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“Father always had a flair for the dramatic.” Deacon’s aunt Winnie walks ahead of me, and I watc
h her, wondering what his life was like as a boy here in this stately mansion.
We’ve never talked about it.
Winnie is tall and slim with really good hair for an older woman, straight and thick, even though it’s white. She’s elegantly dressed in navy slacks and a filmy, long-sleeved ivory blouse. She has this air about her, a calm confidence like she owns everything. She reminds me of Emmylou Harris.
“What did you have in mind… For your portrait?” I’m not really sure how this works.
“Obviously, it should match what’s been done before.” Winnie leads me down the oversized hall to a sitting room. “Father was in the oil business. Brandt was into horses. I’ve only ever taken care of our family affairs, which was more work than both of theirs combined.”
She sits in an elegant chair with wooden arms and deep blue fabric. I sit across from her on a leather sofa that sinks deep, putting me lower than her. A white cat with black front legs pops out from under it and rubs against me.
“A backdrop isn’t necessary.” I scoot forward, giving the cat a quick scrub with my fingers as I do my best to sit taller. “Many old portraits are simply figures in a room or standing beside a chair in contrapposto. Think of Michelangelo’s David, Mona Lisa, or even Whistler’s Mother—”
“I’d prefer not Whistler’s Mother.” She scowls at me. “I’m not that old.”
“Of course not.” I swallow a laugh at my unintentional gaff.
“Boots, shoo.” She waves the cat away and stands. “We do have many options here at the house. It would make sense, considering it has always been my purview.”
“I would suggest a seated pose… Or you could hold an object. Although, you’d want to be comfortable.”
“You’d want me to sit the entire time?”
“Or I could work from a photo.” Hell, I think I’d prefer that.
“I’d expect you to work on it here, so I could oversee your progress.”
“I can work here.” Any reason to be out of Beto’s house.
She studies me with blue eyes so similar to Deacon’s, minus the love. “Tell me about your background. What is your training?”
“I’m a senior at the Roshay studio—”
“Farrell Roshay?” Her eyebrows rise.
“Yes. I’ve been there two years now.”
“How can you afford that?”
“I’m sorry?” Is that her business?
“The Roshay Academy is the most elite art school in Texas. How can you afford it? Are you on a scholarship?”
“No.” I bite back the answer I’d like to give her. I do want this job. “My uncle pays for it.”
“And what is his profession?”
“He owns a car dealership.”
“Used cars, I imagine.” I don’t answer that, and she shifts in her chair. “Did you bring samples of your work? Let me see them.”
“Of course.” I lift the black portfolio case from the floor beside me.
It’s a cheap black pleather case I bought at Michaels. I wish it were nicer, but I suppose it’s more about what’s inside that counts. Isn’t that what everybody says? Somehow I think Winona Clarke missed the memo.
“I see.” She turns the plastic pages, quickly bypassing my landscapes. “Who is this?”
