Unforgettable. Molly Rice

      Chapter One

       The scene shimmered and blurred and then came into focus. There was a road that seemed to go on forever and along the side, a sign.

       She tried to read the sign but found her vision too blurred to make sense of the letters. She looked around.

       There was a twisted tree near the sign and its branches brushed the ground like fingers searching for hold. Stacy felt herself walking along the road, could feel the gravel crunching beneath her feet, smelled the goldenrod waving in the breeze. But when she looked down at herself, she couldn’t see her body, nor the feet that trod the road. She turned in a circle. Turned, turned, turned. Dizziness. She fell and in the falling...

      * * *

      STACY GRASPED the next rung of the ladder and laid her forehead against her hand. One, two, three... She lifted her head, forcing herself to focus. She was in her own studio, standing on a ladder, a long-handled, paint-laden brush in her hand, working on her latest painting, a huge, detailed landscape created from the watercolor studies she’d done on-site the previous summer. She slid down the ladder on rubbery legs and stuck the brush in a can of turpentine before she stumbled over to the old davenport across the room beneath the wall of windows. Warm sunlight caressed her hair, and she waited for it to obliterate the chill that seemed to form from within even as she wiped the dampness of perspiration from her face with the paint-stained rag she kept in her overalls pocket.

      There was a phone on a wobbly three-legged table next to the sofa. When it rang, she jumped. She leaned to the side and grabbed the receiver, knocking the table over in the process.

      She swore vehemently as she bent to retrieve the table and almost dropped the phone.

      “A simple hello would do it for me,” her agent, Beth Harri, drawled.

      “That’s how I’d feel about a simple goodbye,” Stacy retorted.

      “Don’t hang up, Stacy,” Beth shouted as Stacy was about to do just that.

      Sighing heavily, she put the receiver back to her ear. “You’ve got thirty seconds. Go!”

      “I got you a show and they want to hang a dozen of your paintings and a couple of dozen studies and watercolors and you’re booked for the third of December and that means you’ll get the big holiday play in the press as well as the street traffic and—”

      “Whoa!” Stacy interrupted. She sat back and stared at the receiver. Gingerly she returned it to her ear, a doubtful expression on her face. “Start over. Slow.”

      Beth repeated her good news, slowly, happily enunciating every word.

      “The third of December?” Stacy counted under her breath, using her fingers. “That’s nine months away.”

      “Are you saying you can’t turn in a measly dozen paintings in nine months?”

      Stacy frowned. “I have six finished and one on its way. I guess they’ll be dry by then.” She looked over at the unfinished seventh and shook her head. “I don’t know, Beth. Maybe if I did the last five in acrylic.”

      “Do it. I’ve been telling you for years, acrylic is as compelling and expressive in its own way. You’re just addicted to the smell of turpentine.”

      “I know. If I go without it for a couple of days, I start seeing things.” Another chill shook her as she recalled the strange vision she’d had. She had to force herself to concentrate on what Beth was saying.

      “Hey, I’ve an idea. Why don’t you paint some of those things you see, we could offer them up as ‘fantasies of a turp-starved artist.’”

      They shared laughter, Stacy’s a bit shaky.

      “Hey, Stace, what’s the matter? You don’t sound as thrilled as I expected.”

      It began to sink in. This was the big career push she’d worked so hard for, for so many years. And Beth had worked just as hard, always believing in Stacy’s talent.

      Beth deserved a better reaction than she’d given her.

      Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Stacy put her legs up under her, tailor fashion, and leaned against the couch cushions. She curled a lock of her red hair around her finger.

      “So, Harri, how about we do the big celebration number. You can buy since you’re going to be coming into this whopping commission in December.”

      “When can we stop pretending that I’m rich and you’re broke?” Beth whined.

      Stacy laughed, unremorseful. “C’mon, Beth, we both know you’re sleeping on a fortune. When are you going to get up off that mattress and take the stuff to the bank?”

      “If I do that, then everyone will know what I’m actually worth,” Beth said slyly.

      Stacy laughed. “I knew it. Wait till I tell the gang.”

      “Okay,” Beth grumbled, “I’ll treat. And you, Stacy, you keep your mouth shut and try to show up in something besides overalls.”

      They