Intimate Strangers by Denise Mathews Page B

taking the pad in her hands. "Martha, what a good sketch! Look at those eyes, they almost glow with life. Who did this? It's very good."
    Martha chuckled. "The artist was you, Miss Sara. When you're steadier on your feet, you can come downstairs to your workroom. All your paints are there. In fact, your easel still stands in the corner, waiting for you. These are some of your sketch pads and I brought up the case with your charcoal, pencils, and some watercolors in it for you."
    Sara looked up, moving her eyes slowly from the sketch she held in front of her. "I did this?" she asked incredulously. "I paint? Why didn't you tell me sooner, Martha?"
    "Because Mr. Roarke said the most important thing for you was rest and I agreed with him one hundred percent. I know you don't remember, but you were so dedicated to your painting that once you started something, you would work for hours on end, ignoring time, food, and even Mr. Roarke. And look at you right now"—Martha's eyes took in her thin body—"you're skinny as a rail. I couldn't have it on my conscience if you missed meals because you were too busy painting. But since Dr. Maxwell took that cast off your leg this morning, in a couple days you'll be as good as new, so I figured it was time to remind you of your drawing."
    "Whoa, slow down, Martha," Sara chuckled. "You don't have to convince me that I'm too thin. And I agree with you, now that I'm able to get around, I probably will eat better." She tapped the sketch pad with her hand. "I really drew this?" she asked again, still a little amazed by this revelation.
    Martha drew her shoulders up and lifted her chin proudly, "Indeed you did, young lady. In fact there are several of your paintings hanging in a gallery in Washington, D.C., at an amateur art exhibit. Mr. Roarke took Bradley and me to see them." Hastily Martha put her hand over her mouth and turned to Bradley. "Do you have the table set?" she asked almost brusquely.
    Puzzled, Sara started to ask her what was wrong, but Martha interrupted her. "Please eat all your lunch, Miss Sara. I sure wouldn't want Dr. Maxwell to think I didn't feed you right and that it's my fault you're so skinny."
    Patting her arm as she made her way past Martha, Sara said comfortingly, "Don't worry, Martha, I wouldn't let him blame you."
    As she was leaving the room, Martha paused. "Oh, Miss Sara, Mr. Roarke called and said to expect him for dinner. So why don't you take a nice long rest and I'll fix up a special dinner to celebrate your cast coming off today."
    Pushing open the sliding door, Sara grappled with the cane in one hand and the oversized tablet and pencils in the other. She didn't feel like sleeping; she felt too restless. Settling herself on the chaise, she placed the sketch pad on her lap. Flipping back the cover of the pad, she studied the blank paper. How did she start, she wondered, putting the pencil point against the paper. She frowned as nothing came into her mind then blinked her eyes.
    Like thick clouds moving across the sky opening suddenly to reveal the blue behind them, a mist opened slowly in the middle of the paper and revealed blue water and brown sand. Sara watched spellbound as two figures materialized. The vision sharpened and she saw herself sitting on a beach beside Roarke, a huge sketch pad in her hands, her hair blowing in the light breeze.
    "Come on, Roarke, hold still! I want to sketch you; darling. That dune and the dried grass behind you will be a wonderful background," she begged.
    Roarke laughed, his eyes glowing and reflecting the sun. She was sketching madly, her hand moving so fast it was blurred. Following the trail of the piece of charcoal she held in her fingers were the lines of his face which was coming to life on the paper. Roarke leaned over and brushed a grain of sand off her nose and abruptly Sara was back on her balcony, stunned by the scenario she had envisioned. She reached up to her nose but shook her head.
    Glancing down at the sketch