LITMIR.BIZ

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of something good deep down inside him. If Jaz sensed how much it meant—and he had the distinct impression she knew exactly what it meant—he had no intention of revealing it by storming away from her. He’d face failure with grace.

      Maybe, when this vain attempt was over, the restlessness that plagued him on bright, still days would disappear. His lips twisted. They said there was a silver lining in every cloud, didn’t they?

      Just when he sensed Jaz’s impatience had become too much for her, he set pencil to paper.

      And failed.

      He couldn’t draw any more. The lines he made were too heavy, the sense of balance and perspective all wrong…no flow. He tried to tell himself he’d expected it, but darkness pressed against the backs of his eyes. Jaz peered across at what he’d done and he had to fight the urge to hunch over it and hide it from her sight.

      She tore the page from the sketch pad, screwed it into a ball and set it on the ground beside her. Sourness filled his mouth. He’d tried to tell her.

      ‘Draw the playground.’

      He gaped at her.

      She shrugged. ‘Well…what are you waiting for?’ She waved to Melly again.

      Was she being deliberately obtuse? He stared at the playground, with all its primary colours. The shriek of Melly’s laughter filled the air, and that ache pressed against him harder. In a former life he’d have painted that in such brilliant colours it would steal one’s breath.

      But that was then.

      He set pencil to paper again but his fingers refused to follow the dictates of his brain. He’d turned his back on art to become a carpenter. It only seemed right that his fingers had turned into blocks of wood. Nevertheless, he kept trying because he knew Jaz didn’t want to triumph over him. She wanted him to draw again—to know its joys, its freedoms once more…to bow to its demands and feel whole.

      When she discovered he could no longer draw, she would mourn that loss as deeply as he did.

      When he finally put the pencil down, she peeled the page from the sketch pad…and that drawing followed the same fate as its predecessor—screwed up and set down beside her.

      ‘Draw that rock with the clump of grass growing around it.’

      He had to turn ninety degrees but it didn’t matter. A different position did not bring any latent talent to the fore.

      She screwed that picture up too when he was finished with it. Frustration started to oust his sense of defeat. ‘Look, Jaz, I—’

      ‘Draw the skyway.’

      It meant turning another ninety degrees. ‘What’s the point?’ he burst out. ‘I—’

      She pushed him—physically. Anger balled in the pit of his stomach.

      ‘Stop your whining,’ she snapped.

      His hands clenched. ‘You push me again…’

      ‘And you’ll what?’ she taunted.

      He flung the sketch pad aside. ‘I’ve had enough!’

      ‘Well, I haven’t!’ She retrieved the sketch pad and slapped it back on his knees. ‘Draw the skyway, Connor!’

      Draw the skyway? He wished he were out on that darn skyway right now!

      His fingers flew across the page. The sooner this was over, the better. He didn’t glance at the drawing when he’d finished. He just tossed the sketch pad at Jaz, not caring if she caught it or not.

      She did catch it. And she stared at it for a long, long time. Bile rose from his stomach to burn his throat.

      ‘Better,’ she finally said. She didn’t tear it from the sketch pad. She didn’t screw it up into a ball.

      ‘Don’t humour me, Jaz.’ The words scraped out of his throat, raw with emotion, but he didn’t care. He could deal with defeat but he would not stand for her pity.

      In answer, she gave him one of the balled rejects. ‘Look at it.’

      He was too tired to argue. He smoothed it out and grimaced. It was the picture of the playground. It was dreadful, horrible…a travesty.

      ‘No,’ she said when he went to ball it up again. ‘Look at it.’

      He looked at it.

      ‘Now look at this.’ She stood up and held his drawing of the skyway in front of her.

      Everything inside him stilled. It was flawed, vitally flawed in a lot of respects, and yet… He’d captured something there—a sense of freedom and escape. Jaz was right. It was better.

      Was it enough of an improvement to count, though?

      He glanced up into her face. She pursed her lips and surveyed where he sat. ‘This is all wrong.’ She tapped a finger against her chin for a moment, then her face cleared. She seized her duffel bag. ‘Come with me.’

      She led him to a nearby stand of trees. He followed her. His heart thudded in his chest, part of him wanted to turn tail and run, but he followed.

      ‘Sit there.’

      She pointed to the base of a tree. Its position would still give him a good, clear view of Melly playing. Melly waved. He waved back.

      He settled himself against the tree.

      ‘Good.’ She handed him the sketch pad and pencil again. She pulled a second sketch pad and more pencils from her bag and settled herself on the ground to his left, legs crossed. She looked so familiar, hunched over like that, Connor thought he’d been transported back eight years in time.

      She glanced across at him. ‘Bend your knees like you used to do…as if you’re sitting against that old tree at our lookout.’

      Our lookout. Richardson’s Peak—out of the way and rarely visited. They’d always called it their lookout. He tried to hold back the memories.

      Jaz touched a hand to the ground. ‘See, I’m sitting on the nearby rock.’

      It wasn’t rock. It was grass, but Connor gave in, adjusted his back and legs, and let the memories flood through him. ‘What do you want me to draw?’

      ‘The view.’

      Panoramas had always been his speciality, but he wasn’t quite sure where to start now.

      He wasn’t convinced that this wasn’t a waste of time.

      ‘Close your eyes.’

      She whispered the command. She closed her eyes so he closed his eyes too. It might shut out the ache that gripped him whenever he looked at her.

      It didn’t, but her voice washed over him, soft and low, soothing him. ‘Remember what it was like at the lookout?’ she murmured. ‘The grand vista spread out in front of us and the calls of the birds…the scent of eucalyptus in the air…’

      All Connor could smell was wattle, and he loved it, dragged it into his lungs greedily.

      ‘Remember how the sun glinted off the leaves, how it warmed us in our sheltered little spot, even when the wind played havoc with everything else around us?’

      His skin grew warm, his fingers relaxed around the pencil.

      ‘Now draw,’ she whispered.

      He opened his eyes and drew.

      On the few occasions he glanced across at her, he found her hunched over her sketch pad, her fingers moving with the same slow deliberation he remembered from his dreams.

      Time passed. Connor had no idea how long they drew but, when he finally set aside his pencil, he glanced up to find the shadows had lengthened and Jaz waiting for him. He searched the picnic ground for Melly.

      ‘Just

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