It was a Friday night and my plan was to get into a bath with a glass of wine and a book. All I was concerned with was unwinding. I was tempted not to answer the phone when it rang. They’d call back if it was important. But after two rings, I leapt toward it.
“Hey.”
My heart quickened before my head realized who it was. I felt as though I were caught reading his diary. “Hey back.”
A soft laugh. “It’s Luke.”
“Oh.” I put some surprise in my voice. “How was Paris?”
“My head’s still spinning, but maybe that’s from not sleeping.” There was a pause. “I sold some paintings…and got some good press…I guess it was worth it.”
“I’m glad,” I said, not sure what he was really saying. “I’m happy you called.” The words spilled out before I could weigh them. Then there was a tiny awkward blip of silence that I was beginning to think was typical of the way Luke communicated.
“Do you think that you could come out here?” he blurted out.
“Well, when?”
“Tomorrow?”
Did he think I was just sitting around waiting for him to call? I thought of saying that next week was better. “I guess I could drive out,” my voice answered.
“That would be great.”
He was ready to hang up. “Wait,” I said, too frantically. “What time is good?”
“Anytime.”
“All right, but I have to bring Harry.”
“Who?”
He didn’t know about Harry, I realized then. “He’s my dog. I can’t leave him home alone all day.”
“Oh, sure.” He sounded relieved. “Bring Harry, I’d love to meet him.”
“Okay then.” I placed the receiver back carefully and refilled my glass, holding it up to toast an invisible partner.
• • •
Fortunately, Harry was a great traveler. He climbed into the back seat and fell asleep. I remembered reading an article about traveling with pets that said the wonderful thing about them is they never ask, “Are we there yet?” When they’re with you, they’re there.
We drove out on a cold December morning under a gray sky. I was in jeans, the boots, and a black turtleneck sweater under a black down North Face jacket. Knowing how bare Luke’s cupboard had been the last time I was there, I was tempted to pack tea bags, cookies, or at least cheese and fruit, but no, I wasn’t his mother. It wasn’t my place to feed him or stock his refrigerator. Now that he had sold some of his paintings, he could afford lunch.
I pulled up to his house and stopped the car. “This is it, Harry. I hope you like him.” I got out and let Harry out of the back door. Luke stepped out on the porch right then, as if he’d been listening for us, and Harry bolted over to sniff him. Luke kneeled and Harry nearly toppled him, licking his face. Luke murmured to him and scratched Harry’s head, which was a signal for him to get down and roll onto his back so Luke could scratch his stomach.
“He’s easy.” Luke smiled up at me and I tried to pretend I wasn’t struck by how good he looked in a black T-shirt and jeans that outlined his lean thighs. He got to his feet and came over, giving me a brief hug. Then he studied me. “Come in the house,” he said, finally.
Mary Alice was right to think of tearing it down and starting over for her mother. It looked as if it belonged to someone’s dead grandmother. There was a sagging blue couch, an overstuffed club chair, a utilitarian brown wooden coffee table, and a braided rug over a linoleum floor. It was depressing, really. There was a wooden table and two blue chairs in the middle of the small kitchen. Mary Alice obviously hadn’t sent her decorator here. Did Luke see how sad the house was?
He opened a cabinet and took out two glasses. “Juice?” I nodded and he poured two glasses of apple juice. He carried them to the couch and we sat down. “I want to paint you outdoors,” he said, without any preliminaries. “I know it’s cold, but…”
“It’s okay, I’ll let you know when my heart stops and my blood freezes.” I looked down at my jeans. “Is this outfit okay?”
“Wait,” he said. He left the room and came back with a bag. Inside it was a coral-colored skirt with a ruffle around the hem. He held it out to me. “I bought this in Paris. I thought of you and the boots when I saw it.”
“Pretty. Maybe you can join me in my business.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a wardrobe consultant.”
He nodded. “That fits,” he said, ending the discussion. He went over to a closet and took out a jean jacket. “Maybe this over it?” I slipped it on. It was obviously his, so it was too big for me. I rolled up the sleeves.
“Take off the sweater. Let the tattoo show.”
Now I would really freeze. “The tattoo is gone.”
He looked concerned for a moment and shook his head, not understanding.
“It wasn’t real,” I almost laughed. “It was one of those ink transfer tattoos that you press on.”
His face fell like a little boy who’s told there’s no more ice cream. “Oh,” he said. He stared off, lost in thought for a moment. “Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. He went out of the house, walking toward his studio. A few minutes later he was back with three tubes of paint, a wooden palette, and two brushes.
“Take off your sweater,” he said, casually.
I cocked my head to the side. “What for?”
“I’m putting the rose back.”
I looked at him, unsure. I wasn’t ready to get undressed in front of him. I went into the bathroom and came back wearing the skirt with the jacket over my bra. I pulled half of the jacket open.
“Pull aside the bra,” he said, putting the wooden handle of the brush between his teeth as he opened a tube of paint.
I was blushing like a twelve-year-old, so he’d been successful in turning me into a modest little mouse. “Forgive me…but I’m just not used to having strange men paint roses on my breasts.”
“Sorry,” he said, taking the brush out of his mouth. He smiled, breaking the tension. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I just thought it was perfect on you when I saw it at the show. We can skip it, if you’d rather.”
I slipped the strap off my shoulder so that half of my right breast was exposed. “Go ahead, but I have to warn you that I might laugh if the brush tickles.”
There was a serious expression on his face as he mixed the paints. “I’ll try to make it fast.” Clearly there was nothing sexual about it to him. It was just another thing to paint. I stared down at the floor while he used just the tip of a fine brush and made a few short strokes. I was aware of the strong scent of the oil paint. I wondered if he still noticed it.
“There. But you won’t be able to touch it for a while. Oil paint doesn’t dry quickly.”
I’d be sitting out in the freezing cold, half naked, while Luke painted me. “This is really lunacy. I don’t even know what I’m doing here.”
“You’re here because you’re beautiful and I’m painting you.” He looked slightly annoyed that there was anything to discuss. “And the boots are who you are so I wanted to paint you wearing them.”
How did I answer that? I shrugged. “So let’s get started.”
He put two chairs together outside. I sat back in one and propped my feet up on the other, pulling my skirt back so that the boots showed. He sat opposite me on a stool and quickly sketched with a pencil in a large white pad. I had no sense of how much time had passed. I was afraid to steal a look at my watch. But at some point, half an hour, or possibly more, I was aware I’d lost sensation in my fingers. One of them had turned white and I couldn’t bend it. How was he able to keep sketching?
“Luke, I’m frozen…we have to stop.”
He didn’t answer. Did he hear me? “Luke,” I said again.
“Just another minute,” he said, without focusing on me. I waited. One minute, two, but he didn’t stop. Finally I got up and went into the house, slipping into my jacket while trying to keep it away from the rose. I’d been flattered that he wanted to paint me at first. Now I was just annoyed. He came in a few minutes later.
“I’m sorry, I get lost sometimes when I work. It’s selfish.” He shook his head. I didn’t answer and he went over to the fireplace and threw on a few logs and some twigs. He kneeled and struck a match and tossed it in. There was a crackling sound as the wood caught fire, giving the room a warm glow.
“Sit here,” he said, pulling a blanket off the couch and spreading it in front of the fire. “You’ll be warm in a minute.” He sat down and smiled at me.
“Tea would help. Do you have any?”
He went into the kitchen and came back and holding up a tin. Fauchon Matin de France. “This okay?”
“Yes, fine.” I heard him turn on the water and I stared into the fire. Just weeks before he had been penniless, now he was buying Fauchon? A gift for someone? He came back in and handed me a large white ceramic mug.
I closed my hands around it to warm them and took a sip. “It’s delicious.”
We sat staring into the hypnotic flames without talking. The house was freezing. How could he stand it? I moved closer to the fire and looked at Luke. Sometimes I felt I knew him intimately, other times he was a total stranger. He could be warm or cold. He sat there without speaking and then reached for a poker and stirred the logs. One fell with a soft thud and a tiny explosion of sparks flew like pixie dust.
“Are you always so chatty?”
He stared at me shyly and smiled briefly. I looked away. “Tell me more about Paris.” How fortunate I wasn’t a talk show host who had to interview him. He gave me a sideward glance and raised an eyebrow.
“If I could read the reviews I guess I’d know more about what they thought of me.” He shrugged. “But I was told they liked the paintings. I even sold some.”
“So now you can eat.”
“It’s nice to be able to pay the rent and buy food—and paint. I’ve used up my credit everywhere.”
“I’m glad for you; you deserve it. You have such a gift.” He sat back with his arms crossed over his knees and his chin pressed against the top of his arm.
“When you’re starving for so long, you start to doubt anybody will ever see anything in what you do. Then you think there’s a reason nobody sees anything. Why paint when you’re not able to reach people? You become an outcast, you question your vision, your talent, you question your whole existence, but still you do it and you can’t imagine life if you couldn’t.” He looked at me almost imploringly. “Does any of that make any sense to you?”
“I imagine every creative person goes through that. It’s your rite of passage. You’re just one of a long line of starving artists who’s finally getting noticed.” I stretched my legs out so my feet were closer to the fire. “You’re in good company.” I shrugged. “Maybe it’s good to struggle first—it humbles you. It’s not meant to be easy. It would be a travesty if it was.”
He nodded, staring into my eyes, almost childlike, completely unselfconscious. I looked down when he didn’t.
“Warming up?” He reached over and pulled my jacket closer around me.
“Yes.” I looked at him warily when I saw him glance outside. “Don’t tell me we have to go out again?”
He bit his bottom lip. “We have to go out again.”
“I’m a terrible model, I’m sorry; I get so grouchy when I’m cold. Maybe if you were Gauguin and we were in the tropics, I’d be more amenable.”
“Then you’d complain about the heat.”
“I’m not going,” I pretended to hide my head under my arms.
“C’mon,” he said, “just don’t think about the cold.” He rose to his feet and reached for my hand to pull me up. “It’s mind over matter, and anyway, the light’s so good now.”
“You’re a sadist.”
He gave me a half smile. “It turns women on.” I was about to object, but he was already out the door.
I climbed back into the cold metal chair, stretching my legs out. This time I didn’t take off my jacket and Luke didn’t say anything. “How often do you use models?”
Did he hear me? I repeated the question.
“Not often,” was the clipped response.
“Do you use live plants?” My idea of a joke. Again, no answer. I considered sticking my tongue out at him to see if that brought a reaction. I had assumed we would talk while he worked and get to know each other, but just the opposite seemed to happen. I was transformed from a person into a physical object. He seemed to lose himself, looking at me so hard I was sure he wasn’t seeing me at all because he was fixated on what was in his head. Talk distracted him, so I didn’t make any other efforts. Finally I saw him glance up at the sky and then back at me. He got down from the stool, shaking his head as though he were annoyed. Was it me?
“We’re done.” He nodded as though a business meeting were over. He strode back into the house, leaving me sitting there.
“Am I dismissed?”
“What?” He looked bewildered. Obviously he had no idea what I was annoyed about and he wasn’t even focusing on it. His eyes held mine.
“I wasn’t getting what I wanted,” he said, exasperated, as if he were talking to himself as much as to me. “And now the light is gone, the moment is over, and it won’t be the same ever again and you’ve lost something you saw because you couldn’t get it down.” He searched my face to see if I understood. No, I don’t understand your frustration, I wanted to say, but I tried to have an expression that was neutral, as though I were taking in what he said and considering it rather than dwelling on how selfish and shallow I was because all I was thinking about was sitting out in the cold, freezing, and that had nothing to do with his picture.
Not knowing what else to do or say, I went into the bathroom and changed back into my sweater and jeans. I folded the skirt and left it on the side of the sink. When I went back into the living room he was in front of the fire. Harry was stretched out next to him, as if Luke were his best buddy. It annoyed me. How dare he cozy up to Luke? He had just met him. So much for dogs being loyal.
I glanced at my watch: almost four. “I’ll be heading back.” I couldn’t tell whether the tension, big as an elephant, was totally in my head, or whether his frustrations with his work had come between us.
Luke looked up. “We’ll start again tomorrow.” He scratched the side of his head as if he were coming to terms with the fact that he had to start over.
“What?”
“What time can you come back?”
Anger was rising up my spine. It felt like he was talking to a plumber who had to return to finish a job. “Tomorrow?”
“In the morning?” If he picked up on my annoyance, he ignored it.
“It’s a long drive,” I said, dismissively. Another uncomfortable pause. I just wanted to get out the door and leave.
“You can stay if you want,” he said, tentatively.
There was nothing in his tone that told me he wanted me to stay or cared in the least. It was just a cold, last-minute accommodation, and that made it worse than if he didn’t ask. “I have to feed Harry and do things at home.” I paused. “And I’m meeting a friend for dinner.” Why did I come up with that?
“The weather will be warmer tomorrow,” he tried.
“If I can.” I put on Harry’s leash and tugged him toward the door.
Harry was asleep as soon as I started the car. As I pulled out, I glanced back at the house through the rearview mirror. Luke was watching me from the open doorway.