Free Perfect Touch by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

from the earth during a violent birth. The snow that dotted the peaks was almost blood-red in the sunset. The Tetons themselves were laid out with strokes of purple and indigo, a cold contrast. At the feet of the mountains, the forests looked like a frozen wave captured in near black and crimson. The foreground was ablaze with wildflowers in orange and yellow and gold like a river flooding.
    â€œSo what do you see in this?” she asked.
    Jay was overwhelmed by her female scent, a heat so close that he could feel her breath. Against a wild surge of desire, he struggled for words. “I hadn’t thought of it,” he managed. “I’ve passed by this painting hundreds, thousands of times.”
    â€œOkay, don’t pass it this time.”
    She leaned in even closer now, her elbow pressing in below his rib cage. She was half a step in front on him. His arm was just behind and all but around her now. And the painting was her focus.
    He tried to make it his.
    â€œColor,” he said finally. “Up close it’s all color and brushstrokes and energy. Across the room, it’s still color and energy, but the brushstrokes all add up to a view of the land.”
    â€œGood. Besides the incredibly bold use of color, Custer was a master at portraying space and making it real. Later on he did that with light, making it tangible. But this is an earlier piece, where he was making distance real.”
    â€œBut the colors are wrong,” Jay said. “Nothing ever looks like that.”
    â€œIf you want exact representation, go to photography. And even that lies. This painting is Custer’s impression of the land at the moment he painted it.”
    She leaned back a bit and studied the painting, not realizing that with every breath her body brushed his.
    He wished he’d worn something that would conceal his reaction to her. Maybe a kilt, he thought. Or not.
    â€œPhotography lies?” Jay asked, grabbing onto anything that would get his mind above his belt.
    â€œSure. All art is about showing what the artist wants to show. But that’s okay. These paintings are good lies. Custer’s art is as much about how he views the West as it is about the mountains themselves. Look at how magical he makes them.”
    â€œEven if it’s a lie?”
    Sara gave him a sideways look. “Surely you’ve looked at the mountains in this kind of light and felt something that you couldn’t put into words.”
    â€œAll the time,” he said finally. “But they don’t look like this to me.”
    â€œThat’s the beauty of it. Each painting is an individual vision.” She swept her hand across the surface of the painting, inches from it, fingers spread. “But it’s one that’s being completely shared.”
    Jay looked at the painting. “Okay. I see what you mean. I’ve just always taken it for granted, like the beams in the ceiling.”
    She watched him looking at the painting. His profile was a series of angular shadows softened by dense eyelashes and the hint of sensuality in his lips. Then he turned and looked at her.
    â€œWhat are you thinking?” he asked.
    â€œI’m finally understanding the appeal of portraits. And again, you’ve taken me off topic.”
    He gave her a slow smile. “Is that bad?”
    She shut her eyes for an instant, took a grip on her wandering attention, and turned back to the group of paintings on the wall.
    â€œThere have been generations of western art, but each new one brings a different meaning,” she said. “Imagine looking at an unfamiliar landscape for the first time. You’ve been back east, right?”
    â€œWest Point,” he said. “Can’t get much more east and still be in the U.S.”
    â€œImagine describing the Rocky Mountains to someone back east. Someone who’s never seen a mountain bigger than the Adirondacks. Someone who’s never known a night sky