by Megan Chance
Jonas said nothing. He couldn't force the words, and he didn't know what to say anyway. There was no way he could tell Rico the truth: that he hadn't missed him during these last days, that Genie's presence had been enough to distract him. It would only hurt Childs if he knew, and there was enough pain in this room already. Jonas let the silence grow.
Childs sighed. "You're right, of course," he admitted finally, his words heavy with regret. "I have not always been here for you. I'm afraid I am not as . . . altruistic ... as I'd like to be." He laughed self- deprecatingly. "I have not always been the best of friends to you, mon ami."
Jonas took a deep breath. There was something so sorrowful in Rico's words, an admission Jonas wasn't sure he wanted to hear, a guilt he wanted to ignore. He took a deep breath, wanting to offer comfort, but the words that came out were painfully inadequate. "I understand," he said.
Rico gave him a wry look. "Do you?" he asked. He glanced away, to the frost covered window and the snow that fell outside. "I'm going away for a while," he said. "A few months, probably."
Jonas tried to banish the dread that rose with Rico's words. He worked to keep his voice light. "Back to Paris?"
Childs shook his head. "No. Paris has lost its charm for me." He smiled ruefully. "Perhaps south somewhere. Maybe even California—the land of gold and wickedness. I imagine I'd enjoy that." He shrugged. "Somewhere that isn't cold."
"I'll miss you," Jonas said, forcing nonchalance. His heart felt heavy. Genie was gone, and now Rico. Already he felt too damned alone.
Rico straightened. "You flatter me," he said. "But I doubt you'll be lonely."
Jonas gave him a weak smile. "I'll be heartbroken."
"You are heartbroken, my love," Rico noted gently. "But not over me."
Jonas's smile died. He turned back to the painting. "Don't be absurd."
Childs shook his head. "You know, when I first saw her, I thought she was one of those nameless debutantes who had a tendre for painters. She was irresistible; so shy and helpless, with those big doe eyes." He chuckled at the memory. "I could not help myself. She was ripe for teasing. I expected her to run screaming from the room, and I believe she wanted to do just that."
He looked at Jonas with a soft smile. "But she didn't run, mon ami. She was so serious, but she didn't run, and she didn't play those silly games women play with fans and eyelashes. I was half in love with her myself at that moment."
"So I remember." Jonas wanted the words to be wry, but his throat was too tight, and they came out sounding strained and hoarse instead.
Rico continued as if he hadn't heard. "When she was there a second day, and a third . . . well, it became clear she was not at all what I'd imagined."
"No," Jonas whispered. "She wasn't."
There was silence. Jonas stared down at his palette, but instead of seeing ultramarine and vermillion, he saw her face. Her face the way she looked when she walked out the door. He saw the sadness in her eyes, the loss, the determination. Christ, the determination. The intensity of it almost made him weep.
"Why are you afraid of her, Jonas?" Rico asked quietly. "What makes you want to push her away?"
Jonas squeezed his eyes shut. "I'm not afraid of her," he said, but he knew it was a lie. He was afraid of her. Afraid that her strength was an illusion, that he would crush it as easily as he'd crushed so many others, that he would see it crumble around her. He was afraid of her because the thought of her pain made him weak, and he knew if she stayed with him he would see too much of pain. He couldn't bear it. He couldn't stand to watch her tranquility fade, or her trust. It was as selfish a reason as any, but he couldn't run from it, couldn't deny it.
And in the end, he couldn't admit it either. "She's not that strong," he lied.
"She's the strongest woman I've ever known."
"It's not enough."
Rico let out a harsh sound. "Nothing's ever enough for you, is it, Jonas? Mon dieu, I've seen you throw away things before, but never anything this good. Never anything that could help you so much. Jesus, do you think my leaving was an accident?" He shook his head. "Don't be a fool, Jonas. I left because she is so much better for you than I. She is the only woman I've ever been jealous of, because in only a few days she calmed you the way I never could. And unless I miss my guess, she's in love with you—which is damned convenient, given that you're in love with her as well."
Jonas couldn't help it; he felt the plunge of desperation at Rico's words, as if he were poised over a paper net, ready to fall through it to the ground. Nothing was safe. "You're in love with her as well." The words spun back to him, a demon truth, and he wanted to deny them, to protest with every breath, long and loudly. No, I'm not. No, I'm not. No, I'm not.
Except he was. He was, and he hated it. Hated the desperate way it made him feel, hated his vulnerability. Loving her didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the madness and what it would make him do to her. A week was nothing; it was the months that would destroy her, the days, the hours. Living with him, loving him. . . . Christ, it was a curse he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy, and certainly not the woman he loved.
The woman he loved. Ah God, not that. Anything but that.
He swallowed and turned away. "I don't love her, Rico," he said, forcing a detachment he didn't feel, could never feel. "I would . . . destroy her."
Rico looked at him with compassionate eyes. "I think she might surprise you."
Jonas shook his head. "You don't understand. I . . ." He inhaled deeply. "You don't know. You've never seen . . . that look."
"What look?"
Jonas closed his eyes, remembering. Remembering pity and wariness and fear. Remembering his brother's expression when he'd left the asylum, that blankness, the dearth of emotion. "Can I even describe it to you?" he asked softly. He paused, trying to find the words. "When I—when I left the asylum, my brother came to see me. Like a fool I thought he wanted to know what I'd been through. And I ... I wanted to talk about it. I . . . needed to. But he didn't want to listen. He pretended it hadn't even happened, that I hadn't been locked up in that hellhole for four months. And he wasn't the only one." Jonas opened his eyes, staring helplessly at his friend. "A conspiracy of silence. It got so I wondered if I'd even been there. There were times when I thought it was just another illusion, just a bad dream."
"Jonas—"
Jonas silenced him with a shake of his head. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Rico. I don't know if I'll ever escape it. I don't know what I would do if I did. All I know for sure is that I can't condemn her to this life. Don't you understand? I can't do it."
Rico held his gaze. "It's not your choice. It's hers."
Jonas let out a bitter laugh. "Well, she's made it then. She's gone."
"It would take only a word to bring her back."
"I don't want her back." Jonas fought for composure, for wryness and sarcasm and simple denial. He gestured with his brush. "Leave me to myself, Rico. All I want are my paints and a canvas. Given enough time, I'll forget all about her. I'm halfway there already."
"Oh?" Rico smiled, a crooked, ironic smile. "Then why is that her face I see on your canvas, mon ami?" He came around, peering over Jonas's shoulder. "Ah, I see you're right. You've forgotten her quite well. That scar on her lip was never there before, was it? Or that mole on her jaw. Yes, I do believe you're suffering the throes of amnesia even as we speak."
Jonas shrugged away in irritation. "Damn you, Rico. Leave me be."
"Certainly." Rico leaned back against the wall. His expression was knowingly smug. "I'll be happy to, as soon as you admit what a damned fool you are."
"Rico—"
"She won't wait forever, you know," Childs said, gently needling. "She'll go away and marry someone else. Someone who isn't you. She'll be kissing someone else, Jonas. Having someone else's children—"
"Goddammit, shut up!" The words spilled out before Jonas could stop them, he clamped his mouth shut and turned away, struggling to regain control. "I've explained it to you, Rico," he
said, his voice dangerously shaky. "I've told you—"
"You've given me nothing but excuses." Childs shook his head. "If you don't love her, Jonas, why are you painting her? Why is it that canvas over there is fully sketched with her image? Your masterpiece, you said. She was to be your masterpiece."
Galatea to his Pygmalion. The words came floating back, an echo of memory. Jonas took a deep breath. His masterpiece. Yes, she was that, but not a painted one. She had come to life beneath his hands, had given him something he'd thought was lost to him forever. Peace. Hope.
Love.
He dropped the brush, hearing it clatter to the floor, and covered his eyes with his hand. "My masterpiece," he murmured with a bitter laugh. "Tell me, Rico, who was more changed when Aphrodite turned Pygmalion's statue into a live woman? Pygmalion or Galatea?"
"Must it be one or the other?" Rico asked. "Couldn't it be that they were both changed? Life is not as simple as you make it, my love. Things are rarely black or white."
"Perhaps."
Rico leaned close. "You can't protect people from hurt, Jonas. You can't protect yourself. If you try, you might as well commit yourself to Bloomingdale now, because it's where you'll end up."
"A cheerful thought," Jonas managed.
"Yes, well, I'm known for my optimism," Rico said dryly, backing away. He clapped his hand on Jonas's shoulder, a reassuring touch, a connection that warmed him. "Now, come have a cognac with me, won't you, mon ami? Help me celebrate new horizons. I'm off after the National Academy showing." Rico's voice was deceptively bright. Jonas heard the strain of their conversation beneath it, and he knew Childs was deliberately trying to lighten things. Jonas thought about ignoring the attempt, punishing his friend with harsh silence, but the truth was he wanted the forgetfulness of cognac and the comfort of companionship. He wanted to talk about stupid, trivial things. He wanted oblivion.
He put aside his palette and his paints and followed Childs to the door. "You're going so soon?" he asked.
"I'd leave sooner," Rico said, "but I'm dying to see that masterpiece of yours." He grabbed Jonas's coat from the peg by door and threw the garment to him. "You still mean to finish it, don't you?"
"I'm not sure." Jonas fumbled with his coat. Clumsily he pulled it on, reaching inside to straighten the lining, halting when his hand knocked against a heaviness in the inside pocket. He'd left something in his coat again. With any luck it would be money. God knew he needed it. He reached inside, his fingers tangling in the torn lining before he felt inside the pocket, and knew the moment he touched it that it wasn't coin. It was covered in tissue, an awkward shape—
"Are you coming?" Rico stood at the door impatiently.
"Just a minute. There's something in my pocket . . ." Jonas wrapped his fingers around it, pulling it loose. "Christ," he muttered, looking at the heavily wrapped lump. "What the hell is this?"
With a frown Childs came over. "What's what?" he asked. He glanced at the package, and his frown gave way to a rueful smile. "Ah. I'd forgotten all about that," he said. He nudged Jonas's hand. "Go ahead, open it."
Hesitantly Jonas placed the package in his false hand, lodging it between two fingers for leverage. Then carefully, curiously, he unwrapped it. The paper unfolded awkwardly beneath his fingers, the white tissue easing away bit by bit, revealing the shine of gold filigree, sparkling amethysts.
A butterfly.
Jonas stared at it. The gold caught the light from the window and reflected it back into his eyes, for an instant making the piece look surreal and oddly alive. A shining, beautiful, delicate butterfly, one he could not crush in his clumsy fingers, one he could not harm.
Jonas stared at it, and the memory came trembling back. Red brocade and cards and the thin light of dawn. Walking with Rico up Park Row and onto Broadway. Little shops with their windows closed and their expensive wares shut up tight.
Except for one little shop, and a brooch that had cost him the last of his rent money. A butterfly. For Genie.
He closed his eyes. "Christ," he murmured. When he opened them again, Rico was staring at him, a resigned look on his face, a strange sadness in his eyes.
"Forget the cognac, mon ami," he said with a sigh. "Go paint your picture. Paint your masterpiece. Try to get her out of your mind—if you can."
And then he turned on his heel and headed for the door, disappearing into the growing darkness of the hall, leaving Jonas alone.
Chapter 25
It's absolutely invigorating!" Samuel Carter burst through the entryway of the parlor, bringing with him the smell of snow and a draft of cold winter air. "I tell you, there's nothing like New York. It's worth a visit for the Century alone." He peeled off his gloves, slapping them together in his palms before he shrugged out of his coat and held them out to Imogene, who sat by the fire. "Here, daughter, make yourself useful."
Slowly Imogene put aside her embroidery and rose, fighting a surge of resentment as she took her father's things. In spite of the rancor that had been between them this last week, she forced herself to speak with cool courtesy. "Did you enjoy the club, then?" she asked, folding the wet coat over her arm.
"Of course I did," he said. "I just said so, didn't I?"
From a chair on the other side of the fireplace, Thomas looked up from his book. "My letter of introduction served you well?"
"It was perfect." Samuel swept his hat off his head and set it on a side table, where droplets of melted snow slid to the polished wood. He grinned widely. "Ah, the clubs of New York! Nowhere else in the world are they as fine—except for London, perhaps."
"I thought you hated the clubs in London," Thomas said.
"It's not the clubs, it's the people I abhor," Samuel sank into a mohair-covered chair. "A bunch of foppish snobs is what they are. At least New York has intellectuals. True philosophers. And artists . . ." He leaned his head back with a sigh of delight. "London pales in comparison, and Nashville . . . God, Nashville. . . ."
"Well, there aren't many artists there, certainly," Thomas commented.
"Couldn't make a living if there were." Samuel smoothed his bulky mustache distractedly. "As it is there's nothing much to paint but a bunch of prize- winning cows, maybe a dour farmwife every now and then." He sighed again. "No, much as I wish it, Nashville isn't destined to be an artistic center. I can't patronize 'em all, you know."
"Yes, I know," Thomas said wryly.
"Still, I do what I can. Maybe one day." Samuel glanced up as if he'd only just realized Imogene was in the room. "What are you standing there for, girl? You make a damned bad coatrack."
Imogene flushed with angry humiliation, but she swallowed the retort that rose to her lips and clenched her jaw. There was no point in angering him, even if this last week and a half had been unbearable. Her father obviously wanted to punish her; he berated her constantly, he seemed to take joy in humiliating her. And she knew she wasn't imagining that secretive glint in his eyes. He was waiting for something, planning something, and with a growing sense of dread she wondered what it was.
Though she would find out soon enough, she was sure. In a way, it would be a relief to know—Lord knew she was ready for this all to be over. She wanted to return to Nashville, wanted back her safe, normal little life, with its tightly scheduled days, its long nights. She wanted to put this all behind her. To put Jonas behind her.
Jonas. She closed her eyes, pushing the thought away, just as she'd been pushing it away since she'd left him. At least Nashville would help her forget him. At least there she wouldn't wonder if he was sitting by his windows watching the snow fall—or wonder who was watching it with him. At least Nashville didn't hold a hundred little things to remind her of him.
It doesn't matter. It's all over now. It's over. Imogene forced the words into her mind as if they could comfort her. As if they could sweep away the hurt and kill the yearning. But as long as her father was here, she needed the words. If nothing else, they helped her pretend everything was fine, helped her keep a hold o
n her self-control, however tenuous. For now it was too dangerous to think of Jonas. For now it was easier to imagine it was some faraway dream, a fantasy. Later perhaps, when she was safe in Nashville again, she would let herself think of him. When she was far away from here and the temptation to fall on her knees and beg him to take her back had eased. If it ever did.
She sighed, hanging her father's coat on the hook behind the stairs, draping his gloves across the collar. Then she took a deep breath and returned to the parlor.
And immediately wished she hadn't. Her father swiveled in his chair, his dark gaze resting on her with an unsettling speculation, a scrutiny that made her feel suddenly cold. He was finally going to tell her what he was waiting for, she knew. What was that old saying? Be careful what you wish for. . . .
"There was a reason I went to the Century Club today," he said, and though his tone was nonchalant, she heard the calculation beneath it. He smiled—not a pleasant smile at all—and with a twinge of surprise she realized that once even that smile would have made her happy. She had always craved his attention so badly that even his anger was welcome. But now that same anger only left her feeling embittered and resentful. She wondered when that had changed. When had she started to notice the contempt in his expression? Had it always been there?
He tapped his fingers on the well-padded arm of the chair, not taking his eyes from hers. "I went looking for Whitaker."
The name seemed to drop into her heart. Imogene struggled to maintain her composure. "Oh?" she managed.
" 'Oh?' " he mimicked. "Is that all you have to say for yourself, girl? Don't you wonder why I went looking for him?"
"Wouldn't it be more direct to visit his studio?" Thomas asked.
Her father turned, thoughtfully shaking his head. "He's avoiding me. I thought I might run into him at the Century, take him by surprise, so to speak. You did say he was a member."
"Yes, but—"
"I've sent two notes already, asking for a meeting."
Imogene's stomach knotted. "You sent him notes?"
