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Much later, when they were still and quiet, their breathing just a whisper, Connie rose, but Blake flung an arm around her waist to stop her.
“No more,” he said. “No more going back to another room. Stay here with me from now on.”
37.
Blake leaned in close, fixed his gaze with infinite concentration, and then dabbed at the canvas with the tip of a fine-pointed brush. His hand was steady, and every minute stroke was a painstaking exercise in control as he spread oil paint across the small piece of canvas. At last he sat back, widened his eyes, and then blinked. He felt himself release a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.
He turned to the palette, loaded the small brush with a mix of paynes grey and crimson, and set it alongside the pure color beside it – working in a small section of the painting no larger than his thumb. When the dark shade was spread evenly, he snatched up a badger brush and fanned out the bristles with the tips of his fingers until the sable was soft.
“What kind of a brush is that?” Connie asked from where she stood by the window.
“Badger brush,” Blake grunted.
“What’s it for?” She was glum, peering out through the glass listlessly for most of the day, distracted by a swirl of fears that tumbled in her mind. The painting was almost complete, and with it was ending Blake’s reason for needing her here. For two weeks she had closed her mind to the realization that their time was limited. Now it would soon be a reality, and that inevitable certainty filled her with worry.
“It’s for blending colors together,” Blake said. He had sensed her mood, but been preoccupied with the canvas. “It’s like an old fashioned version of an airbrush that artists use these days,” he went on as he worked the paint with deft flicks of his wrist until the two colors seemed to magically melt together to become the petal of the rose.
He threw the brush down, stood stiffly and hung his neck to the side to loosen knotted muscles.
“Now,” he stepped away from the easel. “Would you mind telling me what your problem is?”
“Problem?”
He nodded. “You’ve been downcast all day, waiting for me to notice. Something is bothering you. What is it?”
Connie drooped her shoulders, seemed to wilt tragically. She gave a heavy theatrical sigh and shook her head. “Nothing.”
Blake lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers so he could see into her eyes. She was pouting like a child and he almost laughed. He repeated the question patiently.
“The painting is almost finished,” Connie said.
“Yes.”
She fell silent as though Blake should surely understand.
“And…?”
Connie made a sad little face. “And then you won’t need me here any more.”
Blake nodded. “Is that what this is about?”
“Yes.”
He stood back, folded his arms, his expression dire and serious. “What about the exhibition you are planning for your new gallery?”
Connie looked up suddenly. “What about it?”
Blake shrugged as though it should be obvious. “Well won’t you need to catalogue all my old seascape paintings, then photograph them, and then write detailed descriptions and produce a brochure?”
Connie was startled. “Yes…”
“And won’t you need constant access to the paintings to do all that work?”
“Yes,” she said with dawning realization.
“And do you really want to drive to and from Hoyt Harbor every day to do that?”
She shook her head now. She was smiling, the warmth of it spreading like a glorious sunrise across her face. “That would be horrible.”
Blake nodded, then leaned forward and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Then it’s settled. Now can I get back to work?”
He stared at the petal of the rose with a critical eye, and decided that to do any more would risk muddying the colors and losing the vibrancy of their pigments. He set the badger brush aside, but stayed standing for another long moment, squinting his eyes and inclining his head to one side as if to see the work from a fresh angle. He was almost done for the day.
He went back to the chair and worked for another thirty minutes, massaging wet oil paint until he had shape and shadow. He added a touch of white to the crimson and then worked with the infinite precision of a jeweler until the missing element – shine – seemed to give the petal an impossible third dimension.
Blake tossed the brush aside and straightened his back. He heard tiny bones crack. He wiped his hands on a scrap of cloth, and then smeared the rest of the paint from his fingertips with turpentine.
A puzzling sound made him look up curiously. It was muffled through walls and for an instant he didn’t recognize it. Connie did.
“My phone!” she said, and went running from the room.
38.
Connie ran into the living room, rummaged around in her purse and snatched up the phone before the call went to voice mail. She was breathing hard, filled with an unaccountable dread. She expected to hear the dispassionate voice of the nursing home director, preparing her for news about her mother.
“Hello?” she said breathless.
“Hello, darling,” Duncan Cartwright’s voice seemed to drip with sarcasm. Connie’s hand clutched at her throat, her fingers feathered and trembling.
“Duncan?” Connie hissed. She was incredulous. She felt icy tentacles of foreboding wrap around her heart, as if the misery of her past had suddenly reappeared like a dark cloud on the horizon. “How did you get this number?”
“Well that took some artful deception,” he admitted. His voice was malicious with his triumph. “Let’s just say the people at your mother’s nursing home are a little too gullible. You really should talk to them, you know.” He was smiling, she could hear it in his voice and it sickened her.
“What do you want?” She cast a furtive glance back down the hallway and could see Blake’s shadow moving on the wall as he worked in the studio. She went into the kitchen and found a corner at the table.
“I wanted to talk to you about your paintings, darling,” Duncan seemed unaffected by the harsh tone of Connie’s voice. “You left some of your early work here in the gallery’s basement. It’s all rubbish of course, and I have thrown out the one you gave to me. Remember that one – some childish little mess that you thought made a handsome birthday gift.” There was a brief pause and then his voice changed in an instant. “I want them go
ne,” he growled. “Or else I’ll burn them.”
Connie stared vacantly at the far wall. She had given Duncan one of her early paintings, when he had been so encouraging about her work. She had forgotten about them until now. She wanted them back, not because they had value, but because they were like landmarks along her life journey.
“Will you come and get your painting?” Duncan asked again.
“Yes, I’ll get the painting.”
“And the rest of this vile trash?”
She ignored the barb. “Yes,” Connie whispered. “I will, Duncan. I will get them all. I already told you I would.”
“When?”
“Soon!” She was thinking furiously, wondering how quickly she could arrange for a courier to collect the work from New York and have it delivered. Duncan spoke across the silence.
“I miss you in my bed,” he taunted her. “You were so good, baby, and I know it was good for you too – the way you used to moan and beg me for more.”
“No,” Connie said with a sneer. “I did it because I had to, not out of love or passion, Duncan. Never. I just went through the motions to survive – and every single time I was revolted.”
She hung up the phone and threw it across the table.
* * *
Blake heard Connie’s footsteps fade down the long hallway and then the trilling sound of her phone abruptly stopped. He turned his attention once more to the painting. He grunted with a grudging satisfaction and pride. The portrait was finished, and even he had to admit that it was beautiful.
The painting had been rendered with all of his dedication and talent. Connie’s face was an expression of longing – as though some secret sadness welled behind her eyes, sparked perhaps by the fragrance of the rose she held. The detail was exquisite. The light across her face and arms was so real it seemed as though the canvas had been backlit – a painting made translucent and alive by his skill.
He leaned over the bottom of the canvas, signed his name with a flourish, and left the room. Tomorrow morning he would show Connie.
