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“What an amazing house,” he said. “These paintings are most interesting.”
Like any man, he focused quickly on our famous naked lady on the chaise eating grapes. He glanced quickly at me.
“And the clocks and vases, all family heirlooms, I imagine?”
“Some are,” I said. “Please, have a seat.” I indicated the sofa Papa had redone only a year ago. Momma had loved lying on it. “Sylvia will bring us some tea and biscuits,” I said, and I nodded at her again.
“Thank you,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Winter’s coming earlier this year for sure. You can smell the snow.”
Sylvia looked at us. “Smell it?” she asked. “Snow? It doesn’t smell.”
“Well, not snow, exactly,” he said, smiling. “It’s just . . . I mean, it feels like winter’s coming.”
Sylvia glanced at me as if we had let a madman into the house and then continued to the kitchen.
“What a beautiful young lady,” he said immediately. “I know a lot of artists, some not so amateur, who would love to have her for a model. Those eyes, startlingly beautiful, almost exotic, and a complexion like alabaster.”
“She wants to be the artist, not the model,” I said, probably too sharply. It occurred to me, maybe for the first time, that I could actually be jealous of Sylvia. It made me a little ashamed. It was like envying a poor girl’s single doll when you had dozens.
“Of course,” he said. “So is there a special place where your sister would work? Certainly not in here. I wouldn’t want to get any paint on this rug.” He looked down at the Turkish rug that had been there as long as I could remember.
“Oh, yes. Before my father passed away, he established a room in our cupola as a sort of studio for her. It’s two flights up, if that’s all right. We don’t have an elevator.”
“That’s not a problem.” He patted his ballooning stomach. “Now that I’m retired, I’ve gained five pounds. My wife is always after me to do more exercise. Artists and teachers sit around too much. So going up and down stairs sounds good.” He looked toward the stairway.
Despite how beautiful the balustrade was, it was difficult for me to look at the stairway and not think of it as treacherous. Surely, I thought, he knew of our history, how Aunt Ellsbeth, Billie, and Vera had died on those stairs. If he had any fear, he kept it well disguised behind his appreciative smile.
Sylvia came in carrying the silver tray with the teapot and cups.
Mr. Price stood up. “Can I help?” he asked.
“She’s fine,” I said. “Please. Sit.”
He did, and Sylvia put the tray on the table. I wanted her to demonstrate that she was capable of basic things and could easily grow and learn.
“Biscuits,” she said, more as if she was reminding herself, and turned quickly.
He smiled. “Venus,” he muttered after her, and then turned to me. “How long has she been interested in art?”
“As long as I can remember her being interested in anything,” I said. I began to pour the tea. “Sugar?”
“Maybe one, if we don’t tell my wife. And don’t tell her about any biscuits. She’s got me on a strict diet.”
Sylvia returned with the biscuits and put them on the table. “I like chocolate,” she said, still grumpy about it.
“Chocolate?” He looked at them.
“We have plain with a touch of vanilla today,” I said
firmly.
“Oh, I like that.” He plucked one off the dish.
“I like chocolate,” Sylvia repeated.
I raised my eyes toward the ceiling.
“So, Sylvia, what do you like to draw and paint? Things in nature, people, animals?”
