Chapter 1

The boy looked back.

Of all the artwork in this gallery, the paintings and drawings reflecting absent artists’ vicarious pleas for recognition, only one had the audacity to look back at Geoffrey Drousseau:

The pencil sketch of a small boy.

Geoffrey paused to study the image, but its subject persisted with the annoying characteristic of appearing to watch its own audience.

Distracted and even somewhat aggravated by such blatant provocation, Geoffrey glanced away, then turned to consider other pieces in this collection, many the products of considerable talent, most doomed to be treated as decorative commodities judged primarily by how well they might match new furniture from some home-furnishings mega-warehouse clearance sale, choice of vibrating recliner included free. Geoffrey’s eyes roved quickly, his fleeting attentions focused largely on nebulous points just beyond the canvases, for to linger too long before any particular piece would acknowledge that an artist had somehow affected him, tacit admission he could even be bothered with such irrelevance.

Then the boy called to him, a simple song amid the silence.

And Geoffrey decided to give the sketch one last look before moving on once and for all, lest the very effort of ignoring it require more attention than a mere pencil drawing deserved.

The boy appeared to be five or six years old. His eyes, admittedly disarming, impressed Geoffrey as somehow animated and quite expressive. His silky hair hung in jagged bangs and feathered down over his ears, a look the artist succeeded in depicting as blond, though rendered in graphite and charcoal. Given the appearance of being nude, he stood in water at the edge of a country pond, pausing amid tall cattails and bent reeds strategically drawn for modesty. Glancing up from studying a doodlebug, the subject appeared to have just noticed someone watching him, yet he registered neither surprise nor alarm, seeming pleased by the attention, maybe even somehow reassured. His face looked serene, his eyes glinting with a hint of carefree mischief, the overall image one of innocence.

“He knows what you’re thinking,” she said. The young woman tending the gallery had eased up from behind.

“He couldn’t possibly,” Geoffrey returned without looking at her.

“It’s true. That’s why you came back to him. I’ve been watching as you wandered around staring at everything and looking at nothing. You’re avoiding this boy because you sense his presence, and I think he even annoys you. Now you must discover what he sees when he looks back at you.”

Turning to study her, Geoffrey found himself impressed by her elegant, lyrical face and hazel eyes that hinted at Asian ancestry, and by her long exquisite hair in hues of shaved cinnamon. Draped in a long, floral-print dress, she looked like one of those Korean-American valley girls.

“I am Phrekka,” she offered, bowing slightly. “Phrekka Churán.”

He sighed, now an unwitting participant in what he had most hoped to avoid: inane conversation. “I’m Geoffrey Drousseau,” he traded. “You’re full of crap, you know.”

She allowed a knowing smile, tilting her head toward the sketch. “He does it to me, too.”

“Does what?”

“Notices you. Pays attention. He’s curious, and he can tell what you’re thinking. He wants you to be happy, but when you’re troubled"like you are today"that just makes him sad. He tries not to show it, though.”

“You’re reading way too much into this. It’s just a drawing.”

“Sometimes, when nobody else is here"” She leaned closer, her revelations too personal for the phantoms of this cavernous gallery to overhear. “He calls me over so we can ponder my worries; then he shows me how to see beyond them, to remember how it is to feel like he does.” She nodded in confirmation, the truth revealed. Amen.

Geoffrey smirked, glancing back and forth between her and the image of this child. “Yeah, like you have any real worries,” he scoffed. “You probably have a perfect life.”

“That’s not true"”

“Oh, come on, let me guess: you live rent-free with your parents, go to school on scholarship, work here part-time, have a rich boyfriend"”

“You’re wrong,” she asserted, “but that doesn’t matter right now"you’re the one who’s frustrated, the one this boy is watching. Why are you"?”

“How am I wrong?” he persisted. “Look, I’ll tell you why I’m upset if you’ll be honest with me.”

She took a deep breath, her eyes avoiding the sketch, maybe embarrassed but determined to accept his challenge. She fixed him with her gaze, then answered, “I was living with my mother, attending Pepperdine University at Malibu to pursue a degree in fine arts, hoping for a career that would allow me creative expression and opportunities to immerse myself in the noblest ideas and images from great minds; but then Grandmamá grew increasingly ill, and I moved here to Sausalito to help care for her. She started getting better, but that changed and there was nothing either of us could do, and I lost her.” She hesitated, her voice faltering, then looked down at her hands, instruments rendered ineffectual in her time of greatest need.

“I’m sorry,” he offered, his sentiments suddenly sincere. “So why don’t you move back home and return to school?”

“I can’t. Mother is married to a parasite, a drunkard who thinks whatever’s mine is his, one who decided he could also have me, and who made it clear that what I might not freely give, he would be forced to take. I can’t even visit anymore. Pepperdine is lost to the past. Forward is the direction I move. I live here now, on my own.” She looked at him, an expression not unlike the boy’s in the drawing, quiet resolution in her eyes. “Now tell me your frustrations,” she urged softly. “You may think they’re secret, and you may hide them from yourself, but he already knows"” She tilted her head toward the sketch without looking away from Geoffrey’s face, promising, “And I won’t tell a soul.”

Geoffrey wanted to turn and walk away, but she had called his bluff, rising to his challenge, leaving him no honorable way to back out. Fixing his gaze on the drawing, he snapped, “Okay, here’s how it is: my girlfriend’s packing up and moving out right now so she can be gone before I get home from work, but I don’t work anymore because I just got fired, which is why I’m standing here killing time. I got fed up with my boss and blew off the job I moved to California for in the first place.” He mimicked her bow. So there.

She disarmed him with a gentle smile. “No wonder he was so curious about you. He senses a kind of perplexity he’s never felt.”

“It’s nothing more than a very good drawing,” Geoffrey said quietly, a deliberate attempt to bring an element of reality back to this conversation.

“He looks just like you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You have the same face, the same silky blond hair, the same eyes.”

The boy in the sketch did look rather prime-time hit-show cute. Geoffrey liked to consider himself fairly handsome, too, and maybe he did sort of favor a grown-up version of this child standing amid cattails and reeds, the background a glass pond reflecting wildflowers and trees and birds . . .  “Who’s the artist?”

“Her name is Sara, and that’s all we know about her,” she answered, showing him where the name appeared hidden among stones and leaves in the lower corner. “This piece came to the gallery from a woman who bought it many years ago at a tag sale. Did you know any Saras when you were growing up?”

“I lived in dirt-farm Iowa, nowhere near any ponds like this, and I could name ev-erybody within twenty-five miles. Never knew any Saras.”

She looked disappointed. “How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Same as me,” she said, sounding pleased. “This boy looks about six, I think.”

“That’s not what I used to look like,” Geoffrey pronounced, case closed.

She tilted her head, regarding him for a moment, then shrugged. “You need to buy him, take him home,” she said hopefully.

He chuckled. “How much is it?” He didn’t want to buy this picture; he was just curious.

“Twelve-hundred.”

“For a tag-sale drawing?!”

“I’m sorry if his price exceeds your means.” She looked sad.

“I could afford it,” he said defensively, “if I wanted to"but twelve-hundred for a pencil sketch?”

“For the pencil sketch of a boy who made you surrender your own troubles long enough to notice him, of a boy who knows what you’re thinking"even if you don’t . . .  Of this boy who looked back.”

“So you want me to take it home,” he scoffed, “and put it on my wall"just so it can stare at me all day? It’s nothing more than a simple drawing of an arrogant little smart aleck.”

“But that’s not him you’re describing. Maybe it’s what you insist on seeing; maybe it’s what you’re afraid he’s seen in you.”

Geoffrey snorted rudely. “I could hang it up facing the wall. That would teach this brat not to stare at people.”

“Yes! I like that idea,” she sparred, her eyes twinkling. “And you could wait until you’re ready, until that very moment when you’re willing to see what he sees, then take a chance, be the big brave man, and finally turn him around, this simple drawing of a boy who makes you so angry.”

Geoffrey made another noise and shook his head, exasperated not by the sketch, but by her patronizing attitude. He’d admitted frustration over the losses of his girlfriend and job, yet she persisted in playing these mind games, amusing herself at his expense, plying him with mystical platitudes both silly and insulting. Still, though, he regarded her as quite beautiful, very sensual, her delicate features mysteriously alluring, the fragrance of her shimmering hair rather inviting. “You mean when I’m willing to tell him my problems,” he said, now playing the game her way, this dance of the minds a necessary prelude, hopefully, to increasingly intimate conversation"especially the wordless kind.

“No,” she said sadly. “You don’t get it"and you must not want to. This boy is too innocent to understand such complex issues. Don’t you see?"he simply knows how they make you feel, your essence revealed, your layers of self-protection stripped away.”

“It sees all that, huh?”

“Look at him,” she challenged, “even if all you catch is a fleeting glimpse.” She touched his hand. “Just look,” she urged quietly.

He stared at the image, but found himself distracted by an awareness of her watching him. Then she looked toward the drawing, too, and Geoffrey felt free for the moment, floating unfettered before this two-dimensional vision from some artist who spied an innocent child playing naked among his cattails, portrayed by a woman named Sara who wanted to share with others what she’d seen, what she’d felt. Why did it seem like the boy looked back? Why did Phrekka believe this depiction could possibly have any sentient interest in some strange man who stomped blindly through a gallery while his lover abandoned him, an agonizing interlude before drifting home to wrap himself in the familiar walls of his apartment.

The drawing’s eyes sparkled. This boy had never known loneliness, had never worried, had cherished all things unashamedly . . .

Geoffrey’s shoulders tensed, then relaxed again as he took a deep breath. It seemed like  he’d captured a glimmer of something, but it disappeared, and he couldn’t be sure what it was, if anything. “You just want to make a sale,” he said quietly, taking the offense in his own defense, “"to make a commission.”

“I’d rather sell you anything else in the gallery.” She spoke the truth; that much he believed. “I don’t want to see him go, but I think you need him more. Maybe he needs you"I don’t know, but you’ll never leave him behind, whether you buy him, whether you consign him to face the wall, he’s yours, own him or not.”

“Then if I buy this sketch, will you come to my place to see it again sometime?”

She smiled, bowing gracefully. “Thank you for such a generous invitation, but I’m not sure if I should.”

“You can trust me,” he said earnestly, trying not to sound like it mattered"though it did, much to his surprise. He wanted her to come and see for herself, to discover the real Geoffrey, not just what she thought this drawing could tell her about him. “You can trust me,” he repeated softly, also speaking the truth.

She shook her head. “You’re too frustrated, too anxious right now. I’m not comfortable, and you’re too"” She fell silent, the potential for offense best left unoffensive.

“You think I’m too hard-headed to read something surreal into this kid,” he shot back, suddenly angry at himself for acting as if it mattered.

“But you did see something. Only, you kept it to yourself. Share it with me, if you can. Take your time and look again. Don’t try to see it all, just something, anything. Then tell me what that is.”

Geoffrey took a deep breath. He could still play along, no risk in that. She did look incredibly beautiful, and his girlfriend was moving out, and he hated to spend nights alone . . .

And the boy looked back.

Geoffrey could sense the child’s serenity, if only for an instant. “He loves somebody,” he said quietly. It reflected in the boy’s eyes"that much he could admit. He’d given the easy answer.

“With all his heart,” she whispered, now touching Geoffrey’s arm. “Someone who embodies his whole world.”

“He feels, I don’t know . . . safe,” he added, also whispering now.

“Everybody wants that feeling, but most forget what it’s like.”

Geoffrey studied the setting, the cattails, the wildflowers and trees and birds reflecting in the water, poignant counterpoint to this innocent lad communing au naturel. Then he noticed more detail, a delicate butterfly, the caterpillar grazing a curled leaf, a fuzzy bumblebee, the tiniest birds’ nest swaying in the branches . . .  “He really likes where he is.”

“It’s wonderful,” she agreed.

“And he thinks he already has everything he could ever possibly want.”

“I believe I might have felt like that once,” she said wistfully. “It’s difficult to remember.”

“There’s something about his eyes,” Geoffrey said, studying the boy’s face carefully.

“Yes, and it’s more than how he looks right at you. There’s something else, too, but I haven’t figured it out.”

“If you’ll come over tonight, maybe we could try together.”

“Come visit me here again first. Now that I’ve made a sale, I can afford to stay at least a few more weeks.” Her hazel eyes sparkled delightfully.

“I will,” he promised.

They looked upon the sketch for several minutes, the silky-blond boy watching from amid his cattails at the edge of an idyllic pond, his sanctuary replete with everything a child of innocence could possibly want, an enchanted world where he feels safe and content.

Geoffrey sighed. “I wonder who it is he loves.”

                              

“Thanks for covering, Miss Churán,” Marva gushed, hurrying into the gallery. A heavyset, middle-aged woman in chiffon, she had accented her ensemble with bracelets and brooch, her silver-brunette hair swept into a swirl, casual yet elegant. “Where is he?! You sold him?”

Phrekka nodded absently as she entered the credit-card transaction into the sales log.

“Did you actually get four-thousand dollars?”

Phrekka smiled knowingly. “No, I quoted only twelve-hundred.” She jotted the customer’s name and address on a separate slip of paper, folding it into her pocket.

“But you had me tell that woman"”

“I didn’t want her to have him. He needed to go to the right person.”

Marva accepted the log, carefully arranging it in the desk drawer. “Just between you and me, even twelve-hundred’s probably a lot more than its market worth.”

“I would’ve given it for free, if need be. I just wanted to make sure the buyer appreciated its value, and would treat our boy with the respect he deserves.”

“Sometimes the true value of a work of art far exceeds the highest buyer’s bid,” Marva mused, straightening items on the desk.

“And oftentimes our expectations are shaped by the price we hear, thus influencing our own assessment of what we see.”

“And then the price goes up even more,” Marva concluded, a gleam in her eye.

Phrekka lingered a moment, glancing around the gallery at her remarkable collection, some pieces more extraordinary than others, all divulging stories of deception or truth. “By the way, he thinks I work here, and he’ll probably come back to see me. Watch for a handsome young guy with silky blond hair who looks a lot like the boy in the sketch. If he shows up, say I’m on a break, then call me discreetly, if you would.” She turned to leave.

“I will, Miss Churán. I’m curious, though"I assumed you were keeping that piece for yourself.”

Phrekka smiled, one hand on the door, the glass dancing with reflections of luminous late-afternoon sunshine dappling the waters of Golden Gate’s Richardson Bay. “I was"until I discovered its rightful owner. Geoffrey and that boy have a lot in common. They both want"they both need"the same things.”

“The same what?”

Phrekka opened the door and found her world transformed to a mosaic of translucent shimmers in the blinding glare. “I’m not sure,” she answered, “and neither is Geoffrey . . . but the boy knows.”

 

Author's Note

Please ignore no paragraph indentations. You can download a copy of this sample chapter in PDF at www.freshinkgroup.com. I also consider requests for a review copy.