A Portrait of Emily

by J. P. Bowie

  “Where are you, Peter?” she asked.

  “Right here, don’t worry Mom.” He smiled then said quietly, “I was just thinking what a great looking couple Jerry and Emily make.”

  “Yes, they are both very sweet, and her brother seems like a very nice young man.”

  “Mmm…I think the jury’s still out on that one.”

  “Really? You don’t like him?”

  “Oh yes. I just think there’s a lot more there than meets the eye. Bit of a dark horse, I think.”

  “Really?”

  “What are you two whispering about?” Jeff fixed them both with a stern look. “Didn’t your mothers tell you it’s rude to whisper in company?”

  “I was merely congratulating Peter on his dinner,” Eve said, hedging. “I didn’t want to embarrass him by singing his praises too loudly.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  Jeff gave them both an “I know better” look. “I’ll talk to you two, later,” he muttered into his wineglass.

  “Hey, Peter.” Jerry grinned at him across the table. “Why don’t you show us Emily’s portrait?”

  “Because it’s not finished.”

  “Oh, come on, please, please, please.”

  “Jerry…”

  “Pretty please?”

  “Oh, for goodness sake.” Peter rose from the table. “I can’t stand begging.”

  “Yay!” Jerry jumped to his feet. “Begging always works.”

  Laughing, they trooped up to the studio where Peter turned on the lights and removed the oilcloth that covered Emily’s portrait.

  “Wow,” Anthony murmured. “You look beautiful, Sis.”

  Jerry stood with his arm around Emily’s waist, gazing at the portrait of his fiancée in silence. Then, much to Peter’s surprise, he flung his arms around him and hugged him tightly.

  “You’re a genius Peter—a genius.”

  “Does this mean you like it?”

  Jerry released him and turned to look at the painting again. “Like it? That doesn’t even come close. You’ve captured her very essence. The beauty inside her. Oh, Emily…” He looked at her with tears in his eyes. “Jesus, I’m making a fool of myself,” he said, his face flooding with color.

  “You’re the sweetest guy in the world.” Emily hugged him back. “Now enough. That’s about as much attention as I can stand in one night.”

  Later, their guests gone, Jeff poured a nightcap for Peter and himself. “Well, I don’t think Jerry liked your painting very much.”

  “He really is a great guy. I think they’ll be very happy together, don’t you?”

  “Totally.” He handed Peter his glass and they sat together on the couch. “Now, what were you and your co-conspirator whispering about earlier?”

  “Anthony. Mom said she thought he was very nice and I said I thought he was a bit of a dark horse.”

  “You think so? Is that your psychic self talking?”

  “Maybe. I mean, he seems very nice, but what kind of guy runs around with someone like Joey?”

  “Excuse me?” Jeff looked at Peter, his eyebrows raised. “You’re talking to the guy who lived with Joey for four years, remember?”

  “That was different. You were young then. Joey hadn’t had time to grow into the user he is now.”

  “Wait a minute; you’re assuming an awful lot aren’t you? Yeah, it’s true that Joey’s self centered, scheming, and money hungry, but—well, okay, I see what you mean.”

  They both laughed then Peter said, “Makes you wonder why Anthony would bother with someone so shallow.”

  “Probably the sex. Joey was very good in the sack.”

  “How good?”

  “Never mind how good. Not as good as you, of course,” he added quickly.

  “Do you still have feelings for Joey?”

  “No, I do not.” Jeff rubbed Peter’s thigh. “Don’t ever worry about that. I love you and only you.”

  § § § §

  Anthony left Emily and Jerry to say their goodnights and went up to his room. It had been an interesting evening without a doubt. Despite the surprise of seeing Jeff face to face under those circumstances, he liked the guy and his partner, Peter.

  What a talent that guy has, he thought taking off his shirt. He guessed he should have mentioned to them that he had not told Joey his real name. Not that it probably mattered. They didn’t seem to be in touch with Joey on a regular basis. Besides, he was going to tell Joey he couldn’t see him anymore. He’d made his mind up the last time they’d been together. Joey just wasn’t what he wanted. Sure, he was good-looking and great in bed, but there was no substance, no real connection.

  Not like the one he’d had with Mark. He’d probably never find that again with any guy. That had been special. Mark had been a special person. Like Jerry. Emily was very lucky to have him. He’d look after her for sure. He was almost envious of his sister, but she deserved to have this happiness. A sudden, insistent tapping at the door interrupted his thoughts. He opened the door and Emily slipped in, closing it behind her. She was holding her journal.

  “Someone’s been in my room while we were out.”

  Anthony slipped on a t-shirt. “Are you sure?”

  “The door was unlocked. I always lock it when I’m out of the house and at night when I go to bed.”

  “Maybe you just forgot to lock it tonight. We did leave in a bit of a hurry.”

  Emily thought for a moment. “No, I’m sure I locked it. My journal was lying on the floor. Someone could have read it…”

  Anthony wanted to calm his sister down, but he would not put it past either of his parents to go snooping around when they knew he and Emily were out.

  “Jeez Sis,” he said. “Did it look like your journal had been read?”

  “I don’t know.” Emily frowned at the journal in her hand. “I could kick myself for leaving it out. I never do, but when Jerry arrived—like you said, we left immediately. It must have fallen off the bed. Maybe I could have left the door unlocked, but it makes me sick to think my father might have been in my room looking around, touching my things. If he read what I wrote in this journal, he’ll see it in black and white how much I loathe him. Not that I care about that so much, but he might use it to get between Jerry and me.”

  “You put that much in there?”

  “I’ve been keeping these journals for years. All the stuff that happened is in there. I’ve got them hidden away. Remember when mother found one and ripped it to pieces, screaming at me that I’d made it all up?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Then I lost one, or she stole it, and probably ripped that one up too, but I rewrote everything and kept it truly hidden.”

  “Where do you keep them, Emily?”

  Emily gazed at her brother wondering if she could trust him with this vital information. She studied his face for a moment. His concern had brought back that stern look that reminded her so much of her father, and she shivered involuntarily at the likeness. Instantly, she felt she was being unfair. Anthony was nothing like his father—even though he had inherited the older man’s tendency to adopt a cool and unfriendly expression when worried about something.

  When Anthony smiled, his whole face was transformed. When her father smiled, it was more like a sneer with no trace of humor. Still, for now, this had to be her secret.

  “In my room, under some clothing.”

  “That doesn’t sound too safe. Perhaps you should find somewhere else, in case either Mom or Dad were in the room tonight.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that. Well, I guess I’d better get to bed.” She paused with her hand on the doorknob then turned to smile at her brother. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

  “A very good time. You’ve made some great friends, Emily. Peter is totally talented and his friend and his mother are cool people.”

  “Very cool,” Emily agreed. “Don’t you wish our mother could fit in so well?”

  “That would take a miracle.” An
thony’s laugh was without humor.

  Emily kissed her brother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Anthony. Sweet dreams.”

  “Night, Emily. You too.”

  When she returned to her room and locked the door, Emily went over to the nightstand on the far side of the bed. Pulling it away from the wall, she knelt and lifted the carpet. She pried up one of the floorboards beneath and pulled out a large metal box. She breathed a sigh of relief as she saw it had not been unlocked. No one had discovered this hiding place. She’d been right to go to this trouble all those years ago. After her mother had ripped up one of her diaries and possibly stolen another; that was when she had thought of this hiding place.

  Last year, when her mother had decided to have the whole house re-carpeted, she had panicked a little and had driven around with the box in the trunk of her car for three days until the workmen were done. Then she had returned the box to its secret place. Once, long ago, she had considered burning some of the older journals and recently, since Jerry had come into her life, she’d had the same thought. It seemed petty somehow, to harbor so much hatred for one person when there was now so much love surrounding her.

  Perhaps it was time to let go of the past and dispose of these reminders of the horror of those years? Maybe then she would be able to shake off the fear that kept her from satisfying Jerry completely. She smiled as she remembered how emotional he’d been tonight after seeing her portrait. He really, truly loved her. Perhaps…yes, she decided. She’d take care of this as soon as she could. She replaced the box under floorboards, patted down the carpet, and pulled the nightstand back into its original position.

  Another decision. It was time to tell Jerry. He had the right to know what had haunted her all her life. She was sure, positive that he would not be ashamed of her. He loved her too much to turn away from her. If she’d had any doubts about his love for her, they were dissolved this evening. She could rely on Jerry’s love. Of that she was certain.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  As was his habit on every Wednesday evening after leaving his office, Charles Hastings pulled into the parking lot of the Seasons hotel in Newport Beach. He was meeting his old friend Dr. Tom Watt in the bar for a quick drink before heading home. He also wanted to check up on a “little favor” Tom had done for him two nights before.

  Over the years, the man had done him several “favors”, but none as crucial as this one. Hastings knew he had put Tom in a dangerous position. Still, Tom should never complain about it after what he, Charles, had done for him in the beginning. As he entered the bar, he saw his old friend sitting at one of the tables. The years had not been kind to Tom, Hastings thought as he approached him. He looked tired, worn out almost, as if life had defeated him somehow. He looked up, but did not smile in greeting. Instead he merely waved at the drinks he’d ordered and Hastings, sensing the mood Tom was in, sat down with some reluctance.

  “What’s the problem today, Doc?” he asked flippantly.

  “You’re the fucking problem, Charles,” Tom almost snarled at him. “You and that kink of yours will get us both into hot water one of these days.”

  “Keep your voice down, idiot,” Hastings hissed, then threw back the entire contents of his glass in one gulp.

  Tom signaled impatiently at the waitress to bring them two more drinks. “That was the last time I clean up after you lose control of yourself. What the hell were you thinking?”

  Hastings looked grimly down at his empty glass. He had gone a bit haywire the other night, he had to admit that to himself, but lately he’d needed that extra kick in order to justify the vast amount of money he put out each time. His contact had got greedier of late and the price for his pleasure had gone up. It seemed only fair that he should get a little more satisfaction for his money.

  “That girl was in terrible condition.” Tom glared at him. “It’s a miracle you didn’t kill her. Why the hell did you have to beat her? Wasn’t fucking her enough?”

  “Shut up, Tom,” Hastings said through clenched teeth. “Do I have to remind you of your little perversions? I wouldn’t go further with this, if you know what’s…” He fell silent as he saw the waitress approach with their drinks. Sensing the tension at the table, she set their drinks down quickly and left without her usual cheery comments.

  “…if you know what’s good for you,” Hastings finished when the waitress was out of earshot.

  “I never use violence Charles. What you’re doing is beginning to scare me.”

  “Well, it won’t happen again. My contact won’t be calling me again. He got cold feet.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “There’s plenty more out there. It just takes time to establish the necessary link.”

  “God, be careful Charles.” Tom’s eyes darted about nervously. “This last time could have turned very ugly if she’d died.”

  Hastings seemed not to hear him. He was already trying to devise a way to find another source. Perhaps one of his old contacts was still in ‘business’.

  “Are you listening?” Tom rasped.

  “Yes, yes I’m listening. Don’t worry Tom, I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  He left the hotel about a half hour and a total of three bourbons later. It was only a short car ride home and so far he had never encountered any problems driving with two or three drinks under his belt. Tom was really becoming an old woman of late, he mused. Too bad he had to rely on him for so much, but without a doubt he was the only doctor he could go to in a crisis. Ever since Emily had tried to commit suicide all those year ago, Tom had covered for him. Of course he’d really had no choice.

  After what I did for him, he thought smugly, he couldn’t very well refuse. I could have ruined him with one word.

  He recalled a night several years before when he and Tom had gone on a fishing trip taking young Anthony with them. The kid hadn’t wanted to go…always the sissy, but he’d insisted and Patricia had reluctantly agreed. She always did in the end. He had already decided he needed Tom in his power, ready to drop everything to come to his aid should he ever need it and he had found the perfect lure—Anthony.

  He knew Tom lusted after the kid. He’d seen it in his eyes many times when he’d been at the house. One day, Anthony had come in from the pool wearing a skimpy bathing suit; his slim, tanned body still damp and glistening from his swim. Hastings had noted with some delight that Tom seemed mesmerized by the sight. No doubt he had sired a handsome kid—and one that could be infinitely useful to him.

  And so he had sacrificed his son’s innocence on that fishing trip. Sitting in his tent, stoked up on bourbon, he had listened to his son’s screams as Tom forced himself upon him. He had grunted with satisfaction when the screams became a pathetic whimper, and then finally when he could hear nothing at all. He had fallen into a drunken stupor and when he awoke, Anthony was sitting in the tent, staring at him with such concentrated hatred, that for a moment his blood had run cold.

  It did not end there of course. There were many other ‘trips’ and Hastings soon convinced himself that his son did not mind Tom’s attentions. Always knew he had the makings of a little faggot, Hastings had thought coldly. Nothing was ever said between father and son on the matter. Anthony avoided his father as much as he could from that time on, and his silence and obvious dislike for his father were what prompted Hastings to send his son to military school. Oh how Patricia had wailed and begged him not to do this terrible thing. What was so terrible? The boy would benefit from the discipline…give him some direction in life and, best of all, would get him out of his father’s sight.

  Not that he felt any remorse for what he had done. Remorse was not an emotion that Charles Hastings had ever felt. He had no time for what he considered womanly feelings; that could bring a man down. Remorse was when you regretted something and he regretted nothing. What had happened between him, Emily, and Paula, was for him, the natural way of things. A father’s love for his daughters manifested in its highest form.


  No matter that they had struggled against him in the beginning. They’d had to be weaned into loving him back, and eventually, they had. They had lain submissively as he’d cooed in their ears and told them how beautiful they were and how much he loved them—and he had loved them, until they’d grown too old for him to love anymore. Then he was forced to seek his pleasure elsewhere. Damned inconvenient at times. He’d got used to having it all under his own roof. Now it could get downright dangerous.

  And the sex was no longer enough. Now he felt the need to punish the little sluts for being what they were. He’d like to punish Emily too. She’d got far too uppity recently, ever since that fool Jerry had come into her life. He didn’t like Jerry, and if he had anything to do about it, he’d make sure Jerry never married his daughter. That would be just too much happiness for her. She did not deserve it. Not after the way she’d turned against him and took obvious pleasure in hating him so much.

  No, he would definitely have to squash any hopes she had of marrying that idiot. Paula had got away—but Emily would not.

  He drove his car in to the garage and, entering the house, went straight up to his room. Years ago he and Patricia had opted for separate bedrooms and bathrooms, or rather, he had insisted on it. She wouldn’t have to put up with his comings and goings in the middle of the night and he did not have to be discreet. He had enlarged his room, turning it into a suite by taking over the bedroom next door and converting it into a den and office so he could spend hours there by himself, coming down only for the occasional meal.

  He threw off his clothes, selected a silk robe to wear, and walked over to his computer. He could spend some time investigating that new website he’d heard about. If his contact had to let him down, he’d just have to find some other way of procuring likely young girls.