Woman in Red (24 page)

She saw in his eyes the answer she’d been seeking, and felt all at once giddy with the knowledge, like at her friend’s daughter’s wedding, when the champagne she’d drunk had gone to her head. When he spoke, though, his voice was flat. “Martha’s pretty preoccupied with the war efforts. I doubt she even notices when I’m not around,” he said.
“Besides, she’s used to my wandering off in search of things to paint.” He paused to sip his coffee. “Speaking of which, I have a favor to ask.”

“Anything,” she replied without hesitation. “Whatever it is, I’m sure it won’t come close to repaying you for all you’ve done.”

His expression turned shy. “I’d like to paint your portrait.”

It wasn’t at all what she’d been expecting, and she said the first thing that popped into her head. “Why ever would you want to do that?” She self-consciously brought a hand to her cheek, toying with a curly tendril that had slipped out from under the scarf she’d tied around her head that morning when she could do nothing with her hair.

“You’ll have to take that up with my muse,” he said, with a laugh.

“Your muse?”

“She decides what I’m going to paint. She can be bossy about it, too. I have very little say in the matter.”

“I see.” Eleanor got into the spirit of it. “And this muse of yours has decided you should paint me?”

“Apparently so.”

“I suppose I should be flattered. On the other hand, it could just as easily be a rock or a tree. Or the ocean on a stormy day,” she added, with a glance out the window, at the patch of slate-colored ocean off in the distance, pressed under the heel of an ominous sky.

“True, but the ocean never sits still for long, and I’m hoping you will, for this.”

“What exactly is involved?” A little flutter of unease worked its way up from the pit of her stomach.

“I’ll do a few preliminary sketches first, but all in all it shouldn’t take more than three or four sittings.”

“It would have to be mornings, when Lucy’s at school.” She spoke slowly, hesitant to commit herself. It wasn’t that her daughter required her full-time attention these days. When Lucy was around, she spent almost as much time with Yoshi as with her. Right now, for instance, she’d abandoned her knot-tying to follow him outside. Eleanor watched through the window as they sloshed across the muddy yard on their way to the kennel, Lucy in her slicker and boots and Yoshi with his head ducked low and the collar of his jacket pulled up around his ears. No, it wasn’t so much the shirking of her parental duties that concerned Eleanor as her reluctance to have Lucy witness the spectacle of her mother posing for a portrait, like some society lady or . . . or indolent mistress. She blushed, too, at the thought of all those hours alone with William, him studying every nuance of her face and form. Would he be able to read in her face the feelings she did her best to hide? Would her eyes tell him what her heart could not?

And what would people think, if they knew? Something like this, however innocent, could resurrect the old rumors about her hasty wedding and the baby that some had speculated wasn’t Joe’s. Those who had whispered about her before would find her current behavior even more shocking, she a married woman with her husband off fighting overseas.

And Joe, what would
he
think?

“Would tomorrow be convenient?” William’s voice broke into her thoughts.

“Tomorrow?” She turned toward him, her fears subsiding at the sight of his open, smiling face. “Tomorrow will be just fine.”

Minutes later he was pushing back his chair, saying, “I should be off. I promised Danny I’d take him to see the new Gary Cooper picture. Have you seen it yet?”

She shook her head. “I don’t get to the pictures much.” In fact, she hadn’t seen a movie since the war broke out.

A wistful look flitted across his face, as if he were thinking about all the places he’d like to take her. Then he turned to go, Laird at his heels, only lightly touching her shoulder in passing. At the door, he paused to ask, “You’re sure you’re all right with this? I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s not that.” She hesitated before going on, fearful that he would think she was making too much of this. It wasn’t as if he’d asked her to pose nude, for heaven’s sake. “It’s just . . . Are you sure it’s wise? People might get the wrong idea. Not just Martha.”

“Ah. I see.” He nodded slowly, wearing a thoughtful look. “Well, in that case, it’ll be our little secret.” He broke into a grin, and she thought,
Isn’t that just like a man? Problem solved, case closed.
Even so, she gave into a small smile of her own.

“We seem to be in the habit of keeping secrets,” she observed dryly.

“Loose lips sink ships.” He quoted the slogan on the poster displayed in every other shop window in town, along with the more lurid one depicting a caricature of the enemy, with exaggerated slant eyes and a protruding front teeth, that read simply
Jap Beast
.

What ships were in danger of being sunk here?
she wondered.

Outside the dogs began to bark with the high yipping noises they made when let out to romp in the yard. All of last season’s pups had found homes and the only dogs remaining were the two males, Panda and Cab (named after
Cab Calloway), and her three bitches, Suki, Niobe, and Jasmine. Laird was Jasmine’s son, the only male in that litter, and now his ears pricked at the sounds in the yard and he whined softly at the door, glancing up at William in mute appeal. William’s eyes, though, were on Eleanor as he turned the knob, the hint of wistfulness she’d caught earlier now nakedly apparent. A look passed between them, in which Eleanor saw mirrored in his face all of her inchoate yearning.

Then he was out the door, and she was left trembling on the threshold of something she dared not name, wanting it and fearing it at the same time.

William was well aware of the risk involved, but whatever trepidation he might feel had nothing to do with the threat to his or Eleanor’s reputations. It was his own heart he feared. In painting her portrait he would be expressing with his brush what he couldn’t in words. And what if, once unleashed, those feelings could no longer be contained? Would Eleanor be scandalized? Would she put a stop to any further visits? He would rather go on this way, in a perpetual state of longing, than risk being cut off from her.

For there was no denying it any longer: William was in love.

It was a feeling he hadn’t known in such a long time, it was a revelation for him. Everywhere he looked colors seemed brighter and even the bleakest landscapes were washed in light. He felt more kindly disposed toward the world in general, even those people he didn’t particularly like. Alone in his studio, he’d catch himself staring idly at the half-finished canvas propped on his easel, a seascape
commissioned by a retired boat builder in Oregon, seeing only Eleanor’s face. He would imagine how he’d paint her, what pigments would best bring out the red and gold highlights in her hair and capture the luminous quality of her skin.

He sensed that she shared those feelings, and thought it would have been easy to seduce her. The notion didn’t strike him as morally reprehensible, not in any general sense. While living in Europe he’d abandoned the hidebound morals inculcated in him as a child. But it wasn’t just the quick pleasures of the bed he desired. He wanted more than that; he wanted a life with Eleanor. And how was it possible? He had his family to think of; hers, too. The thought of Eleanor’s husband off fighting for his country, while he, William, fulfilled his lust in their marital bed, left him feeling slightly queasy. It would eat at Eleanor most of all, he knew. He’d have to stand by helplessly and watch the woman he loved be consumed by guilt, knowing he was the cause of it.

Martha deserved better, too. He had loved her once, and if that love had grown fractured with time, she was still his wife, the mother of his son. He owed it to her, and to Danny, not to let his small lie grow into an even bigger one.

And yet . . .

He dreamed of Eleanor with his eyes open. He imagined what it would be like to lie next to her in bed, her bare flesh gliding over his, his face buried in her hair that was twelve different shades of brown and red, her soft mouth parting at the touch of his lips. He saw her face framed by the white of her pillow, her green eyes beckoning to him. He saw the smooth plane of her belly and her long legs opening to him, taking him in.

If he couldn’t make love to her, painting her portrait would be the next best thing. For the first time in months he itched to pick up his brushes and palette. Already he was plotting how best to capture her on canvas. He wanted to depict her as he saw her: a woman gloriously in her prime who mistakenly believed the best years of her life were behind her.

“Don’t look at me. I’m a wreck,” she said, with a breathless laugh as she let him through the door. “Are you sure about this? You’ll be wasting a perfectly good canvas.” She was wearing a faded housecoat, her hair haphazardly pinned up, the dogs roiling at her feet. Yet to him, she had never looked more beautiful. She bent to grab hold of a dog collar, scolding, “Now, look, you, it’s back to the kennel if you don’t behave yourself.” The offending creature instantly sank onto its haunches, looking up at her shame-faced until she stroked its head and let it loose.

She straightened, tucking a stray tendril of hair behind one ear, her face flushed with exertion. “I’m a little behind schedule,” she apologized. “Lucy was late getting off to school. And the dogs—” she pointed toward Niobe, now romping on the braided rug in front of the fireplace with Laird “—must have known you were coming. The only way I could get them to stop barking was to let them into the house.”

He smiled. In one hand, he carried the battered wooden case containing his paints and brushes and in the other his folded easel and a blank canvas wrapped in brown paper. “The more, the merrier,” he said. “They can keep Laird company while I paint.”

“Wait here while I change. I won’t be a minute.” She spun on her heel, disappearing down the hall. Only then did he notice she was barefoot. Minutes later, in less time than it would have taken Martha to change hats, she was back, wearing a red print dress belted at the waist, her hair arranged in loose curls on top of her head. Dangling from one hand was a pair of high-heeled pumps.

“No, leave them off,” ordered William, when she bent to put them on. “I’d like you barefoot.” He hadn’t planned to paint her that way. But seeing her all dressed up in her Sunday best without her shoes, he realized it captured her, the two sides of Eleanor that were often at war with each other: the part that wanted to be respectable and the part that wanted to run wild, like a child through high grass on a summer day.

She shot him a quizzical look, tossing the pumps aside. “If you insist. But I won’t look very elegant.”

“You’re perfect just as you are.” It was a moment before he could tear his eyes away.

“I’m afraid my last pair of stockings has a hole in it,” she said, glancing down at her legs in dismay, which, like her feet, were bare. “They’re so hard to come by these days, I might as well wish for the Eiffel Tower. So where do you want me?” Her eyes darted around the neat, if somewhat shabby room, with its threadbare furnishings and woodwork polished to a shine.

Naked in bed,
came his silent, unbidden reply. But all he said was, “Why don’t we try the sofa. You’ll be more comfortable and the light’s good.” He waited until she’d positioned herself on worn, plush cushions, her legs tucked under her, her toes peeking from the folds of her skirt. ”There, like that. Don’t move an inch.” He got out his pad and a
stick of charcoal and began sketching her. Midway through his third failed attempt at capturing her on paper, he paused, frowning. “You look tense. If you’re uncomfortable, we could try another position.”

“It’s not that,” she said. “I was just wondering what you plan on doing with the portrait once it’s finished. I mean, if it’s going to be on display . . . ”