She focused on her hands. "Sometimes, when something touches you, it's hard to find the words. You can say things like 'beautiful,' 'fabulous/ 'awesome,' but the words don't really describe how you feel, especially if you were feeling all that, but the picture made you — made you hurt some, too. And your picture did." She flexed her fingers. "That's all."
"Thanks," Will said.
She looked up at him then, which was a mistake.
"Ivy-" She tried to look away, but couldn't.
"— how are you?"
"I'm fine. Really, I am." Why did she have to keep telling people that? And why, when she said it to Will, did it feel as if he could see straight through the lie?
"I have something to say, too," he told her. "Take care of yourself."
She could feel him looking at her cheek, the one that had been bruised during the assault. There was still a pale wash of color there, though she had done her best to disguise it with makeup.
"Please take care of yourself."
"Why wouldn't I?" she snapped.
"Sometimes people don't."
Ivy wanted to say. You don't know what you're talking about, you've never lost anyone you loved. But then she remembered Gregory's words about Will having gone through a tough time. Maybe Will did understand.
"Who's the person in your painting?" Ivy asked. "Is it someone you knew?"
"My mother. My father still won't look at the picture." Then he waved chat thought away and leaned forward. "Be careful. Ivy. Don't forget that there are other people who will feel that they have lost everything if they lose you."
Ivy looked away.
He reached for her face. She pulled back instinctively when he touched the bruised side. But he didn't hurt her, and he didn't let go. He cupped one hand around the back of her head. There was no escaping him.
Maybe she didn't want to escape him.
"Be careful, Ivy. Be careful!" His eyes shone with a strange intensity. "I'm telling you — be careful!"
Ivy blinked. Then she broke away from Will and ran.
Tristan lay back in the grass, exhausted. The park at the end of Main Street was filling up with people.
Their picnic blankets looked like bright-colored rafts on a green sea. Kids rolled around and punched each other. Dogs pulled against their leashes and touched noses. Two teenagers kissed. An older couple flipped down their sunshades and watched, the woman smiling.
Lacey returned from her exploration of the park's stage, which was set up for the five o'clock performance. She dropped down next to Tristan. "It was a silly thing to do," she chided.
He had expected her to say something like that.
"Which part?" he asked. After all, the afternoon had been long and eventful.
"Trying to get inside Gregory's head." She snorted. "It's a wonder he didn't knock you as far as Manhattan. Or LA!"
"I was desperate, Lacey! I've got to know what kind of game he's playing with Ivy and Suzanne."
"And you thought you needed a trip inside his head to find that out?" she asked incredulously. "You should have asked me. His game's no different than the kind I've seen a lot of guys play with girls. He's taking the easy one for a ride and chasing Miss Hard-to-Get." She moved her face close to Tristan's. "Am I right?"
Tristan didn't reply. It wasn't just a romantic game that was worrying him. Ever since he had made the connection between Caroline's death and Ivy's delivery to the house next door, he had wondered about the hidden purpose behind Gregory's new closeness to Ivy.
"Well, I hope you learned your lesson today," Lacey said.
"I have a pounding headache," he replied. "Are you satisfied?"
She laid her hand lightly on his forehead and said in a quieter voice, "If it makes you feel any better, Gregory probably has one, too."
Tristan squinted up at her, surprised by this small bit of gentleness.
She removed her hand and squinted back. "And why were you chasing Philip around, getting inside his mind?" she demanded. "Seems to me like another waste of energy. He already sees us glow — and gets in trouble every time he mentions it. That little conversation put Gregory in a real good mood this afternoon."
"I had to tell Philip who I was. Beth signed my name on the computer message. If Philip tells her he sees me, or my light, sooner or later she is going to have to believe."
Lacey shook her head doubtfully.
"And speaking of Philip," Tristan said, pulling himself up on one elbow, "I noticed how Gregory's mood got even better when Philip stopped talking about angels and pulled out an actual photograph of one.
What mission were you working on today when you jumped into that picture?"
Lacey didn't answer him right away. She gazed up at three women in leotards who had just been introduced onstage. "What do you suppose they're going to do?"
"Dance or aerobics. Answer my question."
"If I were them, I'd wear veils."
"Try again," Tristan said.
"I was working on my semimaterializing process," she told him, "solidifying myself enough to show a general shape but not become an actual body. You never know—1 might need to do something like that sometime in the future. To complete my mission, of course."
"Of course. And projecting your voice, so that everyone at Old West Photos could hear you — I guess you needed to practice that some more, too."
"Oh, well, that," she said with a flick of her hand. "I was working on your mission then."
"My mission?"
"In my own way." she replied. "You and I have very different styles."
"True. I'd never have thought of telling Will he has nice buns."
"Terrific buns," Lacey corrected him. "The best I've seen in a long time. ." She looked at Tristan thoughtfully. "Roll over."
"No way."