An Artist in Her Basement

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

Adrian relented to the tiredness that came upon him with a vengeance. He collapsed onto the couch that was still cool from the lack of heat. It'd taken him eighteen hours to drive from New York to Kentucky. The drive time could have been five hours shorter, but his condition wouldn't allow for that. It was what had made him an artist and a musician. Some professions are forced upon a person. Adrian had accepted that a long time ago. Good thing he liked what he did for a living. Besides, Sarah would have really been mad had he arrived any earlier. He hoped she would let him stay.

Unlike her, Adrian had done his homework. He pulled out the small photo from the wallet in his pocket. The photo had lied only a little bit. It did the best it could do. Photos and paintings cannot speak. They cannot tell a man how much laughter or vulnerability can change a woman's face so entirely that he falls in love with her without intending to. A beautiful photo cannot reveal the hidden scars that would make a man want to protect someone like Sarah.

But Adrian had no plans for that. His plan was to stay six months or less, just as he had done everywhere else he had chosen for his artist retreat. When the time was up, he would leave this mountain and go on tour. He was a nomad. He was somewhat famous. This apparently was another fact Sarah had not researched. If she had, she probably would not have let him come, even if he had been a woman. She seemed as private a person as himself.

As soon as Adrian had seen the ad and photos of the apartment on Craigslist, he had hired a detective to not only check her out, but the entire town of less than ten thousand. This, too, was routine. He needed anonymity to work to his full potential. Sarah had about thirty-seven Facebook friends the last time he checked. This was another reason why he had chosen her. She would not be communicating with a lot of people on Facebook about her artist tenant. He could paint in peace. He loved to paint outdoors, and this landscape was the perfect inspiration.

The only problem he considered might get in his way was becoming too fond of his landlord. Sarah was something else. Adrian noticed she'd curled her toes a couple of times while they spoke earlier. He wasn't completely sure if that was something she did unconsciously, or if there was a motivation behind it. He just knew that he liked the oddity almost as much as he liked the chestnut blanket of hair that hung down her back.

In Cuba, people's complexions were sometimes compared to food metaphors. Sarah was a cross over between La canela and miel, cinnamon and honey. A potent combination as far as he was concerned. She was also voluptuous, vulnerable, and didn't do a very good job of hiding the fact that she was as sweet as the honey tone in her skin. She had all the ingredients to make a man rethink his plans. It was a good thing she taught at an elementary school instead of a high school. He was sure she'd give those teenage boys a fit.

He ran his fingers across the photo that the private detective had taken of her while she was on the playground with her class. Her eyes were as sad in person as they were in the photo he had committed to memory. His condition was responsible for the committed memory. However, this time the photo didn't lie. Maybe he could help her smile a little while he was here. He placed the photo back into his wallet. He knew if she ever discovered it, or found out he had hired a private investigator to check her out, she would feel violated. Perhaps he'd tell her when he left. She might want to consider doing the same thing—hiring a detective—if she ever rented her place out again. He didn't know her, but he knew he didn't want anything bad to happen to her. The house was located on six acres of land and surrounded by lots of trees. If she were his sister or a good female friend, he would offer to teach her how to shoot a gun for more than hunting before he left. "No," he protested out loud. He was here to paint, nothing more. A 70s hit song by Daryl Hall and John Oates filtered through his mind. "Sarah Smile..." he crooned softly, right before he dozed off and became one with the silence of the night mountain air.

****

The mountain was eerily quiet that night. The only light on in the house was the one located in the hood above the stove. Sarah sat in a rocking chair on the porch that was next to the kitchen. She hated to admit it, but there was something comforting about having a man in the house again, even if he wasn't her man. Adrian hadn't made a sound since he'd moved his truck off the street and parked it in the carport below. She assumed he was sleeping. Earlier she'd put on a sweater and socks to keep warm. A cup of hot tea rested on top of a small antique end table. She lit a candle from the same table to help her see her laptop. Her fingers did the walking and typed in Cuban people.