Free The nanny murders by Merry Bloch Jones Page A

clock. Hank had spent a record twenty-three minutes working on a drawing before destroying it. I congratulated him on that, but, panting, Hank broke into tears. The flaws weren’t in the picture, he sobbed. They were in his compulsive need for perfection. He knew what it was. He recognized it but couldn’t control it. He sat on his stool, broad shoulders hunched, raw with emotion. I wanted to hug him and promise him he’d be okay. Instead, I handed him a tissue, and when he’d dried his tears, I took his hand, reminding him that journeys were made of small steps taken one at a time. I congratulated him on his progress; a few weeks ago, he hadn’t been able to describe his problems so clearly, hadn’t had the insight. He’d come a long way in a short time and deserved credit for that. We sat together hand in hand, and I felt his struggle pulsing through his body. Gradually, his breathing slowed, his muscles relaxed. I offered him another oil stick, and when he was ready, he took it. Pressing on, facing another blank page.
    Meantime, Sydney Ellis was also making a leap. Sydney was standing beside his easel, an oil stick clutched in his fist. He’d stood that way for the entire session. Although he hadn’t made a mark on his paper, he’d managed to join the group. In the last session, he hadn’t even noticed that there was a class, much less that he could become part of it. Now, he’d claimed a spot among the others. Small steps, I reminded myself, taken one at a time.
    When the session ended, I felt gratified. The group finally seemed to be responding to art therapy. I ran around the studio, humming “Standing in the Shadows of Love,” an old Four Tops song, as I stored supplies and unfinished pictures in the closet. Then, files in hand, I rushed out, and somehowslammed full force into a wall—or no—not a wall. Something softer, woollier—something charcoal gray? Rebounding, stunned and off balance, I let out a screech and tried to regain my footing. Arms reached out, grabbing at me. Reflexively, I swatted, slapped at them, letting papers, files, patient notes, everything fly from my hands as I backed away, tripping over an easel leg, arms flailing, falling flat on my back into the storage closet. Oh my God.
    Nick Stiles gawked in alarm. Panting, flustered, I tried to collect myself, rearranging my skirt so it would cover at least part of my thighs.
    “Jesus,” he said. “Are you all right?”
    My face got hot. My elbow felt broken. Not to mention my ego. “What were you doing, sneaking up on me like that?”
    “I didn’t sneak up on you.” Large hands grabbed mine and pulled me to my feet.
    “You should have said something.” I’d regained my balance if not my composure.
    “I thought you saw me come in.”
    “How could I see you? I was in the closet—”
    “You’re right.” He cut me off. “I should have said something. Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
    I blinked at him, sputtering but unable to go on. He’d admitted being wrong, agreed that he was at fault, even apologized. He’d escaped unscathed. How infuriating was that? His eyes twinkled. How high up had my skirt gone?
    “Are you sure you’re all right?”
    I nodded, still flushed, and began picking up my papers. What was he doing here? He knelt beside me, helping. His knee brushed my arm, just barely. He smelled fresh. Showered. A man in the morning.
    “I am sorry. Really.” He handed me a stack of files.
    “I guess I’m a little jumpy.” I managed a smile.We stood. There wasn’t much space between us, but he didn’t move away. If I did, I’d be back in the storage closet. My eyes came up to his lapel. I stared at it, didn’t look up. The moment was too long. People didn’t stand this close together unless they were going to kiss. This was absurd; women were disappearing and I was thinking about kissing the police detective? My face was hot again. I was embarrassed by my own thoughts. I didn’t know what to look