Portrait of a protege, p.24
Portrait of a Protégé, page 24
part #2 of Portraits Series
“You want to know if I have more than paternal feelings for her?”
“What man wouldn’t at least entertain the idea?”
“I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered the notion. I’m not proud of that. I suppose it sprung from my need for unconditional acceptance. For redemption.” He paused and looked at her.
“Then you understand the nature of my relationship with Garrison.”
On some level, Myles comprehended it. He faced Angela and took her hands in his. He hadn’t rehearsed a response to her inevitable wonderings, but he would offer the truth of what he believed. “I can assure you, I do not foster romantic feelings for Leila. It would be utter foolishness on my part and I know that. The fact is, I want more than what she would be able to provide.”
“And what is that?”
“Companionship without qualms-of-conscience. I want a grown woman—an equal—who can love me in spite of myself.” He searched her eyes for trust. “As far as Leila is concerned, you have nothing to worry about.”
“Except that as long as she harbors romantic feelings for you, our relationship can not progress beyond what it is now, without qualms-of-conscience.”
“You do understand.”
“Well, I’ve waited this long, and I would loathe to do anything that would hurt her. I suppose then the bigger, long-term question is, can we each accept the fact that the other has an ‘exceptional’ friendship that neither intends to give up?”
Chapter 30
Leila watched Clarence take her grandmother’s arm and walk away. They actually made a very handsome couple, but she couldn’t stand the idea of them together—or being intimate. In her distress, she gripped André’s arm tighter. He responded with a smile.
“Wow. It’s really warm for the middle of May.” Leila unbuttoned her sweater. “I love warm weather.”
As she peeled off her cardigan, revealing the sleeveless sweater beneath, he smiled. “I’m glad you’re a little perkier.”
“Is that what I am?”
“That or perhaps you’re taking more of a liking to me.” He escorted her through the front door of Marvelle’s townhouse, where a white-gloved man offered to relieve them of any accouterments. Leila kept her sweater.
“Figures you would think that,” she said. “I’m going to quit playing nice at these affairs if you start taking my niceness personally.” Leila couldn’t help but grin. Conceited or not, he was easy to be around, and he never left her standing alone unless she obviously wanted to be. He did seem to read her moods though she also kept him guessing—he had told her as much.
“So, when do I get to see Marvelle’s final work?” she asked.
“Right now, if you’d like.”
“You don’t have other people to see or connections to make?”
“None as important as you.” They began ascending the staircase, alongside each other. He pocketed his hands.
“You do realize how smarmy you sound.” Leila hugged her cardigan.
“Yes, and I also know you see right through all that. Which makes you all the more fun.”
Leila rolled her eyes. “Is there no possible way to insult you?”
“Of course, but you don’t expect me to own up to it.”
They rounded the railing, making their way to the third floor. Standing in front of the studio door, André fished a key from his pocket.
“Wow—like a vault,” she exclaimed.
“I kid you not. The contents of this room are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“What?”
He shook his head and sighed. “You have so much to learn.”
Marvelle’s studio brought goosebumps to Leila’s torso. The northern-lit exposure of ceiling windows dimmed the room, though it was only early afternoon. Eerie shadows fell around them. Leila draped her sweater over her shoulders. Too numb to cry, she stared at her station, remembering the far-too-few sessions with her mentor.
“Over here,” André said. “It’s one of her few chiaroscuro.”
“Her what?”
He shook his head. “Chiaroscuro. It’s Italian. A lighting effect, contrasting bright light and shadows. You know, you need to study up on your art styles.”
“I know, I know …,” she said, moving to his side behind a nearly life-size canvas propped upon Marvelle’s easel. Turning on the work lamp, he positioned it toward the painting. Leila’s own eyes stared back in ultramarine oil paint, half of her body lit, and half shaded.
She gazed intently at Marvelle’s rendition of her initially recalcitrant student whose smoldering embers she had ignited.
Leila’s forefinger pressed her lip. “She used Ian’s photo as a study.”
“Very likely. There are distinct similarities.”
The sight of herself—of who she was, not only weeks, but years ago, through the eyes of her teacher—startled her. Tentative, excited, yearning, as if anticipating each stroke. A portrait completed and signed, yet still underway and so unfinished.
“Her final piece,” André said. “Worth tens of thousands no doubt. You should be very flattered.”
In tears, Leila turned away from the portrait.
He continued to study it. “What do you think of it?”
Leila wiped her cheeks. “I think she painted me as she wished I were.”
“I think it’s a perfectly accurate depiction. Passionate, full of life, hopeful—and terrified.”
“Is that strictly in the eye of the beholder?”
“It’s definitely that. But I believe it’s strongly implied.”
“Well, she certainly had me pegged right from the start.” Leila shook her head, her framework withering. “And sometimes … I just want to climb back into that cage.”
André turned her chin to his, lifting it to look at her level-eyed. “But you won’t.”
“No. I won’t.”
He studied her face. Was he looking for the spark that Marvelle—that Ian—had so flawlessly conveyed? She evaded his further scrutiny and moved to her own station. The portrait of Karl sat taped to a board. Her work had indeed been under someone’s inspection. She sat in front of it and bent to shuffle through several others of her paintings, arranged in a vertical bin beside her easel.
“So, what becomes of my paintings that remain in Marvelle’s possession? Are they now part of her estate, or do I get to claim them free and clear?” she asked.
“That all depends. Since there is no signature, can you prove you were the artist?”
She smirked. “And how would I go about that?”
He held up Karl. “Establish them as your distinct style. Paint some more like them.”
“Or we could just have Karl come and vouch for me,” she teased. “But seriously, I can’t just pack them up and take them, can I?”
“Seriously? No. Not until her estate releases them.”
She stood, still gripping her sweater. “And am I going to need a lawyer for this? Because I happen to know one who has a vested interest in my art.”
“Do you?”
She gestured toward Karl. “Harvard graduate.”
“That’s right.” He squinted a grin. “And, no, you won’t need a lawyer. There are enough of us who will vouch for you as the artist, but it will be a process, one which is already under way.”
“So how does all of this affect the opening of Chez Goulet?”
“It definitely affects it. Fortunately, we haven’t had the invitations printed up yet. The bad news is, Marvelle’s death will postpone the opening for weeks. The good news is—and please understand, I mean this strictly from a business standpoint—we stand to profit greatly from the timing of things. That’s the sad truth. We are the exclusive brokers of her art, and, now that she’s gone, her remaining works are that much more valuable. Fortunately for us, her family is anxious to get her work out there and make as much as they can from it. Sadly, for Marvelle, neither of her children places any intrinsic value in art, beyond what price tag it might flaunt.”
“That’s kind of cold.”
“You can’t really hold it against them. Everyone places a value on something. Some simply don’t see it in art.”
“I know your father loves art and so does Angela, but what about you? Do you just push the money around and enjoy the glamour of it all, or do you appreciate art for the sake of art?”
“I’m not an art connoisseur of my father’s caliber,” he admitted, looking carefully at her face, “but I appreciate beauty. In all its forms.”
“But, the money is your primary motivation.”
“Yes. It’s what I’m good at. That’s an art in itself, and I’m proud of the fact that I’m sought after for my art.”
Leila stared at him. His eyes shifted and he stepped closer, with a confidential lean. “I shouldn’t really tell you this, but you’ll be informed soon enough. Do you remember meeting Marvelle’s former student, Trudy Winthrop?”
“Yes. We met briefly, a few sessions ago.”
“You probably don’t realize it but, she is also an accomplished and profitable artist whose work we broker.”
Leila shrugged. “I’m not up on all the popular artists.”
“You really do need to be, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah—so what is it that you really shouldn’t tell me?”
“Marvelle set up a trust fund for your further art instruction, under Trudy Winthrop.”
Leila’s eyes widened and again welled. “She did?”
“Yes.”
“When did she do that?”
“As soon as you started your lessons and showed some promise.”
“Why did she do that?” She wiped a tear.
“Why do you think she did it?”
Leila shrugged in astonishment.
“Sometimes your modesty is annoying, Leila. It won’t serve you well in this industry.”
“Maybe I’m not cut out for this industry.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
She cast her eyes from his. “I’m not a fool.”
“I know you’re not.” He stepped closer. “But don’t let your personal misgivings hold you back. It would be a slap in Marvelle’s face to refuse. In fact, it would be a slap in the face to anyone who ever cared about her or her art. You may not want it, but it’s a privilege that you have the responsibility to bear.”
Leila absorbed the weight of his words. She looked at him with the gratitude that Marvelle deserved. “Then, thank you—for the warning.”
“There’s something else. At the grand opening—which is being dedicated to the memory of Marvelle Harding—we will be placing special emphasis on her work and the work of her former students, with you being her final and promising protégé. Consequently, we would like to display your portrait of Karl. We’ve all agreed, it’s very good and should be included. Additionally, her family wishes to offer her final piece, Portrait of a Protégé—as they’ve named it—in a silent auction.”
“You mean, the painting you just showed me?”
“Yes.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
“Don’t be. This may sound very crass, but having you attend is bound to boost not only its worth, but also the desirability of your work, and even Ian’s.”
“But aside from Karl, I have nothing else worth offering.”
“Then I suppose you’d better start pouring yourself into more paintings.”
“I suppose I will.”
“Good then. We’ll look forward to you bringing them down for review.”
“Perhaps you’d like to take a little jaunt up to the country to see the artist at work in her milieu?”
“Now it sounds as if you’re propositioning me.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He folded his arms and chuckled. “You do know what a tease you are.”
Leila glanced away. “I don’t mean to be.”
“Well, you are—and this, from a woman in love.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think of you.”
Her eyes dropped and she picked lint from her cashmere.
He tipped his head to draw her gaze. “You haven’t told him yet.”
She folded her arms tightly, squeezing blood to her face. “No. And I won’t.”
“I don’t get you at all.” He recoiled, continuing to shake his head.
She threw her sweater to her chair. “He’s thirty-five years older than me!”
His eyes shifted—he was calculating. “Not Clarence Myles.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled a long, loud sigh. “Okay. I see your dilemma.”
“I’ll bet that let the air right out of your balloon.”
“Not exactly. To be honest, I’m encouraged that you like older men.”
“This is not funny.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
André stepped closer and pulled her limp shoulders to his chest. She allowed it for a moment and then backed off just enough to meet his eyes. She recognized the look of him wanting to kiss her.
“You’re not the sort of man who’d take advantage of a grieving woman, are you?”
“Normally … very possibly I am that sort. But, no, I will not take advantage of your grief.”
“You know, even if I didn’t have feelings for someone else, you might as well know right up front that I’m not the sort who would sleep with a man unless I was married to him. And, I sense that you’re not the marrying kind.”
He backed off a little. “You don’t know that I’m not the marrying kind. Perhaps the right woman has not yet persuaded me.”
“Well, at any rate, I know you’re not the waiting kind.”
“You’re probably right about that.” He narrowed his view. “But I’m still curious—what is it that keeps you so virtuous?”
Leila moved out of his reach. “Quit calling me virtuous. You don’t know what I am or the first thing about what makes me who I am.”
He didn’t close the gap, but something in the genuineness of his expression filled the space. “I imagine that takes quite a bit of time.”
How had he put her at ease with a look? She didn’t know if she should resent his ability or find comfort in it; the irony of it twisted her lips to a near smile. “Yeah, well, who wants to invest that much time in some insecure, neurotic widow with abandonment issues?”
“Aside from the widow thing, that describes most of the women I’ve dated.”
She rolled her eyes. “Poor you.”
Chapter 31
New Hampshire
Neither Clarence nor Leila spoke much for the first half hour as she wove her way around Boston, through her familiar route and onto northbound Interstate 93. Clarence’s head tipped back on the rest, and his eyes closed as though he might be dozing. Over the past months—aside from her last telephone call—she had kept her conversations with him so light that she felt out of practice.
“Oh my gosh—” she blurted, “It was last weekend!”
Clarence rolled his head to face her. He sounded groggy. “What’s that?”
“Bonnie’s wedding. I completely forgot to ask you about it. I’m so sorry.”
“Well, I suppose Marvelle could have picked a more opportune time to die.”
“I’m sorry. Here I was all absorbed in myself, again.” She picked the middle lane and shifted into overdrive. “How was it?”
He sat more erect. “Best of everything.”
“Was your ex there?”
“No. Bonnie and her mother are not on speaking terms yet.”
“Then I guess you’re the favorite parent, even if you didn’t get to walk her down the aisle.”
A disparaging breath escaped with his smirk.
“Sorry, that was a lame thing to say.”
He sank back into his seat, staring ahead. “I have to hand it to them, though, they made the day as much about Peter as themselves.”
“It must have been hard to say good-bye.”
“For me, anyway. I think Peter was too overwrought with excitement to have any of it register. Just as well.”
“Have you thought any more about moving?” She looked over at him as his eyes closed.
“No.” He sighed, more out of fatigue, it seemed, than tedium with the subject. After a minute of silence, he snored softly. He must have been exhausted, and Leila was just as glad to drive in silence. She had so much to think about—her conversation with André provided a good distraction.
The sun flickered through the trees when she pulled into her dooryard. Clarence had been awake since she exited the interstate, but he remained silent.
“Hard to believe we’re coming up on another year,” she said as she moved to pull her key from the ignition.
Clarence’s hand covered hers, sending a rush through her. She looked over at him, meeting his stare. The corner of her mouth twitched but neither smiled.
He squeezed her hand. “What do you say we skip food tonight, and go straight to cognac?”
She wanted to say, What—no scotch on the rocks? but didn’t. “That sounds about right.”
They met out on the deck. He sat on the gliding settee in cargo shorts and his white oxford shirt—cuffs double-flipped up his forearms. What was it about men’s forearms?
As she pulled up a side chair, he patted the cushion beside him. “Sit with me.”
Now wearing a loose cotton sundress, she tucked it between her thighs as she drew one leg beneath her and half-faced him. Her stomach tightened as she averted her eyes from his forearms to his chest. No good—to his shorts—Even worse. And now to his eyes. A stiff swig would distract her. She held out her snifter, trying to maintain her composure. He poured them each two-fingers worth. After a good swallow, he sucked a breath through his teeth and sank into the cushion. His ankle crossed over his knee, and his other foot gently rocked the small couch. Another long draw from the snifter, and the starch left her knees and her insides relaxed. She could now look Clarence in the face, uninhibited. He looked good, and having him at her side felt good. It felt right. She had missed him so much. Several minutes of silence passed before either spoke.
He asked, “So, after all those months of lobbying for your grandmother, what do you now think of her and me?”
