Blake spread a blanket and Connie laid out the food and drink between then. Blake plucked at a long finger of grass and tickled her nose. Connie swatted at his hand and they went tumbling over together in a shriek of outrageous laughter as he pulled her off balance.
Afterwards, when they were naked on the blanket, Connie lay on her side, studying Blake’s face with frank scrutiny while he stared lazily up into the sky as it began to fill with white clouds.
“I like your lips,” Connie said seriously, tracing the outline of them with the curious tip of her finger. “They’re good for kissing.”
Blake suppressed a smile. Her touch was a tickle at the corner of his mouth and he twitched his nose. “I like your lips too,” he said.
She ignored him. One of her hands was flat on his chest. With the other she drew a line along his nose, feeling the ridges and little bumps, each one an ancient story.
“Was your nose ever broken?” she asked.
“Once, playing football,” he said.
She continued exploring. There was an old scar on his chin, and another on his chest, almost hidden in the whorls of dark hair there. She touched it, felt the raised little ridge, and then moved her hand inexorably lower, becoming bolder.
“I like your mind,” she said at last.
Blake flicked her a curious glance. He wedged an arm under his head. “My mind?”
“You’re quite brilliant,” she said seriously. “Your art – the way you see things, and then the way you go about painting.”
Blake gave a dismissive grunt. “Ninety percent of my painting was a result of simple hard work,” he said. “It wasn’t brilliance, it was persistence. I was just too stupid to give up. I didn’t invent anything new, Connie. I just stumbled on techniques by accident.”
She sat up and scowled at him. “Then how do you explain the portrait?” she challenged. “The techniques must be totally different to painting a seascape, and yet I know your new painting is amazing. I just know it.”
He taunted her. “How do you know that? Have you peeked? Have you crept into the studio and seen it when I wasn’t around?”
She shook her head. “I just know,” she said. “Otherwise you would let me see it.”
“Well maybe I am hiding it from you because it is awful?”
Her fingers had crawled towards his abdomen. She gripped at him suddenly and he yelped in alarm. Connie’s face was a fiendish giggle of mischief. “Tell me the truth,” her voice was silken with soft playful menace. “Is it wonderful?”
“I haven’t ruined it yet,” Blake countered.
Connie squeezed gently and Blake let out a nervous laugh. “Okay! It’s good,” he surrendered. “It’s very good.”
Connie smiled with triumph. Suddenly Blake was hot and hard in her hand. She made her eyes wide and artless, and caught her breath. “Goodness,” she murmured. “Well we can’t let that go to waste!”
At the end of the first week Connie drove into Hoyt Harbor and spent the day shopping. She bought herself a new cell phone, and called Jean with the new number, then contacted the nursing home with the same information.
When she came back in the afternoon, Blake was finishing in the studio. The air in the room was heavy with the odor of turpentine. He washed his brushes, wiped them carefully dry, and then met Connie on the porch steps. She was brimming with excitement, her eyes alive and dancing. She threw herself into his arms, her laughter like the tinkle of a bell.
“I think I’ve found the perfect place for a studio,” she bubbled, gripping at his arms and skipping from one foot to the other. “It’s a shop on the main street of Hoyt Harbor, just a few doors down from the grocery store. There was a real estate office there, but they are closing down – Blake it would be perfect, absolutely perfect,” the words came in an uninterrupted rush without breath or pause.
She dragged him by the hand, down into the sand and drew a map with the end of a stick, showing him the layout of the office and outlining her plans. Blake watched her, became infected by her enthusiasm, and pored over the crude drawing. He sat back at last and rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Is it going to be big enough?”
Connie nodded, certain. “I paced it out,” she explained. “The office is one long narrow space, with a separate corner office. That would be the storage area,” she proposed. “But the walls in the main room would allow me to hang forty – maybe forty-five good-sized canvases. No trouble.”
“What about window frontage?”
“There is some,” Connie said. “The realtor that is in the premises has a display of houses available. The window isn’t wide, but it reaches from the floor to the ceiling. Beside it is a door into the shop.”
Blake’s brow was still furrowed. “What about lighting?”
“It’s good,” Connie said. “But I would probably need to improve it.”
Blake sat back on his haunches. Connie was gazing at him, yearning silently for his approval. She stared at him with big wide eyes.
“What about the rent?”
She told him and he was surprised. It was affordable.
“They need a tenant as soon as possible. The tourist season is almost over and I guess the landlord knows that once the vacationers go, his chances of filling the shop before next season are slim.”
“When would you open?”
Connie shrugged. She stared down into the sand for a silent moment, her lips pursed, trying to calculate the time she would need to have lighting fitted and the walls repainted. “Maybe in a month or two?” it was more of a question than an answer.
“And what would you open with?”
She blushed coyly. “Your paintings – if you will still let me show them. I thought I could hold an opening night, invite the mayor and local dignitaries, as well as some of the art media. It would be a big deal in the art world – not the gallery, but a showing of your long-lost works. It could launch the gallery, give me a profile, and help me to attract other big-name artists.”
Blake arched his eyebrows, probing her plan, getting a sense of her commitment. “So you will be a high-end gallery?”
“Yes,” Connie said adamantly. “There is already the gallery on the foreshore that exhibits local art for tourists. I am thinking much grander. I want the big name artists to consign me pieces.”
“And you think you can attract the sort of money that invests in high-end art all the way to Hoyt Harbor?”
“They will come for you, Blake. They will come from all around the world to see your paintings,” Connie said earnestly. “I am counting on them coming back when I have other artists to show them. And if not, I can always deal through the internet.”
Blake got slowly to his feet. The sun was lowering and the sky was beginning to tint in the hues of a glorious sunset. “Well it sounds as though you have it all thought out,” he said. “I don’t see what’s stopping you.”
She came to him and hugged him fiercely. “So you will still allow me to show your paintings?”
“Yes,” he smiled into her big bright eyes.
“And the new one? The portrait?”
“That’s up to you,” he said. “I plan on giving it to you as a gift when it’s finished. You can do with it what you want. Show it, sell it…”
“Oh, no,” Connie said gravely. “I would never sell it. It’s our painting, Blake. A painted memory of the happiest days of my life.”
To celebrate, they carried a folding table down to the beach that night and ate grilled steaks on the shore, watching the moon as it seemed to rise up from out of the ocean, and marveling at the glittering brightness of the stars. The sea was calm, the waves whispering up onto the sand. Blake fetched a blanket from the house and they lay on the beach talking until midnight when at last the mist came roiling off the ocean and turned the world pearlescent grey.
The following morning Connie phoned the landlord, and the Connie Dixon Gallery of Fine Art was born.
36.
Just as the da
ys were filled with work, and the afternoons given over to the sun and the sand, so the nights were reserved for their loving.
Connie came to Blake’s bed every evening and they devoured each other in the erotic intensity of lovemaking. Each time together seemed more poignant, more touching so that no two nights were the same. They learned the secret pleasures of each other’s bodies, the subtle caresses and touches that aroused, and discovered their appetites were equally unquenchable – they could not get enough of each other.
When Connie came to him quietly one night during the second week, she stood in the open doorway for long moments with the light from the hallway behind her back. She was naked, and she called out to him quietly in the darkened room.
“Yes,” he husked.
She glided across the floor, an ethereal figure of femininity, and climbed beneath the sheets beside him. Her body was warm and her fingers alive with new enthusiasm. She rolled atop him and straddled his hips. She kissed him tenderly. He reached up with his hand and brushed the fall of her hair from her face – and realized with a shock that she had been weeping.
“What’s wrong?” he asked
She sniffed, and then laughed at herself. “I’m happy,” she said.
She kissed him again, more passionate than before, and they became entangled within each other’s arms. Outside the night was still and quiet, but on the big bed their lovemaking was a fresh storm of passion until they lay back spent and exhausted, as though they had plumbed the very depths of human emotion.
Much later, when they were still and quiet, their breathing just a whisper, Connie rose, but Blake flung an arm around her waist to stop her.
“No more,” he said. “No more going back to another room. Stay here with me from now on.”
37.
Blake leaned in close, fixed his gaze with infinite concentration, and then dabbed at the canvas with the tip of a fine-pointed brush. His hand was steady, and every minute stroke was a painstaking exercise in control as he spread oil paint across the small piece of canvas. At last he sat back, widened his eyes, and then blinked. He felt himself release a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.
He turned to the palette, loaded the small brush with a mix of paynes grey and crimson, and set it alongside the pure color beside it – working in a small section of the painting no larger than his thumb. When the dark shade was spread evenly, he snatched up a badger brush and fanned out the bristles with the tips of his fingers until the sable was soft.
“What kind of a brush is that?” Connie asked from where she stood by the window.
“Badger brush,” Blake grunted.
“What’s it for?” She was glum, peering out through the glass listlessly for most of the day, distracted by a swirl of fears that tumbled in her mind. The painting was almost complete, and with it was ending Blake’s reason for needing her here. For two weeks she had closed her mind to the realization that their time was limited. Now it would soon be a reality, and that inevitable certainty filled her with worry.
“It’s for blending colors together,” Blake said. He had sensed her mood, but been preoccupied with the canvas. “It’s like an old fashioned version of an airbrush that artists use these days,” he went on as he worked the paint with deft flicks of his wrist until the two colors seemed to magically melt together to become the petal of the rose.
He threw the brush down, stood stiffly and hung his neck to the side to loosen knotted muscles.
“Now,” he stepped away from the easel. “Would you mind telling me what your problem is?”
“Problem?”
He nodded. “You’ve been downcast all day, waiting for me to notice. Something is bothering you. What is it?”
Connie drooped her shoulders, seemed to wilt tragically. She gave a heavy theatrical sigh and shook her head. “Nothing.”
Blake lifted her chin with the tips of his fingers so he could see into her eyes. She was pouting like a child and he almost laughed. He repeated the question patiently.
“The painting is almost finished,” Connie said.
“Yes.”
She fell silent as though Blake should surely understand.
“And…?”
Connie made a sad little face. “And then you won’t need me here any more.”
Blake nodded. “Is that what this is about?”
“Yes.”
He stood back, folded his arms, his expression dire and serious. “What about the exhibition you are planning for your new gallery?”
Connie looked up suddenly. “What about it?”
Blake shrugged as though it should be obvious. “Well won’t you need to catalogue all my old seascape paintings, then photograph them, and then write detailed descriptions and produce a brochure?”
Connie was startled. “Yes…”
“And won’t you need constant access to the paintings to do all that work?”
“Yes,” she said with dawning realization.
“And do you really want to drive to and from Hoyt Harbor every day to do that?”
She shook her head now. She was smiling, the warmth of it spreading like a glorious sunrise across her face. “That would be horrible.”
Blake nodded, then leaned forward and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Then it’s settled. Now can I get back to work?”
He stared at the petal of the rose with a critical eye, and decided that to do any more would risk muddying the colors and losing the vibrancy of their pigments. He set the badger brush aside, but stayed standing for another long moment, squinting his eyes and inclining his head to one side as if to see the work from a fresh angle. He was almost done for the day.
He went back to the chair and worked for another thirty minutes, massaging wet oil paint until he had shape and shadow. He added a touch of white to the crimson and then worked with the infinite precision of a jeweler until the missing element – shine – seemed to give the petal an impossible third dimension.
Blake tossed the brush aside and straightened his back. He heard tiny bones crack. He wiped his hands on a scrap of cloth, and then smeared the rest of the paint from his fingertips with turpentine.
A puzzling sound made him look up curiously. It was muffled through walls and for an instant he didn’t recognize it. Connie did.
“My phone!” she said, and went running from the room.
38.
Connie ran into the living room, rummaged around in her purse and snatched up the phone before the call went to voice mail. She was breathing hard, filled with an unaccountable dread. She expected to hear the dispassionate voice of the nursing home director, preparing her for news about her mother.
“Hello?” she said breathless.
“Hello, darling,” Duncan Cartwright’s voice seemed to drip with sarcasm. Connie’s hand clutched at her throat, her fingers feathered and trembling.
“Duncan?” Connie hissed. She was incredulous. She felt icy tentacles of foreboding wrap around her heart, as if the misery of her past had suddenly reappeared like a dark cloud on the horizon. “How did you get this number?”
“Well that took some artful deception,” he admitted. His voice was malicious with his triumph. “Let’s just say the people at your mother’s nursing home are a little too gullible. You really should talk to them, you know.” He was smiling, she could hear it in his voice and it sickened her.
“What do you want?” She cast a furtive glance back down the hallway and could see Blake’s shadow moving on the wall as he worked in the studio. She went into the kitchen and found a corner at the table.
“I wanted to talk to you about your paintings, darling,” Duncan seemed unaffected by the harsh tone of Connie’s voice. “You left some of your early work here in the gallery’s basement. It’s all rubbish of course, and I have thrown out the one you gave to me. Remember that one – some childish little mess that you thought made a handsome birthday gift.” There was a brief pause and then his voice changed in an instant. “I want them go
ne,” he growled. “Or else I’ll burn them.”
Connie stared vacantly at the far wall. She had given Duncan one of her early paintings, when he had been so encouraging about her work. She had forgotten about them until now. She wanted them back, not because they had value, but because they were like landmarks along her life journey.
“Will you come and get your painting?” Duncan asked again.
“Yes, I’ll get the painting.”
“And the rest of this vile trash?”
She ignored the barb. “Yes,” Connie whispered. “I will, Duncan. I will get them all. I already told you I would.”
“When?”
“Soon!” She was thinking furiously, wondering how quickly she could arrange for a courier to collect the work from New York and have it delivered. Duncan spoke across the silence.
“I miss you in my bed,” he taunted her. “You were so good, baby, and I know it was good for you too – the way you used to moan and beg me for more.”
“No,” Connie said with a sneer. “I did it because I had to, not out of love or passion, Duncan. Never. I just went through the motions to survive – and every single time I was revolted.”
She hung up the phone and threw it across the table.
* * *
Blake heard Connie’s footsteps fade down the long hallway and then the trilling sound of her phone abruptly stopped. He turned his attention once more to the painting. He grunted with a grudging satisfaction and pride. The portrait was finished, and even he had to admit that it was beautiful.
The painting had been rendered with all of his dedication and talent. Connie’s face was an expression of longing – as though some secret sadness welled behind her eyes, sparked perhaps by the fragrance of the rose she held. The detail was exquisite. The light across her face and arms was so real it seemed as though the canvas had been backlit – a painting made translucent and alive by his skill.
He leaned over the bottom of the canvas, signed his name with a flourish, and left the room. Tomorrow morning he would show Connie.