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The painting was of a boy on a beach standing next to a small boat, the surf huge in the background, looking like it might overwhelm him.
“It was done in Portland, Maine, around the turn of the last century.”
“It’s incredible. I’ve never, I mean, I wrote a paper on Homer. I thought I saw all his works when I was doing my research, but I’ve never seen this one. Where’s the original?”
She turned to him, and Ansel smiled at her, amused. Standing so close to him gave her a cold, electric feeling.
“This is the original, Miss Warren. It was passed down to me and has never been cataloged.”
She turned back to the painting, stunned.
“Incredible,” she managed to say. “It’s a really, really incredible painting. The boy, he looks like he’s…”
“Resisting the power of the whole ocean. You can feel it, can’t you? How small he is, how fragile. Even in such a tiny painting.”
“Yes,” Saber breathed, and could almost hear the sound of the New England surf battering the coast, could feel the ocean, seductive even as it threatened. She couldn’t remember a painting making her feel that way before, like it caused a curious heightening of her senses.
Ansel smiled a genuine smile, lovely on his elegant face, and Saber noticed for the first time that his skin was as pale and unblemished as white marble, like a Roman sculpture. She imagined expensive treatments, syringes, products in glass bottles. He went back to the couch and returned to the conversation with her dad. Saber, emboldened, walked the room looking at the rest of the art. She didn’t recognize everything that hung on the other walls, or even most of it, but she felt like she was in a spectacular private museum. He had mostly small pieces, mostly American, like a watercolor that looked like it was done by Andrew Wyeth and an oil-pastel sketch by Mary Cassatt.
“Dinner,” Lia announced, her voice as clear and tonal as a bell.
Ansel nodded at her.
“I hope you like salmon,” he said, holding out his hand to lead the way.
“She’ll have to learn to like it if she’s going to live up here,” her dad said, and laughed.
Ansel nodded and smiled, as though he couldn’t bring himself to laugh at something that wasn’t actually very funny.Then he looked at Saber and waited to follow her into the dining room with a slight, old-fashioned bow.
Ladies first.
They sat at one end of a table that could seat twelve. Saber and her dad were on one side and Ansel on the other with no one at the head.
The table was hewn from a richly colored slab of red-toned wood, raw, elegant, and very natural looking, and a chandelier of polished brass, modern and simple, hung over the table glowing with warm, softly flickering lights. The table was set with three long, honey-colored tapered candles in simple brass candleholders, gleaming in the moody, sensual firelight.
Lia served them all a plate of blossom-pink salmon on a bed of fragrant wild rice, nestled beside a jewel-like beet and kale salad, scented with citrus. Saber looked at her plate for a moment in awe.
“This is like a Michelin-starred restaurant,” she said, then blushed.
It sounded like such a childish, unsophisticated thing to say. She had not wanted to be awed and was embarrassed.
Ansel smiled that amused smile again. He seemed to genuinely enjoy her childish compliments, which made her feel a little better.
“My chef used to work at Canlis.”
“Saber’s new to the area,” her dad said to Ansel before turning to her. “Canlis is probably one of the nicest restaurants in Seattle, maybe in the country. It’s got a beautiful view.”
“We should go some time,” she said, and her dad chuckled at her apparent naivety.
“Maybe for your graduation. It’s very expensive.”
“College?” Ansel asked.
“High school,” Saber said. “I’m a senior.”
“Ah,” Ansel said, nodding and swirling his wine. “I can never tell people’s ages.”
“Well, you look likeyoucould be in high school,” she said, and his smile simmered.
