The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove (22 page)

“Thank you kindly, ma’am, but no. I’ll just wait.” The man looked around the small house while he turned the brim of his hat around in his hands.

Lia opened the letter and read:

My dear Miss Amelia Ruth Starling,

I told you at the Firestones’ New Year’s gathering that I was interested in talking to you more about your art. I am hoping you can join me for lunch tomorrow at noon at the Cliff House to do so. I have a large commission in mind that I would like to discuss with you…in public, of course. If you are available, I will send a driver round to pick you up at eleven fifteen in the morning.

Yours sincerely,

August Wilkerson Wolff

P.S. Do you own a pair of trousers and a pair of sturdy boots?

Lia took a deep breath as she finished reading the message. He did want to see her again, if only to talk about her art. All right. It was a commission, one she sorely needed. She would see what the man had to say—in public. She smiled at the way he’d used her middle name. And he’d included his too! Maybe he was calling a truce of sorts. But what about the special clothing?

“Um, Mr…”

“Hansen, ma’am.”

“Mr. Hansen. In this letter Mr. Wolff asks whether I have certain…rugged attire. Do you know anything about that?”

“No, ma’am. I’m sorry. Mr. Wolff simply asked me to deliver his missive and await your reply, nothing more.”

Lia paused a moment, then nodded. “Well, Mr. Hansen, you may tell your employer that I shall be ready at eleven fifteen tomorrow morning, but that I shall
not
be wearing trousers and boots.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

G
us checked his pocket watch for the third time in the last five minutes. He straightened his starched white collar and once again lined up the silverware on the table. It bothered the hell out of him that he was nervous, but there it was.

He’d sensed from the moment he’d met her, even when she was “Ruthie,” that Amelia Starling was different. Every instinct he possessed called out to claim her, to make her his in every possible way. It was illogical and impetuous and downright stupid to think like that, but damn if he didn’t have to keep fighting the impulse. He wouldn’t act on it, of course. She’d never allow it, for one thing, and even if she did, he couldn’t follow through. So he’d dip his toe in the water, so to speak. Get to know her. Maybe—hopefully—find out she was no different than any other vain, self-centered, beautiful woman. That would be a relief, yes indeed it would be.

He’d just finished his mental pep talk when there was a knock on the door. “Enter,” he said.

“Miss Starling has arrived, sir,” the maître d’ said, holding the door open and carrying Amelia’s traveling coat on his arm. She entered the room wearing a forest-green dress that exposed nothing of her body, and in doing so highlighted everything: her ample breasts, small waist, shapely hips, slender legs. The dress had a white collar and her gorgeous brown hair spilled over it, set back from her lovely face by the same combs she’d worn the night he’d met her.

Taking it slow was going to be more difficult than he thought.

He bowed slightly. “Miss Starling. Thank you for agreeing to meet me for lunch. I’m sure you had to wrestle with that decision after the boorish way I behaved at the Firestones’.”

She spread her gloved hands wide before clasping them again at her waist. “I’m sure it was just a passing fancy on your part, and I can assure you I’ve quite forgotten all about it.” She looked around the private dining salon. It was a corner room with tall windows facing the west and north; a glass door led to a wraparound veranda. Cream-colored wainscoting anchored the remaining two walls and above the chair rail several seascapes from local artists were displayed.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I’ve eaten downstairs but I’ve never been in one of these rooms before,” she replied. It’s quite…intimate.” She smiled at him. “But I thought you said we would talk in public.”

Gus grinned. “Wait until you see my table manners. You’ll be relieved that no one will witness you in my company.”

“You are pulling my leg, Mr. Wolff.”

“Call me Gus, please.” He poured them each a glass of white wine from a bottle chilling on a small sideboard. “I hope you don’t mind, but I ordered lunch already. I’ve eaten here many times and their filet of sole is darn good.”

“I don’t know what it is with you men,” she said lightly. “Will Firestone insisted on feeding me from the buffet after you left because he said he’d eaten the spread so many times he knew what was best.”

“And did he?”

“Did he what?”

“Know what was best?”

Amelia sighed. “Yes, dammit, he did, as I’m sure you will too.”

Gus nodded, his lips quirking. “I’ll remember you said that.” They both chuckled and the tension he’d felt before she entered the room melted away.

“Actually, I wanted some privacy because I do owe you an apology and didn’t want to make a public spectacle of it.” When she started to protest he held up his hand to stop her. “No, really. Your living arrangements are none of my business, nor are the people you spend time with. I shouldn’t have come on to you like that, but I really am interested in your work. Miss Starling—may I call you Amelia?”

“I prefer Lia, and yes, you may.”

“Thank you. Lia, I come from pretty humble beginnings, so art isn’t something I’ve had much exposure to. I do find it fascinating.”

“Oh,” she said, a hint of wistfulness in her voice. “I see. Well, you obviously have inherently good taste because you bought two of Professor Keith’s more exceptional pieces, at least of the ones he showed that night at his studio.”

“And I bought yours as well.”

She smiled tentatively. “Yes, you did, and I thank you. I…I really liked what you said about how you felt as if you’d been there. Some people would say they simply saw a riverbank at night…”

“Or brown and black globs of paint with a little yellow here and there,” he teased.

“Or that.” She grinned, her eyes sparkling. “But the real point of art, I think, is to elicit a reaction, or emotion, on the part of the viewer. Professor Keith says in fact that the feeling one takes from viewing the piece is the major thing of value in it.”

Gus gestured to the doors leading out to the veranda. “We have a few minutes before lunch arrives. Shall we take our wine with us and check out the view?”

“Certainly.”

The latest Cliff House, now owned by Adolph Sutro’s daughter, had been built by her late father seven years earlier on a headland at the end of Seal Rock Road. It replaced a much simpler structure that had burned down two years before that. To many people, including Gus, the seven-story “Gingerbread Palace” looked ridiculous jutting out over the ocean where treacherous rocks and currents had caused many a ship to run aground. But San Franciscans loved traveling out to the Cliff House for the food, the art galleries, and most of all the view.

Gus leaned on the railing with his forearms as they watched the waves crashing against the cliffs below. “But, here’s something that’s crossed my mind,” he ventured. “What if the feeling I get from a painting is different from the feeling you as the artist intended to get across when you painted it? Your picture of the riverbank, for instance—” he gestured to the sea “—or a picture of the ocean? What if you intended to paint a frightening storm and I saw only the excitement of being on the water, away from all my cares?”

Lia impetuously put her hand on his arm. “That’s precisely what makes art so incredible,” she exclaimed. “It can fulfill different needs for different people. Think of Leonardo da Vinci’s
Mona Lisa
. Have you ever been to the Louvre or seen a photograph of the painting?”

Gus shook his head. “I’ve heard about it, but…”

“Well, she’s a gentlewoman from Florence and she has a slight smile on her face, but no one knows what she’s smiling about. Did da Vinci tell her a joke while she was posing for him? Was she embarrassed to smile widely because she had bad teeth? Did she have a lover and was she thinking about the next time she would be in his arms? No one knows, so each of us who views the painting can make up our own story about it.” She beamed and spread her arms wide. “I just love that.”

And I adore you
. Gus blinked as the thought flashed through him. Watch your instincts, man. Keep them in check. Don’t make any stupid moves even though you want to
devour
her. “So…” he said, searching for something, anything to get his mind back on track. “So you’re saying a tree is never just a tree.”

Lia pondered that for a moment. “I guess that’s right,” she finally said. “Someone might look at a picture and see nothing more than a tree, but someone else might imagine the cool of the forest, the softness of the leaf-covered ground, the sound of birds flying through the branches. And it may bring back memories, or a longing. You see what I mean?”

“I do,” he said, smiling. And he did. They stood in companionable silence until Lia glanced to her right.

“Oh, I’ve never seen them from so high up before.”

“Seen what?” he asked, following her line of sight.

“The Sutro Baths. The building looks enormous, even from way up here.”

He turned to her. “That’s because it is. It’s downright amazing, really. Old Sutro was quite the engineer. Have you ever been inside?”

Lia shook her head. “I…I don’t know how to swim.”

“What? I thought you grew up on the East Coast. The water there is a heck of a lot warmer in the summer than it is here. Why didn’t you learn to swim?”

Lia seemed to contract from the vibrant individual he had witnessed just moments before. “My father was very busy and…and I rarely got to go to the beach. One time our housekeeper took me; I think I was eight and she felt it was time I learned. But when my father found out she’d done that without asking him, he fired her. So, I never went back.”

“What about your mother? Most mothers I’ve known want their children to know how to swim, for safety’s sake if nothing else.”

“My mother died when I was born. Or, as my father would put it, ‘You lived, but she had to die.’”

Jesus, what kind of father would say that to his little girl? He was about to say something when the waiter knocked on the outer door and brought in their meal. They went back to the small table inside and Gus pulled out Lia’s chair before taking his seat. The filet of sole was cooked to perfection, with tiny red potatoes and skinny green beans alongside the fish. A crisp green salad and sourdough rolls came with the meal.

“Is there anything finer than a warm sourdough roll spread with butter?” he remarked.

Lia grinned between bites. “Not that I know of.” Gus was tickled to see she was enjoying the meal every bit as much as he was.

“So,” he ventured. “I have to ask the question. Why is someone like you not married to some adoring husband and herding a pack of children by now?”

If he thought Lia’s attitude changed when the subject of her father came up, that was nothing compared to her reaction to his latest question. A clam came to mind.

She put her fork down. “I might ask you the same thing,” she said calmly. “After all, you are a few years older than I am, and it’s apparent from what one reads in the paper that you enjoy the opposite sex.”

So, two steps forward and three steps back. A certain amount of honesty was called for here. Not complete, maybe, but she deserved to know at least some of it. “You might ask, and I would tell you that…I used to have a wife and daughter. She, my wife, couldn’t handle life in the North. And so…we’re no longer together.”

Lia’s eyes softened. “You have a daughter?”

He nodded, twirling the remaining wine in his glass, fighting the unexpected surge of emotion. “Her name is Annabelle,” he said quietly. “She’ll be eight years old this coming May.”

“Oh. How often do you get to see her?”

“I don’t,” he replied in a tone that didn’t invite a response. He paused and looked directly at her. “As I said, why is someone like you not married?”