down her cheeks, as if she, herself, were the dying diva. Nicola had never been able to suspend disbelief long enough to appreciate the form; if someone simply burst into song on the street, she kept thinking, they'd be put away. Nicki's own taste ran to British progressive rock: Jethro Tull, Genesis, Cream, the Police, solo work by Peter Gabriel.
But Sir Michael had introduced her to Brubeck and Davis; to Django Reinhardt and Stéphane Grappelli; to sax greats like Charlie Parker and Coleman Hawkins; to piano pioneers like Fats Waller and Thelonious Monk; and to vocalists like Ella Fitzgerald, Sarah Vaughan, and Billie Holiday. She found it too wrenching to listen to Holiday, though; her drug-slurred voice reminded Nicola too much of her older brother. Lately, she'd developed a fondness for the blues as well.
It was comical, really. Her youthful music preferences ran to British rock groups; then Sir Michael had introduced her to American jazz. Just as coming to England had felt to her like coming home, her father-in-law had brought her home to the signature sounds of her native land. She swayed as she painted. The hiss and clatter of the river ghosted through the studio window and slipped seamlessly into Joe Morello's drum riffs.
Randi was in his usual place, on a throw blanket atop the Victorian “fainting couch” she'd rescued from a jumble sale and had reupholstered in wine-red velvet.
Brubeck had just picked up the unevenly syncopated beat of Morello's snare drum in “Take Five” when Randi looked up, barked once, and dashed downstairs. One sharp, happy bark meant a friend; a low growl meant uncertainty. Repeated angry barks meant trouble. It was magical how he seemed to know; as if he received wireless signals through the walls. This wasn't trouble, not with just the one bark, so Nicola chose to ignore the dog. There was a light knock, the creak of the front door opening, then a thin voice.
“Nicki?” the voice called.
It was Lee, Nicki knew. She decided to pretend she wasn't there, and tiptoed behind the sailcloth scrim that served as the wall of her bedroom area. Lee closed the door, mumbled something to Randi, and climbed the stairs to the studio.
“Nicki?” the girl repeated.
She stood before the easel and could tell by the smell of the oil paint and the spirit medium that it was fresh.
Before she could call her name again, Nicola swept out of her hiding place and snatched the girl up in her arms.
“Oof! You're getting too big for me to ambush you anymore!” she cried.
“Why didn't you answer the door?”
“The truth?”
“Yeah!”
“Because, sweetie, sometimes when I'm working I don't want to be interrupted, and …”
“Sometimes you do?”
“By you? Anytime.”
Lee looked at the canvas on the easel. She didn't have the etiquette training yet to inquire politely, “Tell me about your painting.” Instead, she said, “What's this?”
Nicola laughed. “You tell me.”
Lee stood in front of the painting again.
“Pretty colors?” she said, tentatively.
“Well, thank you, but what else?”
“I dunno. Seems like you put a lot of different colors together in little dibs and dabs, but I can't make out what they are.”
“Okay, stand back a bit,” Nicola suggested. “Now what do you see?”
“Same thing: different kinds of blues and greens and pinks and lavender … and kinda sandy colors, too.”
“And what's that remind you of?”
“I dunno.”
“Okay, come to the window.” She placed Lee before the tall window overlooking the harbor, and stood behind her. It was late Tuesday afternoon. The tide was in. The summer sun was still high in the west and winked off the wind-fretted surface of the harbor, except where the cliffs cast a purple shadow.
“Look at the water,” Nicola said.
Lee did.
“What color is it?” Nicola asked.
“Blue, silly!” Lee said.
“Are you sure?”
“Sure! Everyone knows water is blue.”
“Okay, but what shade of blue? Look closely. Is blue all you see?”
Lee was quiet for a moment. She turned to Nicola's painting and then back to the window.
“No! There are lots of colors! Blue and green and pink and lavender and gray from the cliffs and red and yellow from the fishing boat.”
“Okay, now look at the canvas.”
“It's the same!” Lee exclaimed. “But then it's not.”
“Right,” Nicola said. “How is it different?”
Lee stood before the easel, her head cocked to one side.
“It's … softer.”
“How does it make you feel?”
“What do you mean?”
“When you look at the painting, do you feel anything, sort of inside of you?”
Lee plopped down on the paint-splattered drop cloth that covered the polished wood floor. Randi joined her. The