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"Nothing," he said quickly.
"You thought I was just humoring you and that I knew absolutely nothing about art. correct?"
"Most people I meet here are empty, mindless. I call them Hollows. They don't even have enough substance to cast shadows," he said bitterly.
"I noticed that."
"Noticed what?" he asked quickly.
"In your paintings, the people, except for the woman and the boy, cast no shadows."
Now, he actually smiled. "You do surprise me. Miss... what was your name?"
It was so heavily on the tip of my tongue to tell him the truth that I actually fumbled with it for a moment.
"What did you say?"
"Isabel," I said, remaining the coward.
"Right, yes. Well. Isabel. I will admit I'm a little impressed.' -Thank you. What are you planning on doing today?"
"Don't you remember what Thatcher said?"
I shook my head.
"I set up. and I wait. I cast my line for inspiration, and on a good day, I catch something."
"I hope this will be a good day for you," I said.
He nodded. "How long are you to be a guest of the Eatons?"
"Not that long," I replied. "A few days, maybe a week. Would it disturb you if I just sat here?" I asked.
Without replying, he continued to set up his paints. Then, suddenly, he turned on me, his face back to that look of rage.
"I don't understand what you're doing here. What do you want from us?"
I had seen my father defuse people, as he liked to call it, often enough to know what to do. I shrugged and smiled, looking as calm as I could,
To be honest. Linden. I don't know myself. I had this idea, and it was approved, and now I'm struggling to make sense out of it."
My honesty took him by surprise. The nearly blue rage in his face began to recede.
"I have this theory that we all have trouble enough dealing with what's real and what isn't in our lives, but people who are insulated more, protected by their wealth and position, might have an even more difficult time discerning what's real and what isn't. Of course. they might not care, anyway."
He stared at me again and then shook his head. "All right." he said. "I'm curious, What have you been told about my mother and me?"
"Oh, not that much. really."
"You weren't told she was raped by her stepfather and as a result had a mental breakdown and was placed in a clinic?" he asked, the bitterness practically dripping from his mouth.
My heart was pounding. but I kept as cool as I could and gazed out at the sea first to find support in the beauty it possessed.
"Yes," I said. "I was told something like that, but that isn't exactly the sort of information I'm here to gather."
"Oh, that's not the sort of information you're here to gather. It's not important. huh?"
"That's not what I'm saving, I'm trying..."
