the wind and wished my car were parked in front of the church like Curt’s instead of in the side lot where the choir always parked. I looked across the barren expanse of macadam and shivered. It seemed so far from here to there.
“Let me put this picture in the car, and I’ll walk you over,” Curt said.
Grateful for his thoughtfulness, I nodded and waited. Undoubtedly Jack would have let me go ahead by myself, never thinking to accompany me such a short distance, never understanding that I might feel vulnerable and exposed in the darkness.
As Curt and I walked across the empty, echoing lot, our footfalls were loud in the silence. The light from the streetlamp shone coldly on my car, illuminating the driver’s side and casting deep shadows on the passenger’s side. Shivering, I thought of the great darkness by the lilac near the driveway at home.
I pulled my glove off and fished in my purse until I found my keys.
“Here. Let me.” Curt held out his hand.
“Thanks, but I can do it.”
“Of course you can. But let me.” He extended his hand farther.
Frowning, I reluctantly gave him the keys. Or I tried to give them to him. Somehow in the exchange, made awkward by his gloves, they fell to the ground.
“Uh-oh.” I should have just unlocked the door myself. When was I ever going to stop listening to guys who told me what to do?
“Sorry,” Curt said. “I’ll get them.”
“It’s okay. Don’t bother,” I said.
We both bent to retrieve the keys, gently bumping heads.
Simultaneously a loud sound tore the night, making me jump. I lurched and fell against the car door. Straightening, I stared in disbelief at the small hole in my windshield and the cobwebby cracks that radiated from it.
SIX
I barely had time to register “shot” when Curt, gloves off and on his knees looking for my keys, grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me abruptly down. I landed with a teeth-jarring thud on an uneven surface I realized was his foot. I heard him grunt.
“Someone’s shooting!” I squawked. “In a populated neighborhood!”
“Idiot,” muttered Curt, pushing me off him.
“What? Me?” I got very defensive. “You’re the one who yanked me over! I didn’t mean to land on
“It’s wonderful!” I said. “Especially the sky!”
“It’s the original of the print I released last year. I’m borrowing it to hang at the show. Maybe it will convince someone to buy a print.”
I hesitated. “I’ve got a question that’s sort of awkward,” I said, stiff with anxiety about how he would receive it.
He looked at me expectantly.
“Isn’t it a bit insensitive or crass or something to have this show at City Hall with Trudy just dead?”
Curt took a deep breath. “I thought the same thing myself, so I called Forbes Raleigh, one of the commissioners. He felt I should go on with things because the invitations were out, the show half-hung, everything moving full bore. He polled the others, and they agreed. To my relief.”
“You don’t think there will be an emotional backlash?”
“I sure hope not. This show provides well over half my income for the entire year.”
I blinked. “You’re kidding.”
Curt reached behind the painting and eased it from its position. “Spread that popcorn wrap on the floor, will you? And I’m not kidding. I’ve a lot riding on this weekend.”
I helped Curt wrap the picture securely, and we left the office, taking care to turn out the lights and lock the door. We walked down the quiet, shadowy hall. When Curt turned out the hall light, we were in darkness except for the faint red gleam of the emergency light and the weak glow of a streetlight that shone in the parking lot.
Unconsciously I moved closer to Curt.
When we went outside, the bitter wind leaped upon us, pushing its way up sleeves and down collars.
“It feels like your picture looks,” I said.
We looked skyward: no stars. Chicago’s snowstorm would soon be ours.
I hunched my shoulders against the wind and wished my car were parked in front of the church like Curt’s instead of in the side lot where the choir always parked. I looked across the barren expanse of macadam and shivered. It seemed so far from here to there.
“Let me put this picture in the car, and I’ll walk you over,” Curt said.
Grateful for his thoughtfulness, I nodded and waited. Undoubtedly Jack would have let me go ahead by myself, never thinking to accompany me such a short distance, never understanding that I might feel vulnerable and exposed in the darkness.
As Curt and I walked across the empty, echoing lot, our footfalls were loud in the silence. The light from the streetlamp shone coldly on my car, illuminating the driver’s side and casting deep shadows on the passenger’s side. Shivering, I thought of the great darkness by the lilac near the driveway at home.
I pulled my glove off and fished in my purse until I found my keys.
“Here. Let me.” Curt held out his hand.
“Thanks, but I can do it.”
“Of course you can. But let me.” He extended his hand farther.
Frowning, I reluctantly gave him the keys. Or I tried to give them to him. Somehow in the exchange, made awkward by his gloves, they fell to the ground.
“Uh-oh.” I should have just unlocked the door myself. When was I ever going to stop listening to guys who told me what to do?
“Sorry,” Curt said. “I’ll get them.”
“It’s okay. Don’t bother,” I said.
We both bent to retrieve the keys, gently bumping heads.
Simultaneously a loud sound tore the night, making me jump. I lurched and fell against the car door. Straightening, I stared in disbelief at the small hole in my windshield and the cobwebby cracks that radiated from it.
SIX
I barely had time to register “shot” when Curt, gloves off and on his knees looking for my keys, grabbed the back of my coat and pulled me abruptly down. I landed with a teeth-jarring thud on an uneven surface I realized was his foot. I heard him grunt.
“Someone’s shooting!” I squawked. “In a populated neighborhood!”
“Idiot,” muttered Curt, pushing me off him.
“What? Me?” I got very defensive. “You’re the one who yanked me over! I didn’t mean to land on
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