Waiting for Patrick (13 page)

Elliot rummaged through the folds of the sheet, trying to find more particles. “How did you get into being an artist?”

Daniel watched Elliot’s long fingers absently wander through the wrinkles of the sheet. “I always drew as far back as I can remember. My mom and sister both drew too.” Daniel chuckled as if remembering something. “We used to play this game where one of us would get a picture of a famous actor or model or something, and describe them out loud. The other two would try to draw what was being described, without looking at the picture of course. All three of us did well enough to enjoy the game and played it often. I just never grew out of it. I still particularly like to draw people.”

Elliot smiled and then nodded toward the sketchpad. “So, what are you drawing now?” He found the remote for the bed and stabbed at the button until he was sitting a little more upright. Judging by the whir of the bed motor, the poor thing was as tired as Elliot was.

Daniel grinned sheepishly and sat up taller, patting the sketchbook with the palms of his hands. “Um, you?”

“You’re drawing me?” Elliot found himself, ridiculously, smoothing his hair and straightening his gown. “Like this?” His expression turned to one of dismay as he wiped his dry lips and chin. “Drool and all?”

Daniel chuckled and opened the sketchbook. “No. From memory, mostly.” Daniel turned the book around and held it out to show him. “When we were eating breakfast the other day, we were talking, and you looked so relaxed and had the prettiest smile.” Daniel actually flushed in embarrassment. “I absolutely had to draw that.”

Elliot gaped at the drawing. It was extraordinary. The position and the smile made him look younger and more relaxed than he remembered feeling in years. There was a twinkle in his eye that he hadn’t realized he possessed, but it was definitely him. The errant lock of hair that was forever on his forehead was right where it should be in the picture, along with the little scar on his chin from where he’d needed stitches when he was eight after falling from a tree. The stubble he’d sported that day, and probably had now, almost covered it, but it was still noticeable. “That looks exactly like me.”

“Well.” Daniel smiled and pulled the sketchpad back onto his lap. “It does help if a full-time artist can actually draw.”

“You say you do a lot of portraits?” Elliot was really interested. He doodled designs for houses and could draft plans for new buildings, so he appreciated the time it took to get anything down on paper. But he’d always been fascinated with artists who could draw people. He’d even tried to draw when he was much younger, but his people tended to look like something out of a Stephen King novel, so he’d stopped trying, focusing instead on drafting.

“Quite often.” Daniel leaned forward again, elbows on knees. “I’ve done many commissions from pictures, but actually have people sit for portraits too.”

Elliot reached for the sketchbook again. “Do you have more sketches in there?”

Daniel handed the pad to him. “Mostly just studies of various things. Some scenes from around the hospital.” He chuckled and lightly smacked Elliot’s fingers after he’d taken the sketchpad. “I’ve had plenty of time while I’ve been waiting around for
someone
to wake up.”

Elliot smiled and opened the book, flicking through the pages. “These are great, Daniel.” Several showed scenes from around the hospital, but almost all of them had people in them: nurses talking to each other at the nurses’ station; a young mother holding a crying child; Malcolm tenderly holding Sheri collapsed against his shoulder, probably asleep.

“These are—” Elliot stopped short, realizing he was about to repeat himself. Then he decided it warranted repeating. “These are wonderful.”

Daniel actually blushed. “Just doodles to fill the time.”

Elliot wasn’t going to dignify that with a response. These were no doodles. But then Elliot’s mind wandered in a different direction. “Have you ever done a commission from description alone? Like the game you used to play?” Elliot had the silliest idea all of a sudden.

“No. That was just something I did for fun with my family.” Daniel leaned forward again to take the sketchpad that Elliot had finished looking at. “Why?”

“Could you draw Ben if I tell you what he looks like?”

“Do you know what he looks like?” Daniel asked incredulously. “You’ve actually seen him?”

“Well, no.” Elliot realized that actually seeing the ghost would go beyond just seeing the things he was moving, and Daniel may feel like Elliot hadn’t been entirely honest with him about the phone incident. “Not as a ghost, anyway. I saw him in the mirror in the first dream I had of him. And in each dream, I have a sense of what he looks like. I’m dreaming from his perspective and
he
knows what he looks like, so….”

“Sure.” Daniel smiled. “Let’s try it.”

“What? Now?” Elliot hadn’t thought that far ahead. He wasn’t sure what he had been thinking, actually, but it wasn’t that they’d try it now.

“Why not now?” Daniel opened the sketchpad and then dug through a small pouch of different kinds of pencils to find just the right one.

“Well, yeah,” Elliot had to agree and scooted himself up the bed a little. “I have nothing but time, I guess.” Then he looked Daniel in the eye.

Daniel chuckled as he turned pages in the sketchbook until he found a clean one.

Elliot sat a little straighter. “Okay. So, how do we start?”

It took a good half hour, with Daniel changing little details here and there as Elliot directed, but they finally had a beautiful drawing of a young man with light hair and eyes, in a Union soldier’s uniform. Daniel turned it toward Elliot with a flourish.

“That’s him,” Elliot said, pulling the sketchpad closer. “Or damned close, anyway.” After studying the picture for a while, he handed it back to Daniel.

“He’s cute.” Daniel tore off Ben’s picture and handed it to Elliot. “Here you go.”

“How much do I owe you?” Elliot asked as he gathered in the portrait. When Daniel shook his head, Elliot added, “It was a commission, right? How much do you charge?”

“How much I charge depends on the job. But that one is free.” He tore off the portrait of Elliot. “Here. Take this one too.”

“I’m not hurting for money,” Elliot murmured. “I can pay you.”

Daniel smiled and shook his head again. “I know you can. I don’t want you to. These aren’t professional-level portraits. They’re just sketches. I don’t charge for sketches.”

Elliot was amazed. “You mean you do better than this for the ones you charge for?”

Daniel just chuckled. “Maybe a little. Mostly the difference is the medium and what I draw on. I use canvas and paints for commissioned pieces. Not pencils and sketch paper.”

Elliot nodded and didn’t argue any more with Daniel. He’d find some way to pay him back.

Elliot held the portraits up side by side. Somehow Ben seemed so familiar, but he didn’t look right beside Elliot. He belonged with Patrick. Elliot almost asked Daniel to draw Patrick next, but he became so tired, he simply couldn’t stay awake any longer.

When he woke up later, Daniel was gone, and the two portraits had been carefully placed on the nightstand.

THE NEXT
afternoon found Elliot back at his—and Ben’s—beautiful old plantation home. Sheri and Malcolm accompanied him up the walkway and past the supplies on the porch that were still waiting for Elliot to finish the work he’d started.

“I guess I should contract out all those little jobs too,” he said as he climbed the stairs, voice completely dejected. He imagined the pile of replacement spindles whispering
useless
and
old
as he passed, and he had to nod along. That was exactly the way he felt.

“You don’t have to stop
all
exercise, Ellie.” Sheri held out her hand for Elliot to give her the house keys. “Take your meds, stay on the diet the doctor talked to you about, and mild to moderate exercise is fine. I was with you when the doctor told you that, remember?”

“Yeah,” Elliot agreed, but he hadn’t changed his mind. “One of the times. They repeated it ad nauseam. I’m still going to farm it out.”

Sheri shook her head, opened the door, and waved him inside. “Anything you want, Elle.”

Malcolm walked quietly beside them, carrying the overnight bag of items Sheri had taken to the hospital for Elliot.

“Do you want these upstairs?” he asked, already moving to the stairs.

“Sure,” Elliot answered as he headed toward the living room, voice still flat. “Why not?”

Malcolm disappeared up the stairs. Elliot and Sheri continued into the living room. Elliot had every intention of sitting in his recliner for the rest of time, but Sheri steered him to the sofa. He was too tired to argue.

Sheri settled beside him there and placed a hand on his knee. “I don’t like seeing you this down.”

“It’s a lot to take in, Cher.” Elliot patted her hand and tried to straighten up a little, if only to look livelier for her sake. “The last time I was in this house—before the whole heart attack thing—I was healthy, planning on doing a lot of work on the place. Excited to do so, actually.” He looked around at some of the jobs just in the living room that he had wanted to do. The windowsill was chipped and gouged to the point that Elliot wanted to replace it. Some of the molding had come loose or was missing. The whole room needed painting in a more period-appropriate color. “But now that’s gone. I’m not healthy, I can’t do the work, I have a damned heart condition. I have a right to be down, Cher.” He was suddenly very interested in looking at their hands. Anywhere but the room he now couldn’t fix, or at Sheri.

“I didn’t say you didn’t, Elle.” She took his hand in both of hers. “I just said I didn’t like seeing you this way.” She placed her fingertips under Elliot’s chin and lifted his head back up so he had to look at her. “But you’re wrong. You can still do some of the work. Maybe not throwing lumber around, but you could paint or—”

Malcolm came galloping down the stairs and into the living room. “Sheri, you didn’t come over earlier or anything did you?” He stood in the archway between the foyer and the living room, panting.

Sheri looked away from Elliot, puzzled. “I was with you most of the morning, Mal. You know I didn’t.”

“Does Daniel have a key?” He’d gotten his breathing under control but still seemed to have something urgent on his mind.

Elliot gave him his undivided attention, if only to get out of continuing the conversation with Sheri.

She was even more confused and stood up, walking toward Malcolm. “No, I don’t think so.” But then she turned toward Elliot. “Does he?” Elliot shook his head. “Why?”

Malcolm smiled but looked past Sheri to take in Elliot’s gaze. “Um, maybe more evidence of the ghost?”

Sheri stopped in the middle of the room and put her hands on her hips. “Malcolm, what are you talking about?”

He smiled widely and gestured back toward the stairs. “Come on up and see.”

Sheri stood her ground, looking for all the world like she was going to refuse to do that. Elliot was curious, though, so he stood up, brushed the wrinkles from his slacks, and headed over toward Malcolm. As he passed Sheri, he snagged her arm and gave a little tug. Giving Elliot a disapproving look and a disgruntled
mmph
, she allowed herself to be pulled in his wake.

Malcolm waved them on. “Go take a look in the master bedroom.” He grinned like a fool as they passed and then followed them up the staircase.

Elliot and Sheri made their way to the bedroom and stopped dead. Sheri stared at what they found, and Elliot smiled.

Elliot religiously made his bed every morning and had the morning of his heart attack. But now the bed was turned down on Elliot’s preferred side. On top of the folded-down portion sat a typed note reading
Welcome Home
.

“Oh, come on, Malcolm.” Sheri was incredulous as she snatched the paper off the bedspread. “You expect us to believe a ghost can type and work the printer?”

“Why not?” Malcolm asked. “He apparently can move phones, lamps, and bathroom toiletries, and write messages on steamy mirrors.”

Elliot grinned but looked around the room searching for something—someone—he couldn’t see. “Thanks, Ben.” Elliot didn’t know if he imagined an invisible touch to his cheek, but he liked to think it was his resident ghost.

Sheri shook her head and slumped down to sit on the bed. “All the men in my life are losing their minds.”

Malcolm and Elliot simply laughed.

“OKAY,” SHERI
finally said, getting off the bed and moving toward the door. “Ghost or no ghost, I’m hungry.” She grabbed both Elliot and Malcolm as she passed them. “Come on. I have some groceries in the car for a heart-healthy dinner.”

As soon as they reached the bottom of the stairs, she started giving directions. “Mal, could you go get the stuff out of the car?” She waited to see him nod and start toward the front door, then steered Elliot toward the living room. “You go in here, take a load off. Dinner won’t take long. I’m just making a salad with some tuna tossed in for good measure if you have tuna.” Elliot allowed himself to be led to the living room and sat down in his comfy recliner. “It’ll have to be that god-awful canned stuff that you love because I didn’t know how long the groceries would have to be in the car before we got here and didn’t want to take the chance with fresh fish.” Once she had Elliot seated, she started back toward the archway.

“Could have gotten frozen fish,” Elliot threw out, mostly because he knew it would annoy her.

Malcolm bustled through the front door with a bag of groceries and a stack of DVDs. “Did you plan on us watching movies all night, Sheri?”

“No, Malcolm.” She glared as she took the groceries and pushed him toward the living room. “I thought I’d provide Ellie with a wide selection, and we’d watch a movie or two while we ate and visited.” She headed back toward the kitchen.

“Well”—Malcolm pitched his voice just loud enough for her to still hear—“we could watch movies until Tuesday with all the ones you have here.”