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Looking around this small but elegant room, I scan the titles of the leather-bound books on the shelf, Giant, True Grit, Texas Ranger…
Everything in this house is massive and old. In addition to the two life-sized portraits in the grand hall, enormous paintings of cowboys and cattle drives hang in prominent locations throughout. I kind of love them for their color and energy and wild spirit.
Winnie calls from the other room. “I’ve chosen one, Angela.”
“Coming!” Grabbing the bag, I start for the door when a ping in my chest stops me.
I remember Rosalía told me Deacon’s aunt likes to leave cash lying around to see if they will steal it. My jaw tightens, and I snatch up the fifty, carrying it straight to where she’s sitting at the laptop.
“Let me see what you chose. Oh, I think you dropped some money.” I place the bill on the desk beside her computer, and she narrows her eyes at it.
Taking the bill, she stands. “I’ll have Peter set up the easel in that room if you prefer it.”
“Thank you. I’ll get started as soon as we sign the contract.”
“It was a verbal agreement.”
“I prefer to have it in writing.”
Again her eyes narrow, and she goes to the door. I turn to the computer and see the photo on the screen. It’s the pose I arranged with her cat—my favorite pose, and it feels like a little victory.
The canvas is bigger than I am, but I’m not intimidated. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and think of Spirit. The energy of that piece allows me to shake off the negativity of my subject and let the images to flow through me.
Lifting the charcoal pencil, I begin. Some artists like to use a grid to work out life sized portraits, but I’m more comfortable using a sketch. Winnie wants it to match the more classical style of the original two works, but I saw her reaction to the portrait of my mother.
That piece is anchored by the eyes and the face, and the rest is more spiritual, emotional. I start with Winnie’s eyes, glancing at the photo but also allowing my memory to guide me. As the face takes shape, they seem to take on life. My stomach warms, and I feel as if I’m looking into the eyes of my love.
Perhaps there was a time when this woman wasn’t such a bitter old pill. It’s hard to imagine. Still, this shared feature makes me wonder if it could ever have been possible. Moving on, I start on her cheeks, the sweep of her hair.
Time passes so quickly when I’m working, I barely even notice it’s after lunch until my stomach growls. I’m plotting out the room around her using blocks instead of details. We can decide on that later.
“It’s after three.” Winnie’s voice causes me to inhale sharply. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I assumed you’d be stopping for the day.”
“It’s later than I thought.” Stepping back, I wipe the black off my fingers.
“People always said I have my mother’s eyes.” She observes my sketch. “She was a very beautiful woman.”
“I’m sure.” Lifting my pencil, I finish sketching out the surroundings.
“You’ve captured the resemblance here.” She holds her hand towards the canvas. “I like it. You may continue.”
Is that a compliment? I do my best not to act surprised. “I’ll start laying paint tomorrow.”
“You work fast.”
“Once I start painting, it’ll slow down.”
Her eyes narrow, and she surveys me. “How much time will it take?”
“Depends on the weather, but I expect a few weeks.”
Her lips tighten, and she seems annoyed. “The article I read said a portrait should take fifty hours to complete. Why would you need longer than a week?”
Why would you ask me how long it takes if you already know?
I don’t say that.
“I can’t work on it nonstop. When working with oils, you work in layers.” I really hate that she has me on the defense. I hate feeling like she’s accusing me of being lazy. “I’ll start with the darkest colors then add highlights on top. Each layer has to dry or it gets muddy—"
