Free The Uninvited by Tim Wynne-Jones Page B

said.
    He could hear the hesitation in her voice. He braced himself.
    “I’m going to need more paint and more canvas,” she said hurriedly. “A lot more paint, a lot more canvas.”
    He didn’t speak for a moment. Hardly breathed. She felt the change in him. She turned. “It will be worth it,” she said.
    “I know.”
    “I’ve made a list,” she said. “I phoned the supply place in Ottawa.”
    “Good,” he said, not wanting to lose her.
    “Five hundred dollars ought to cover every­thing,” she said. “For now.” She held his eyes for a moment longer, then her gaze skittered away.
    “Okay,” he said quickly, not wanting to let her down. “I’ll handle it.”
    “Of course you will,” she said. Now she looked up at him again, and her eyes went all coquettish, the way she’d get with Waylin when she wanted something from him. She rubbed Cramer’s upper arms, squeezing his biceps. “God, when did you ever get to be so strong?” she asked.
    He didn’t answer. His mind was reeling.
Five hundred bucks,
he thought. Where would he ever get five hundred bucks? It didn’t matter. What mattered was that he would.
    “You can count on me,” he said.
    Her smile softened. She shook her head in amazement and respect. “Whoever that girl is I smell on you, she is one lucky lady.”
    He didn’t bother to argue with her. Kind of liked the idea that there could be a girl—a lucky girl—who was his alone.

CHAPTER TEN
    J AY SAT IN BED LISTENING to Gabriel Zouave’s
Sang-Froid
on his iPod, reading the score along with the music. The oversize manuscript was propped against his knees. He had seen the premiere, heard Zouave talk about it. Jay dreamed of writing something this good—this big. But right now all he wanted was for the music to take him away. He did not want his mind to wander. Did not want to think of Mimi down the hall.
    There was a knock on his door. He paused the iPod, instantly felt a panic attack coming on. He waited. The knock came again, softly. He glanced at his alarm clock: 11:45. It would be her. She’d want to talk about what happened. About the video footage: her own image on her own camera captured by an unknown watcher.
His
unknown watcher. Had to be. It seemed fatherhood wasn’t the only thing he and Mimi shared.
    He wasn’t sure he could face this right now. But it surprised him, bothered him that only half an hour after saying good night, how much he wanted to see her again.
    “Jay?”
    He let out his breath. It was only Mom. He wasn’t sure if he was relieved.
    “Enter.”
    The door opened and there was his kind mother in her terry-cloth robe and sheepskin slippers.
    “Am I disturbing you?” she said. He had to laugh.
    She gently closed the door behind her, crossed the room, and sat on his bed. She patted his foot, under the comforter.
    “That a good read?” she asked.
    “Yeah, a real thriller,” he said. He held up the score so she could see the cover. She took it, looked at the open spread, and shook her head. “I can’t imagine how you do it,” she said.
    He shrugged. “I can’t imagine how you take out somebody’s tonsils.”
    “Tonsils are a piece of cake. But reading all these parts. And you actually hear it in your head, don’t you?”
    Jay pointed to his earphones.
    “I know, but you do read scores. I’ve seen you.”
    Jay placed his iPod on the bedside table. “Zouave told me the only time music was ever perfect for him was when he read it. No one’s flat; no one plays too loud. Perfect balance. Perfect harmony.”
    His mother nodded in an abstract way, as if perfect harmony was something she didn’t see a lot of at the clinic. She handed him back the score. There was a shift in the expression on her face. He closed the score and dropped it to the floor beside his bed.
    “Pretty weird night, huh?” he said.
    Lou nodded. “You might say.” She brought her hands together in her lap. “I thought I should tell you I phoned Marc.”
    Jay wasn’t