Raphaela's Gift Read Online Free PDF

you. You should determine who I look at and who I don't. Besides, I'm not interested in her, what gave you that idea?"
    "Yeah, right. Well, she's my therapist. Dating you would be a virtual crime--career suicide for her."
    "Your therapist? Since when?"
    "I've been going to her for about six months. She used to have group sessions at a church in Kent."
    "Hmm. I thought she worked with kids." For some reason, Marian's news didn't surprise him. In fact it made sense, explained why she'd been so insistent upon bringing Raphaela to the camp.
    No big deal. He had seen plenty of beautiful women in his life. Faith LeFeuvre was no more special than any other. They wouldn't have much in common anyway--there were already obvious differences between them.
    "She works with all ages. A friend recommended her to me."
    He felt a smile tug at his cheeks. "A friend, eh? Well, you don't have anything to worry about. I'm here for one thing--and it's not to flirt with the staff. Now, can we please return to our daughter? This conversation is absurd."
    She studied him for a moment, her expression doubtful. "Fine." Turning, she opened the door and went back into the room.
    He followed her, wishing he could be in his dentist's chair getting a root canal instead of in an art therapy studio in Kentucky. This was going to be one long day--one long week. Especially with the added annoyance of Marian watching him and jumping to ridiculous conclusions. Who did she think she was? His wife? His mother? Contrary to popular belief, he was an adult, not some testosterone-scourged teenager.
    As he entered the room, he searched for his daughter, finding her standing at an easel in front of a wide wall of windows. Golden light from the windows skimmed her profile and hair, making her look like the subject of a medieval religious painting--halo and all. She held her arm out toward the easel, and her hand moved slowly and deliberately.
    The look of extreme concentration on her face captured his curiosity. He glanced at Faith, who stood beside Raphaela, her eyes wide, one hand over her mouth. Ignoring the impulse to dash across the room, knowing it might startle Raphaela, he walked instead.
    When he reached Faith's side, she pointed toward the easel. He nodded and looked, surprised by what he saw.
    Upon the canvas was the shockingly accurate image of a girl's face. A self-portrait. Although the details hadn't been painted, she'd represented her own features with simple, strong brush-strokes and remarkable skill. Looking at Faith, he asked, "Did she do--"
    Her index finger shot to her mouth, and she nodded. Then, tipping her head, she motioned for him to follow her. Walking past Marian, who wore an "I told you so," or maybe more of a "God, would you give it up already?" look, he went into the corridor to talk to Faith. He couldn't wait to hear her explanation. The fact that the painting happened to appear while he was in the hallway with Marian made him more than a little suspicious.
    "Amazing, isn't she?" Faith asked after she'd closed the door.
    "She didn't paint that picture. How could she? She's only six years old, for God's sake. It's a trick--a cheap one."
    Faith staggered backward as though he'd struck her. "That's quite an accusation."
    "You're an artist, aren't you? How could she get the proportion right, the angle, the features? It takes years to learn those techniques. She didn't even have a mirror."
    "I can't believe this." Her voice remained calm, but her hand trembled just enough to notice as she touched the ruffle of her dress.
    "Can you offer a more logical explanation?"
    She crossed her arms over her chest. "I think the answer's pretty obvious. She's studied the subject for years. It is her own face. Come on, Doctor Damiani, surely, you've read about autistic savants, those who possess remarkable artistic, musical, or math skills. This is a classic example. Your daughter is capable of reproducing pictures from memory."
    She didn't expect him to