Firebird

By Marion Robinson

Katy’s investment in a rental property pays an unexpected dividend when she catches the eye of the artist upstairs. Although she’s not used to being considered good-looking, Daniel wants to draw her. They have little in common, but are they different like oil and water or like match and gunpowder? Katy’s sensible side warns her that being tied down in a long-term relationship is the last thing Daniel wants, but the fizz his spontaneity brings to her life keeps her seeing him. Daniel isn’t an alpha male who expects Katy to fall in line behind him – he admires her without trying to control her. Her business sense complements his creativity, and their relationship develops into something enchanting, but, Katy fears, insubstantial. Then a household accident injures Daniel’s painting hand and pulls them apart. Katy thinks their affair has burned out, but instead, a new passion is being born.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Jan 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781628308242

Book preview

Author

The artist’s pencil flourished on the page. I’m glad you didn’t wake up when I came in. He tore the top page off the pad and handed it to her. For you.

Katy angled the page to the light. There was her face in three-quarter view against the pillow, with prominent nose, wide mouth slightly open, and hand curled near her chin. But what had he done with her hair? The dark tendrils, dried after their dousing into even more out-of-control kinks than usual, had been extended into medusa-like tangles containing hints of flames and smoke and drops of water. A crumpled smudge suspiciously like the burned heater was trapped within her fingers. That’s…really something. For me? Such an expression of talent, such a unique memento of this day, seemed too valuable to give away.

I have to get back to Vancouver tonight, but I could come here next weekend. Will you sit for me?

Sit? You mean model?

He leaned against the table and crossed his arms. I can’t afford to pay models. Maybe take you out for a meal. Sorry—I suppose you could use some cash.

That’s not what I meant. You want to draw me?

You have an interesting face.

You aren’t beautiful, but your face has a lot of character, her ex had said, which was a tactful way of describing a set of features put together as if from a jumble sale, nothing quite fitting. Yet from this artist, the word ‘interesting’ sounded sincere, not euphemistic.

His comment about cash sunk in. A person moving into a tiny apartment like suite number two might well be pinching pennies. I don’t need your money, except in rent. She stood up and extended her hand. I’m Katherine Carlisle, your new landlady. People call me Katy.

Firebird

by

Marion Robinson

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

Firebird

COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Marion Robinson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by RJMorris

Published by Wildflowers Books, a division of The Wild Rose Press®, Inc.

Publishing History

Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-824-2

Previously Published in 2012 by Write Words, Inc.

Published in the United States of America

Chapter One

The small fan heater was exhaling white fog. Smoke? Surely it couldn’t have caught fire in the time it took to get up from the easy chair and put an empty mug on the kitchen counter. But the fog thickened even as Katy stared from half way back across the room.

The heater sat on the bare wooden floor, dangerously close to the slip-covered chair and to clothing trailing from a suitcase. If fire flared up, and spread... A frantic mental inventory of the apartment left Katy still frozen in place. The cupboards were empty except for tea bags—no baking soda to use on an electrical fire, and no fire extinguisher.

The smoke was heavier, turning grey. It scraped her already-raw sinuses with the acrid smell of burning plastic.

The bachelor suite had a back door she hadn’t tried to open yet. She unplugged the heater, carried it to the door by the cord and wiggled back the bolt. The dented metal doorknob wobbled in her hand and refused to catch. A flash of panic added force to her grip. The handle caught and squealing hinges gave way.

The porch was wood—she couldn’t stop here. One of the two steps down to the yard was soft underfoot, suggesting a rotten plank. Another pace away alongside the building was a patch of gravel. She dropped the heater there. Now flames reached out through the grating. What could she use to put it out?

Silly woman—the heater was unplugged, so water would do. She ran back into the kitchen, grabbed the kettle from the stove and held it under the faucet. While it filled, her toes grew colder. Wetness from the gravel had soaked through her socks. Everything was damp outside from the drizzle that had greeted her at the airport and continued through the morning. At least the burning heater was unlikely to set anything else in the back yard alight. The sopping wet green grass was a change from the mud-brown and frost-grey winter back east in Toronto, and a change was what she was here for, wasn’t it?

She wiped the back of her hand across her nose and sniffed hard. Maybe this ‘complete break with the past’ thing was a lousy idea. People said winters here on the west coast of Canada could be dreary. The room was cold as a fridge, her feet were blocks of ice, her nose was dripping from the bug she had picked up three days ago, she was exhausted from jet lag, and now she didn’t have heat. Welcome to Victoria. Right now, swapping a classy apartment for this rental property, a secure position for a brand new job starting in three days’ time, and awkward encounters with an ex-husband for a town where she knew no one, felt like trading down.

Katy turned off the tap and ran outside. Down the steps, hand outstretched to tip the water over the flames—a cloudburst splashed her head. Ay-eek! she shrieked. What the heck— Water dragged her hair down her temples and dripped into her eyes. She jerked her head back.

A grinning man with an empty jar in his hand leaned out of the second story window. Oops, he said. That was meant for the fire.

Smoke curled up as high as the roof, black against the grey overcast sky. I don’t see what’s so blasted funny! Katy emptied the kettle over the flames. The heater hissed, spat, and stopped smoking. Drips of water crept down her neck and soaked into her T-shirt between the lapels of her dressing gown. She glared up at the man in the window. I was doing fine without your interference!

She stomped back into the apartment and slammed the door. Jane’s latest email, sent from her home in Calgary, had said: Something else to add to