Summer’s End

5

When the phone rang, she was already in her studio, sitting back from the canvas trying to evaluate her morning’s work. It was a bowl of tulips dropping their petals on a mahogany table, against a background of blue sky, glimpsed through an open window.

“Deanna?” She was stunned to hear his voice.

“Ben? How did you get my number?” She felt a warm blush rise to her cheeks and was instantly angry at herself for the way she felt. “Kim?”

“Of course. She said that if I didn’t show your work, she’d sabotage our account.”

“She didn’t!” The blush deepened as she laughed.

“No. She just said that you were very good. Tell you what, I’ll trade you my Wyeth for one of yours.”

“You’re crazy. And so is Kim!”

“Why don’t you let me judge for myself? Do you suppose I could come by around noon?”

“Today? Now?” She glanced at the clock and shook her head. It was already after eleven. “No!”

“I know. You’re not ready. Artists never are.” The voice was as gentle as it had been on the beach.

She stared into the phone. “Really. I can’t.” It was almost a whisper.

“Tomorrow?” Not pushy, but firm.

“Ben, really… it’s not that. I…” She faltered and heard his laugh.

“Please. I’d really love to see your work.”

“Why?” She instantly felt stupid for the question.

“Because I like you. And I’d like to see your work. It’s as simple as that. Doesn’t that make sense?”

“More or less.” She didn’t know what more to say.

“Are you busy for lunch?”

“No, I’m not.” She sighed sadly again.

“Don’t sound so forlorn. I promise not to throw darts at your canvases. Honest. Trust me.”

Oddly, she did. She trusted him. It was something about the way he spoke, and the look she remembered in his eyes. “I think I do. All right then. Noon.”

No one going to the guillotine had ever spoken as resolutely. Ben Thompson smiled to himself as he hung up.

He was there promptly at noon. With a bag of French rolls, a sizable wedge of Brie, and half a dozen peaches, as well as a bottle of white wine.

“Will this do?” he asked as he spread his riches out on her desk.

“Very nicely. But you really shouldn’t have come.” She looked dismayed as she eyed him over the table. She was wearing jeans and a paint-splattered shirt, her hair tied in a loosely woven knot. “I really hate being put on the spot.” Her expression was troubled as she watched him, and for a moment he stopped arranging the fruit.

“You’re not on the spot, Deanna. I really did want to see your work. But it doesn’t matter a damn what I think. Kim says you’re good. You know you’re good. You told me on the beach that painting was your life. No one can ever play with that. I wouldn’t try to.” He paused, then went on, more softly, “You saw some of the pieces I love in the cottage in Carmel. That’s something I care about. This is something you care about. If you like my Wyeth, it makes me happy, but if you don’t it doesn’t change a bit of its beauty for me. Nothing I see will change what you do, or how much it matters. No one can ever touch that.”

She nodded silently, then slowly walked toward the wall where twenty paintings were propped, hidden and ignored. One by one, she turned them around, saying nothing and looking only at the oils as she turned them. She did not look at him until at last he said, “Stop.” She glanced up in surprise and saw him leaning against her desk with a look in his eyes she didn’t understand.

“Did you feel anything when you saw the Wyeth?” He was searching her face and holding her eyes.

She nodded. “I felt a great deal.”

“What?”

She smiled. “First, surprise, to realize that I was in your house. But then, a kind of awe, a joy at seeing the painting. I felt pulled by the woman, as though she were someone I knew. I felt everything I think Wyeth wanted to tell me. For a moment, I felt spellbound by his words.”

“As I do by yours. Do you have any idea how much you’ve put in those paintings, or how really beautiful they are? Do you know what it means to be reached out to and pulled at time after time after time, as you turn them around? They’re incredible, Deanna. Don’t you know how good they are?” He was smiling at her. She felt her heart pound in her chest.

“I love them. But that’s because they’re mine.” She was glowing now. He had given her the ultimate gift, and she knew he meant every word. It had been so long since anyone had seen what she painted-and cared.

“They’re not only yours. They are you.” He walked closer to one of the canvases and silently stared. It was a painting of a young girl leaning over her bath-Pilar.

“That one is my daughter.” She was enjoying it now. She wanted to share more.

“It’s a beautiful piece of work. Show me more.”

She showed him all of them. When it was over, she almost crowed with pleasure. He liked them, he loved them! He understood her work. She wanted to throw her arms around his neck and laugh.

He was opening the bottle of wine. “You realize what this means, don’t you?”

“What?” She was suddenly wary, but not very.

“That I will hound you until you sign with the gallery. How about that?”

She smiled broadly at him, but she shook her head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“That’s not for me.” And Marc would have a fit. He would think it commercial and vulgar-though the Thompson gallery had a reputation for anything but vulgarity, and Ben’s family had been reputable in the art world for years. She had looked him up when she got back from Carmel. His grandfather had had one of the finest galleries in London, and his father in New York. Ben Thompson had carte blanche in the art world, even at thirty-eight years of age. She had read that too. “Really, Ben, I can’t.”

“The hell you can’t. Listen, don’t be stubborn. Come to the gallery and look around. You’ll feel a lot better when you see what’s there.” He suddenly looked very young as he said it, and she laughed. She knew what was there. She had researched that, as well. Pissarro, Chagall, Cassatt, a very small Renoir, a splendid Monet, some Corots. Also a few carefully hidden Pollocks, a Dali, and a de Kooning that he seldom showed. He had the best. As well as a few well-chosen, unknown, young artists, of whom he wanted her to be one. What more could she ask? But what would she tell Marc? I had to. He asked me. I wanted…

“No.” He just wouldn’t understand. And neither would Pilar. She would think it an obnoxious, show-offy thing to do. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re right there.” He held out a piece of French bread and Brie. Twenty-two paintings spread around the room. And he had loved them all. She beamed as she took the bread from him.

“I’ve got thirty more in the attic. And five over at Kim’s.”

“You’re nuts.”

“No, I’m not.”

He handed her a peach. “Yes, you are. But I won’t hold it against you. How about coming to an opening we’re having tomorrow night? That won’t do any harm, will it? Or are you even afraid to do that?” He was goading her now, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.

“Who said I was afraid?” She looked very young as she bit into the juicy peach, then smiled.

“Who had to? Why else would you not want to show?”

“Because it doesn’t make sense.”

“You don’t make sense.” But by then they were both laughing and into their third glass of wine. “I like you anyway,” he announced. “I’m used to dealing with crazies like you.”

“I’m not crazy. Just stubborn.”

“And you look exactly like my Wyeth. Did you notice it too?” His eyes pulled at her again. He put down his glass. She hesitated for a moment, then nodded.

“I did.”

“Only I can see your eyes.” He held them for a long moment, then glanced away. They were precisely the eyes he always knew the woman in the painting would have. “You have beautiful eyes.”

“So do you.” Her voice was like a soft breeze in the room, and they were both reminded of their walk in Carmel.

He said nothing for a while; he only sat silently, looking at her paintings. “You said that was your daughter. Is that really true?” He looked at her again, wanting to know more.

“Yes. She’s almost sixteen. Her name is Pilar. And she is very, very pretty. Much more so than she looks in the painting. I’ve done several of her.” She thought wistfully of the one Marc’s decorator had rejected into the hall. “Some of them are quite good.” She felt free with him now, free to like her own work.

“Where is she now? Is she here?”

“No.” Deanna looked at him for a long moment. “In the South of France. Her… my husband is French.” She wanted to tell him that Marc was away too, that he was in Greece, but it seemed treasonous. Why would she tell him? What did she want of this man? He had already told her that he liked her work. What more could she ask? She wanted to ask him if he was married. But that seemed wrong too. What did those things matter? He was here for her work. No matter how kind those deep, sea-green eyes were.

“You know”-he looked regretfully at his watch- “I hate to say this, but I have to get to work. I have a meeting at three in the office.”

“Three?” Her eyes flew to the clock. It was already two forty-five. “Already? How did the time go so fast?” But they had looked at a great deal of her work. She stood up with a regretful look in her eyes.

“You’ll come tomorrow night? To the vernissage?” His eyes told her that he wanted her to come. She wasn’t sure why.

“I’ll try.”

“Please, Deanna. I’d like that.” He touched her arm briefly, and then with a last appreciative smile around the room, he stepped outside the studio and loped down the stairs. “I’ll find my way out. See you tomorrow!” His words faded as she sank into the comfortable white chair and looked around the room. There were four or five canvases of Pilar, but none of Marc. For one totally frantic moment she couldn’t remember his face.