Page 20 of Memories of the Lost

What the hell had happened?

Her mother always said there was a very fine line between madness and creativity. Arlette often fell over the line, disappearing into worlds only she completely understood.

As water poured down her face, Tillie worried that she might be developing her mother’s illness, that this was the first volley in whatever undiagnosed thing she’d lived with, because she would never get treatment, even after Tillie left home and realized that Arlette really might benefit from some clinical intervention.

Would Tillie end up lost in a world of her own creation?

The world of the cat. Cat Land.

The phrase reverberated, as if she knew it, as if she could tell a story about it.Once upon a time, there was a king of cats ...

She laughed. He seemed like a friendly enough fellow, after all, even if he was the size of a lion. A giant lion.

Some of her tension eased. Maybe she was beingslightlydramatic.

Aware that Liam was in the other room, she kept her fussing to a minimum: simple makeup, her damp hair woven into a braid. Mindful of his outfit, she donned a black cashmere sweater and jeans. When she came out, he was still completely at peace with himself, reading on his phone.

“Hi.”

He lifted his head. “Ah, the woman returns. When you first opened the door, I thought you were a crayon.”

She laughed. “It was a deep day.” She paused, glancing toward the stack of newsprint drawings. “An odd day, actually. Do you mind if we go by the gallery? I need to see that painting again.”

“Sure,” he said, standing. He slipped his phone into his back pocket. He pointed at the table. “Do you mind if I look?”

“Go ahead.” She sat on the bench by the door to tie her short boots.

For a few long moments, he leafed through them, gently lifting one after another, and Tillie felt a faint dizziness—but she dropped her feet to the floor and grabbed her coat from a hook by the door. “Ready?”

“Am I allowed to comment? Or is it better if I don’t?”

She shrugged. “I don’t mind. I have no idea what they are.”

“A cat, I’d say,” he said with a quirk of his lips. “Made with energy and emotion and power. I’d pay substantially for one of these, mate.”

“Yeah?” She crossed the room, boot heels knocking a rhythm against the wooden floor. Maybe this was the something she’d been looking for to give her work fresh energy. Setting aside the fear of the lost time, she allowed herself to really look at the drawings, and he was right. Fantastic energy. Joy. Fear. Intense colors and line work. “I just don’t know where they came from.”

“You will, in time.”

“I mean—” She started to explain and then realized it didn’t matter. Not right this minute. The scent of him filled her head, struck her limbic memory, and she was transported to the taxi last night, kissing him, anticipating something entirely different from a migraine. She was sorely tempted to take one more step and kiss him now, but it felt weirdly dangerous.

“Let’s go take a look at the painting from last night,” she said instead. “And get some food.”

Settled in the taxi on the way over, she asked, “Now that you’ve seen my raw artwork, are you going to tell me what you’re doing in town?”

He picked up her hand. “I lead meditation workshops.”

“Um, what?”

He half shrugged. “You asked.”

“It does explain the aura of calm.” She waved a hand in a circle, indicating his body and head.

“Am I calm?”

“Yes.” She inclined her head, thinking that he also felt safe, which was not usually the thing she was drawn to in a man. Though after Jared, she was pretty tired of drama. “What sort of meditation?”

“Mindfulness, and some visualization.”