The Virtuous Woman (13 page)

Phil turned at the sound. “Why, come in, Grace.”

“I don’t wanna bother you. You probably don’t like people watchin’ you work.”

“Not a bit of it. Come on over. I’ve got a pot of hot tea here under this tea cozy.”

“I don’t drink much tea.”

Phil was wearing a pair of light brown trousers and a white shirt stained with paint. He laughed as he noticed Grace’s eyes settle on his shirt. “I don’t wear a smock. Makes me feel too much like an artist. I just wipe my fingers on this old shirt. Cara’s been trying to get me to throw it away for years.” He put his paintbrush down and waved at the small table. “Here, sit down and we’ll have some tea. Did you have breakfast?”

“Yeah. I just came from the kitchen.”

Phil made a business of pouring the tea, and then he sat down across from her, leaning on the table with his elbows. “I try to get most of my work done in the morning. The light seems to be best then.”

Grace looked down at the cup for a moment, then lifted her eyes. “Sorry I made such a mess last night.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“I won’t do that again—bring a man home, I mean.”

Phil nodded. “That might be best—for you, I mean. What do you plan to do today?”

“Don’t know. Nothin’ much.”

“You ought to get Paige to show you around. Maybe you two could go shopping.”

“Guess I need somebody to help me with that.” She looked down at her dress. “I know this dress ain’t what looks good, at least to you.”

“I’m no expert on women’s clothes.”

“Neither am I, I guess.” She looked over at the painting on the easel and said, “I don’t know nothin’ about painting.”

“I’d be glad to show you a little. I’ve spent most of my life smearing paint on canvas.”

“Did you start when you were a kid?”

“Oh no, I grew up on a ranch herding cattle. Didn’t let anybody know I was painting for a long time. I was ashamed of it.”

“Why was that, Phil? What’s wrong with painting?”

“Well, cowboys mostly look on artists as sissies.”

“Are they?”

“Some of them, I guess.”

Grace got up and began to look at the pictures lining the walls. “Did you do these?”

“No, those are all by other artists.”

“Why don’t you put your own up?”

“I don’t know. I guess it’d be like putting your own photograph on the wall. Seems a bit egotistical.” Phil grinned and scratched his nose, leaving a small blue mark there. “You want to see some of my stuff?”

“Sure.” She looked over at him. “You’ve got paint on your nose.”

Phil laughed and got to his feet, pulling out a handkerchief and wiping it off. “I get it in my hair and everywhere else. Come along. I keep some of my old things over here, along with some of the paintings I don’t want to sell.”

“How much do you get for a painting?”

“Oh, it depends. Some of them pay pretty well. Others don’t.”

He opened a large cabinet and began to pull out canvases. He lined them up on a shelf built specifically for temporary displays. “These are some of my early things.”

Grace moved closer until her nose was almost pressing against a painting of a poor young woman sitting on the doorstep of a dilapidated old house with a baby in her arms.

“You don’t look at them that way, Grace. You stand back. When you stand that close, it’s just a smear of paint.”

“Why it is, ain’t it?” she said with amazement. She had
never looked at a real painting. All she had ever seen were reproductions that looked about the same up close as far away. She stood back and tilted her head to one side.

“Why do you paint poor people?” she said with some distaste. “Why not paint flowers or something?”

“Poor people are a real part of life, aren’t they?”

“Sure they are, but who wants to look at a crummy old house? You see enough ugly things in the real world. I’d rather see a picture of a pretty baby or a lake or maybe a cat.”

“I used to paint those types of things when I first came to New York City, but I was stunned when I saw the hard life that people led in the tenements. So I changed my direction. I think artists should show life as it is, you know.”

“I guess that’s one way to look at it.”

They moved on to the next painting, and Grace listened carefully as her father pointed out the colors he had used to create contrasting brighter areas and shadows. “I guess I’m prob’ly the most stupid person in the world when it comes to art,” she said.

“You’re never too old to learn. I’ve got some books downstairs.”

“I wouldn’t understand ’em.”

“I could explain some of it to you if you’d like. It might be fun.”

“All right,” she said, “but not now. You’re busy.”

“Stay and watch if you’d like.”

She hesitated. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“Not a bit. I think I could paint in the middle of a carnival and not even look up.”

He grinned then, which made him look much younger. She was impressed at how handsome he was. He picked up the brush and resumed work on the painting. Grace stood there fascinated by what she saw. She liked Phil Winslow very much. He did not seem like a father to her, and for some reason this made her sad.

Phil worked in silence for the next half hour. Grace watched
him for a while and then went back to study the paintings he had set on the shelf.

“That’s that,” he finally said. “I’ll have to let that dry.” He put the paintbrush in the Ming vase. “Did your mother tell you about the party she’s having for you tonight?”

“No, I haven’t talked to her today.”

“It won’t be a big affair—she’s just having a few people over to meet you. Paige’s fiancé and his parents will be here, along with some other folks.”

“I don’t wanna go.”

“Why, it’s nothing serious. It’ll be fun.”

“I dunno. Do you think your friends are ready for me?”

Phil felt a keen pity for this young woman. “I know this has been tough on you, but we’re your family. It’ll take a while to get used to each other. We’ll all have to learn.”

“You don’t have to learn anything, but I do, and I don’t think I can.”

Phil put his hand on her shoulder. When she drew back and half closed her eyes, he removed his hand at once. She clearly wasn’t ready for any expression of physical affection.

****

The knock caught Francis Key off guard. He had been pounding away at the typewriter, and the sound of the sudden rapping on his door made him straighten up. He shoved his chair back and went to the door, wondering who it was. He had few visitors and didn’t really want any. With the money he’d earned from the Winslows, he was able to get back to work on his novel again, and he’d been making good progress today. But the knock was insistent.

Opening the door, he saw Grace Winslow standing there. She was wearing a dress he hadn’t seen before, but one as tasteless as the two he had seen. “Hello, Grace,” he said, not moving.

“Ain’tcha gonna ask me in?”

Key heard the slur of her words and knew she had been
drinking, even though it was only early afternoon. He reluctantly stepped back. “Of course. Come on in.” He caught the smell of alcohol as she passed by. She was steady enough, it seemed, so at least she was not falling-down drunk. He closed the door and turned to where she was standing in the middle of the room, looking around.

“These are your digs, huh?”

“Yes ... pretty small, isn’t it? How’d you find me?”

“I burgled Phil’s desk. He had your name in his address book.”

“That wasn’t very nice.”

“I’m not a nice person, Francis. I thought a smart guy like you’d already figured that out. Everybody else has.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s true enough. Everybody in the family’s tryin’ not to look shocked at baby sister Grace.”

“Here, sit down. You want something to drink?”

Grace giggled. “I already had something to drink. Maybe I’ll have another one. What’ve you got?”

“Juice. Coffee.”

“None of the hard stuff? Nah, you wouldn’t have none of that. Not the holy man.”

Key shifted his feet. “I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

“Maybe I won’t if you do me a favor.”

Key felt an alarm go off in his head. “What kind of favor, Grace?”

“My new family’s havin’ a little party for me tonight. I don’t wanna go by myself. You come with me.”

“Why, I haven’t been invited.”

“Sure you have,” Grace said with a grin. “It’s my party and
I’m
invitin’ you.” She came to stand directly in front of him and asked suddenly, “How tall are you?”

“Five-eight.”

“So am I. So we got somethin’ in common. But with these high heels on I’m taller than you. You got any cowboy boots?”

Key grinned. “No, afraid not.”

“Maybe I can go barefooted. Why couldn’t you have been taller?”

“Man cannot add one cubit to his stature.”

“Cubit? What the heck is that?”

“Oh, it’s just an old measurement—the distance from your wrist to the end of your longest finger, around eighteen inches. It means you can’t make yourself taller by wanting to be taller.”

“Why do you talk like that? You’ve been educated too much. That’s your problem.”

Key laughed. “You may be right. One of my professors told me I’d been educated beyond my capacity. He didn’t like me much. Hard to believe, isn’t it?”

“Not too hard. So you went to college, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t even finish high school.” She started reading the titles of some of the books on the bookshelves. Finally she turned back around to face him. “Well, are you goin’ to the party or not?”

“I don’t think I’d better, Grace.”

She tried to look mad, but there was fear in her eyes too. “Well, if you won’t go, I won’t go neither.” She laughed. “I’ll just go out to a bar. Whadd’ya think of that?”

“I don’t much care for that idea. I’ll tell you what. Maybe I will go with you.”

“You’d better. I might get drunk if you don’t.”

“Is it formal or what?”

“Ah, come on. You look all right.” Grace giggled, then came over and put her hands behind his neck. “For a little guy, you got a way with women. I wonder—”

She was suddenly struck on the side of the head, and a raucous scream filled the room. “
My
Francis!
My
Francis!” Grace cried out and put her hands over her head.

Reeling away, she caught her balance and stared at Francis, who had captured a brilliantly colored bird. “What is
that?
” she yelled.

“This is Miriam,” Francis said, holding the bird tightly. “She gets a bit jealous. If anyone touches me, she kind of loses it.”

Grace regained her poise and came closer to see the bird. “So you
do
have a female!” She laughed. “And you’re
her
Francis, huh?” Grace and the bird locked eyes. “Don’t worry, Miriam, I won’t steal your man.”

Miriam uttered a vile oath, and Key thumped her on the head. “I’ve told you not to say that!” he exclaimed, his cheeks flaming. “She has some bad language left over from a sailor she used to belong to.”

Grace was delighted with this. “Cusses like a sailor, eh? What else can she say?”

“Well ... mostly verses from the Bible.”

“Make her say one.”

Francis tried to make Miriam speak, but the parrot sulked and kept silent. “She’s stubborn sometimes, but—”

“Behold, thou art fair, my love—”

“Miriam, be quiet!” Key said quickly, but the bird shouted, “Thou hast doves’ eyes!”

“What’s she sayin’?” Grace demanded.

“Oh, it’s part of the Bible—”

“Thy two breasts are like two young roes—”

Desperately Key clamped his fingers over the parrot’s beak, but Grace’s eyes were open wide. “That’s in the
Bible?
” she said, amazed.

“Yes, it is, from the Song of Solomon.”

“I never knew stuff like that was in the Bible!”

“It’s what’s called an
epithalamium,
a bridal song. It’s kind of symbolic.” Key’s cheeks were flaming as he said, “Maybe we’d better go.” He put Miriam back into a large cage, and as soon as her beak was released, she screeched, “
My
Francis!
My
Francis!”

Grace was tickled. “She’s sure jealous, ain’t she, Francis?”

“I guess I’m all she’s got.”

“You got a car?”

“No. How’d you get here?”

“Came in a cab. He’s still waitin’ outside.” Grace suddenly locked her hands behind his neck and pulled his face forward until her eyelashes were practically brushing his glasses. She laughed as Miriam went wild in the cage. “Come on, runt,” she said. “Let’s go to a party.”

Key disentangled himself from her embrace and grabbed his hat and trench coat, glancing at her uncertainly.

“Don’t worry, holy man,” she said with a grin. “I won’t attack you like I did on the train. Your virtue is safe enough.”

****

The large dining room at the Winslow mansion was almost big enough for a ball. The walls were covered with paintings, and the oak floor glowed with polish. The long table had been placed along the wall and covered with a snowy white tablecloth, and two young women in maid’s uniforms were serving food and drinks to the guests. There were no more than fifteen people there, and Paige circulated throughout the room, speaking to the guests. She was wearing a simple dark blue silk dress with a buttonhole neckline and short sleeves. The bodice was embroidered with white roses and green leaves, and she wore a pair of matching blue silk shoes and a string of pearls around her neck. She found her fiancé standing alone and said, “John, she’s not here. She probably won’t come. I told Mother we were doing this too soon.”

John Asquith was a thin young man with blond hair and guileless blue eyes. He was not dressed formally but wore a herringbone gray suit. At the age of twenty-nine he had never even come close to marriage before. For a time Paige had wondered at the reason, for as the only son of Roger and Helen Asquith, he was considered quite a catch. He was not as handsome as some men, but he dressed well and was charming and mannerly.

“You’re worried about her, aren’t you, Paige?”

“She doesn’t know
anything,
John. She can’t dress, her speech is awful, she chews gum—even pops it.”