Beau in the conservatory, alone, painting at an easel.
"Making progress?" the artist asked. Quentin couldn't see what was on the canvas, and wasn't interested enough to look; he appreciated both fine art and the people who created it, but right now his mind was on something else. "I have no idea," he replied frankly. "She hasn't called the cops or the guys with the butterfly nets—yet. But she also hasn't admitted to even the possibility that she's psychic."
"Not surprising, really. So many people have spent so many years convincing her she's sick."
"Yeah, and I hate that." Quentin scowled and began prowling among the other easels set up for Beau's students. "They've done a real number on her."
"Conventional medicine. They only know what they think they know."
"They know shit, at least when it comes to us."
"True." Beau watched the other man for a moment, then smiled slightly and returned his attention to his canvas.
"Not that you don't definitely have some sick puppies in your workshop, judging by some of these."
"Troubled people. Not sick puppies."
"No, Beau, these are some sick puppies." Quentin was staring at one canvas that bore a somewhat abstract image of a prone figure seemingly in a pool of blood. The figure was contorted in an agonized pose, and sticking out of its chest was what appeared to be a huge knife.
Unperturbed, Beau said, "Less sick when you know the background. His brother was killed in a violent mugging. Protecting him. He's still trying to come to terms with it. With the exception of Diana, all the students in this workshop are trying to come to terms with a specific traumatic event. So they aren't emotionally disturbed in the clinical sense. Ordinary people, for the most part."
"Oh." Quentin stared a moment longer, then resumed his pacing, sparing only a glance now and then for some of the other sketches and watercolors. "God knows what I'd draw," he muttered, half under his breath.
"The ghosts in your life, probably. Missy. Joey. Others lost along the way. The ones you blame yourself for losing."
"I've had my couch time this month, Beau."
"Sorry."
Quentin sighed. "No, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to snap. I'm just feeling very frustrated right now. I want to help Diana, and I'm afraid she won't let me even try."
"Be patient."
"You know something I don't?"
"No. We both know patience is something you have to work at."
Quentin sighed again. "You're here to state the obvious, is that it?"
Beau chuckled. "I'm here to teach a workshop. Come on, Quentin, you know as well as I do that there aren't any shortcuts. You and Diana both have to find your own way. Whether that's separately or together—or both—is entirely up to the two of you."
"Jesus, you sound like Bishop."
"It's something he understands. Miranda too."
"That didn't stop them from taking a hand in things last fall," Quentin said, recalling the single time in his memory that Bishop and his wife had made a deliberate attempt to change a tragic future both had foreseen.
"With great care and only because the stakes were so high. They'll always hesitate to interfere openly unless they're very, very sure that by doing so they won't make the situation worse."
"I was there."
"I know you were. And I know you understand the concept."
"That doesn't mean I always agree."
"No. It's always more difficult when you're the one... personally involved."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, teaching Diana in this workshop of yours sounds like a shortcut to me."
"No. This is a critical time for her, a turning point in her life. And what other people do at those turning points is as much a part of our journey as we are ourselves."
Quentin sorted through that, and said finally, "No offense, but you really do sound like a fortune cookie sometimes."
"So Maggie tells me."
Momentarily distracted by the mention of Beau's half sister, Quentin said, "Do she and John have that organization of theirs up and running yet? I hadn't heard."
"Just about."
"So we'll soon
"Making progress?" the artist asked. Quentin couldn't see what was on the canvas, and wasn't interested enough to look; he appreciated both fine art and the people who created it, but right now his mind was on something else. "I have no idea," he replied frankly. "She hasn't called the cops or the guys with the butterfly nets—yet. But she also hasn't admitted to even the possibility that she's psychic."
"Not surprising, really. So many people have spent so many years convincing her she's sick."
"Yeah, and I hate that." Quentin scowled and began prowling among the other easels set up for Beau's students. "They've done a real number on her."
"Conventional medicine. They only know what they think they know."
"They know shit, at least when it comes to us."
"True." Beau watched the other man for a moment, then smiled slightly and returned his attention to his canvas.
"Not that you don't definitely have some sick puppies in your workshop, judging by some of these."
"Troubled people. Not sick puppies."
"No, Beau, these are some sick puppies." Quentin was staring at one canvas that bore a somewhat abstract image of a prone figure seemingly in a pool of blood. The figure was contorted in an agonized pose, and sticking out of its chest was what appeared to be a huge knife.
Unperturbed, Beau said, "Less sick when you know the background. His brother was killed in a violent mugging. Protecting him. He's still trying to come to terms with it. With the exception of Diana, all the students in this workshop are trying to come to terms with a specific traumatic event. So they aren't emotionally disturbed in the clinical sense. Ordinary people, for the most part."
"Oh." Quentin stared a moment longer, then resumed his pacing, sparing only a glance now and then for some of the other sketches and watercolors. "God knows what I'd draw," he muttered, half under his breath.
"The ghosts in your life, probably. Missy. Joey. Others lost along the way. The ones you blame yourself for losing."
"I've had my couch time this month, Beau."
"Sorry."
Quentin sighed. "No, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to snap. I'm just feeling very frustrated right now. I want to help Diana, and I'm afraid she won't let me even try."
"Be patient."
"You know something I don't?"
"No. We both know patience is something you have to work at."
Quentin sighed again. "You're here to state the obvious, is that it?"
Beau chuckled. "I'm here to teach a workshop. Come on, Quentin, you know as well as I do that there aren't any shortcuts. You and Diana both have to find your own way. Whether that's separately or together—or both—is entirely up to the two of you."
"Jesus, you sound like Bishop."
"It's something he understands. Miranda too."
"That didn't stop them from taking a hand in things last fall," Quentin said, recalling the single time in his memory that Bishop and his wife had made a deliberate attempt to change a tragic future both had foreseen.
"With great care and only because the stakes were so high. They'll always hesitate to interfere openly unless they're very, very sure that by doing so they won't make the situation worse."
"I was there."
"I know you were. And I know you understand the concept."
"That doesn't mean I always agree."
"No. It's always more difficult when you're the one... personally involved."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, teaching Diana in this workshop of yours sounds like a shortcut to me."
"No. This is a critical time for her, a turning point in her life. And what other people do at those turning points is as much a part of our journey as we are ourselves."
Quentin sorted through that, and said finally, "No offense, but you really do sound like a fortune cookie sometimes."
"So Maggie tells me."
Momentarily distracted by the mention of Beau's half sister, Quentin said, "Do she and John have that organization of theirs up and running yet? I hadn't heard."
"Just about."
"So we'll soon
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