The Catswold Portal

He had finished, memorizing the colors while eating the last of his biscuit, when the girl turned to look in, and he raised his hand in greeting—then wondered why he had done that. She looked startled and turned away, and he dropped his hand, feeling foolish. Why had he waved? He didn’t know her. He had never seen her before. His aftervision was filled with her startled gaze before she spun around and headed up the street.

But, strangely, his shock of recognition remained.

He grabbed the check and dug in his pocket for change.

He searched the streets for her, wanting to talk to her, wanting to find out if he did know her. Wanting, suddenly and intensely, to paint this girl. Unable to shake the powerful, curious feeling that he knew her. Puzzled, and annoyed because he couldn’t remember, he looked into shops and down side streets, and even walked up into the wooded residential area around the library and looked in through the long library windows, but she wasn’t in there.

He went home at last, totally frustrated. He wanted to paint her beside the tea shop window. He could still see her dark-fringed green eyes. He dropped his sketch on the work table and unfolded it, but he didn’t need it; the painting was surprisingly clear in his mind. Excited, he set up a fresh canvas, changed his shirt, and got to work.

Melissa had evaded Braden by ducking into the dress shop and browsing among the racks at the back. She wasn’t sure why she was hiding. Braden couldn’t know her. She wasn’t sure, either, why she had turned to look back into the restaurant. She had just wanted to look at him; she hadn’t thought he would be watching her, had thought she wouldn’t be noticed. She had frozen, terrified, at his look of recognition.

But how could he recognize her?

She remained behind the dress racks until she saw him go past the window. She had avoided the sharp-faced saleswoman. Now the woman stood beyond the rack looking her over, taking in her long dress and unruly hair. “May I help you?”

“Help me?”

“May I show you something, my dear? Would you like to try on a dress?”

She felt confused, disoriented.

“Are you all right, my dear?”

“I—yes, I’m fine. A dress—the yellow dress in the window.”

But then in the fitting room the saleswoman stared at her, shocked because she wore no undergarments. Cringing under the woman’s disapproving gaze she dressed again quickly and left the shop.

She wouldn’t go in there again. And she didn’t want the suggested panties and bra and slip—she felt constricted thinking about them. Distraught and afraid Braden might still be searching, she headed for the edge of the village away from the shops. There on a deserted street the black dog found her again, and he had been joined by two big hounds. She turned to see them coming toward her fast, noses down, sniffing her trail. Before she could run, they circled her.

They lunged and drew back, baiting her. She was stricken not simply with her own fear, but with a child’s total panic: this had happened when she was small. She had been chased and surrounded by dogs. She stood facing them, edging toward an oak tree in the yard of the nearest house.

When the black dog lunged, she kicked it. He snapped at her, and when she kicked again he jumped on her, knocking her against the tree. She twisted as she hit it, and climbed. The rough bark tore the skin inside her legs and scraped her arm, then she was up the tree clinging with all fours, holding tight with sharp claws.

The cat clung in the tree, spitting, her claws digging into the branch as below her the dogs leaped at the trunk, barking and snarling.

The little cat remained in the tree until late afternoon, backing along the branch each time the dogs leaped. She was only cat now, she remembered nothing else. Long after the dogs tired of the game and wandered off, she remained clinging in the branches. Only as darkness fell did hunger drive her down again, and instinct point her toward the garden. Hardly visible in the darkness except for her white markings, she fled between houses through the darkening woods, evading other cats, running in panic from dogs, streaking across streets in front of headlights. Twice she was nearly hit. When she crossed the lane to the garden, running, she almost collided with the black tom. He hissed and cuffed her and bit her. She dodged away and made for the veranda and safety.

Chapter 33

At dusk Braden made himself a drink and stood studying the painting of the girl in the tea shop window. He had captured her look, captured the intriguing sense of otherness he had glimpsed in that brief moment. The work filled him with excitement—this was right, this was what he wanted to do. He hadn’t felt like this about a painting in a while. This was the beginning of a new series, one he had been waiting to do and not known it: a series of reflections all of this girl, her face caught in shattered light as if she had just stepped into this world from another dimension.