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"No, thank you." I said.
"Very good, If you need anything. I'll be close by," he said, and retreated into a corridor as if he were a statue that came to life at the sound of his name.
The service people here don't respect the people for who they work. I thought. but I doubt that it bothers people like Bunny and Asher Eaton. It was almost as if they saw themselves as levels and levels above the rest of the world whose criticism and ridicule fell far too short to disturb them, much less do them any harm. This certainly was a unique place. I thought. Maybe my contrived reason for being here, my study, was a good idea after all. I laughed to myself. sipped some iced tea, and sat back to look out at the sea and think.
Less than a minute or so later, I saw Linden emerge from the house carrying his leather case in one hand and his easel over his left shoulder like a lance. He made his way down the beach and disappeared around the bend. My heartbeat quickened with the realization that if I was going to do this. I should do it now, immediately, or else go home.
I rose and walked down the path to the beach and then followed in his footsteps. When I came around the bend. I saw he was just setting up his easel. He didn't see or hear me approaching. Rather than come right on him. I thought I would call out.
"Hi," I said.
He paused and looked at me, with a face not angry this time so much as it was surprised and curious.
"Looks like we'll never be rid of you as long as the Eatons are our tenants," He turned away from me and continued to set up his easel.
"I'm really not the big bad bogeyman." I said. "You've misunderstood my motives and my purpose."
"Right," he muttered. Of course, it has to be my fault."
"I like your work." I said, ignoring his sarcasm.
He turned back to me. his right eyebrow lifted. "Is that so? And where did you see my work?" he challenged with angry disbelief. "The Eatons don't have anything in the house. One of the first things they asked when they moved in was to have my paintings taken down and out. Bunny, as she likes to be called, said they were too depressing and would upset their guests. The truth is, all of their guests depress and even sicken me," he said.
"Oh," I said.
He tilted his head a bit. "You're now one of their guests?"
"I'm afraid so." I replied. He almost smiled. He nodded and unzipped his case instead.
"I'd be afraid so. too. So." he continued. "where did you see my work-- or is that just something you think will win me over?" he stabbed,
"No, it's not. I am not in the habit of saying things I don't mean." I shot back at him, my face filling with crimson indignation.
This time, he did soften his lips into something bordering on a smile.
"Really. We have a sincere person in the world of insincerity, pretension. and cosmetic surgery."
"For your information_. I saw three of your paintings at a gallery last night."
"Oh." He turned, his skepticism challenged, "And?'
"I think your work is very interesting, especially the way you put something sureal into the real."
I was so nervous I used Thatcher's words and hoped they were the right ones. I did believe it.
Now both of Linden's eyebrows were up. "Is that so? Have you studied art?"
"In college. yes."
"Who are your favorite artists?" he asked, whipping his question like someone testing and challenging.
"I'm not crazy about abstract art. but I find works like
Mondrian's Broadway Boogie-Woogie fun, I like Jackson Pollock's Moon Woman and actually have a poster of it in my room at home. My father loved Salvador Dali and had a large print of Three Sphinxes of Bikini in his office. Something about your work reminds me of Dali. Maybe it's the colors."
He stared, a look of amazement on his face.
"What's the matter?" I asked.
