After lunch, she held Petey’s hand and they slowly ambled down to gaze into the pond, but Petey was tired and ready for his afternoon nap, so they turned around and toddled back up toward the sidewalk. He clamored for Morgan to carry him; she wanted him to walk as much as he could, and this particular debate took all her attention as they made their way toward North Pleasant Street, where she’d parked her car.
“Cawwy!” Petey lifted his arms pathetically.
“You’re a big, strong boy. You’re full of jelly sugar,” Morgan reminded him. She needed him to use up all his energy so he’d have a good, long nap.
“Cawwy, Mommy, pwease.” In his blue shorts, white shirt, and sneakers, he resembled a tiny track star who could go no farther. Petey knew how to push her buttons, knew how to make his voice full of pathos.
She was kneeling to pick him up when a very polite, accented voice asked, “Is the child okay?”
Morgan looked up, but not very far, for the voice came from a short, exceptionally neat Japanese man in a crisp linen suit. To her surprise, Ben Barnaby stood next to him.
“Ben!” Morgan rose awkwardly, Petey in her arms.
“Morgan! What are you doing here?” Ben was impressive in his suit and tie.
“We just had a picnic by the pond. I had to come into town, and I thought I’d give Petey the opportunity to see the campus.”
Petey waved an exuberant hello at Ben.
“Hi, guy.” Ben high-fived Petey. “Morgan, this is Dr. Takamachi from Tokyo. He’s an expert in nuclear engineering. He was the keynote speaker at our conference here this week.”
Morgan extended her hand and shook the scientist’s tiny white paw. “I’m honored to meet you, Dr. Takamachi.”
Dr. Takamachi bowed slightly. “And I, you. You have a most pleasing son.”
The charming man was so doll-like in his perfection, Morgan almost bowed back to him. “Thank you.”
“I am availing myself of fresh air, which is excellent for the brain, while at the same time I am having a most thought-provoking conversation with this young scholar,” Dr. Takamachi told her.
Petey was squirming in her arms now, turning into octopus boy. “Well, I have to get my excellent child home for a nap before he has a meltdown,” Morgan announced.
“Meltdown.” Dr. Takamachi first looked concerned, then barked out a laugh. “I see! I see!”
“It was nice meeting you, Dr. Takamachi. Bye, Ben!” Morgan strode away, hurrying toward the car.
Petey fell asleep in his car seat on the way to Dragonfly Lake. Fortunately, the heat of the day and the excitements of the morning had used up his energy, so when Morgan unlatched him from his seat, he scarcely woke.
14
“I’ll call you,” he’d said.
But he hadn’t called.
It had been over a week since that startling, magical, unexpectedly lovely sail on Dragonfly Lake. When Natalie and Ben had returned to shore, she’d helped him drag the boat up onto dry land, unstep the mast, and fold the sail, both of them working quickly, without speaking. What happens next? she’d wondered. She had been opening her mouth to invite him over for a drink when Brady came whooping out of the Barnaby house, followed by several of his teenage buddies.
Brady had rattled out his words so fast he was almost incomprehensible: “Mom says we can cook hot dogs tonight but we’re out of hot dogs can you go get some?”
Ben shot Natalie a glance filled with dismay, but his brother didn’t notice. Brady and his friends surrounded Ben like enormous hyperactive jumping frogs, hooting and bumping into one another.
Brady continued, bouncing on his toes, jiggling all over, “And I have my driver’s permit, so if you ride with me, can I drive, huh?”
“Yeah!” Zack yelled, and the two other boys chimed in.
Ben was helpless, encircled by such exuberance. “Sure,” he said.
The boys exploded with cheers and raced for the driveway, knocking and shoving one another as they went.
Ben had smiled ruefully. “I’m sorry.”
The heat still trembled between them. It wouldn’t vanish easily, Natalie thought. “I’m sorry, too.” She summoned her courage. “Want to come over for a drink after you get back?”
“Yes, I want to. But I can’t. I’ve got something else on. I’ll call you.”
Those were the last words he’d spoken to her. I’ll call you.
Right. How many times had any woman heard that from any man?
Still, she had totally believed he would call her. She hadn’t even tortured herself wondering what if that “something else” he had on tonight was a date with another woman. She’d sauntered into her house, humming an old Beatles song. It was late in the afternoon, but she’d been full of energy.
When she was happy like this, she wanted to work. She almost couldn’t keep herself from working.
There was an oil on canvas by Margaret Foster Richardson titled A Motion Picture painted around 1912 that Natalie had always adored above all other paintings. It was a portrait of the painter moving toward her easel, a young woman with her hair pulled back, wearing glasses and a gray painting smock, holding brushes in each hand, staring intently at the viewer, her smock rippling with movement. The painting was compelling, dramatic, dynamic: a woman artist, alive, at work!
This was what Natalie had always wanted to do, and right now she was in the mood to do it. She had the courage; she had the passion. She went into her studio, and as if on autopilot, put a fresh canvas on the easel. She found mirrors in two of the guest rooms, wrestled them off the walls, lugged them into her studio. She set them up, shoving furniture around to support them, angling them so that when she stood at her easel, she saw her own reflection.
She began to work.
That was last week.
Today Natalie could not get the painting of herself to live. She turned the mirrors to the wall. She lifted off the canvas and put it in the corner. She paced her studio, chewing on her nails. She wanted to work, she still wanted to work, but she needed a new subject. She didn’t want to do oils, she wanted to go back to charcoal. Her charcoal portraits of Petey and Louise were by far the best things she’d done, and she wanted to keep at it. She wanted to do another charcoal, of a man. She needed a man.
She’d be dammed if she was going to phone Ben and ask him to sit for her! If he had called her as he’d said he would, it would be the easiest thing in the world for her to ask him, and she knew his schedule was flexible in the summer. And his body was so beautiful, his long limbs an artist’s dream. His shoulders, so wide and strong, his collarbone, his throat …
Maybe she could call him. Wasn’t it a new world, couldn’t women call men, weren’t all the silly old rules of courtship thrown out the window? And besides, this wasn’t about courtship, it was about her work!
In a daze, she showered, dressed in shorts and a clean tank top, and wandered down to the kitchen for a bagel spread with peanut butter, which she washed down with a glass of juice. She tied on her sneakers and forced herself out into the heat of the day to walk the circuit of the lake.
It was always early afternoon when she took her walk. During the week, most houses were quiet, only the hum of air conditioners breaking the silence. Natalie stayed on the shady side of the street, where it was a few degrees cooler under the trees. Occasionally a brilliant spot of summer flowers would catch her artist’s eye, but usually on this walk her attention was inward, on her artwork.
Today, her mind was on Ben. Pathetic.
Her pace quickened as she finished her circuit of the lake and came toward her home. Aunt Eleanor’s home, of course, but by now Natalie thought of it as her home.
A white SUV passed her and turned into the O’Keefes’ driveway. Morgan stepped out, hurrying around to unbuckle Petey.
“Hi, Morgan!” Natalie jogged up the drive toward her friend.
“Hi, Nat.” Morgan’s son was dozing in her arms. “We’re just on our way to nappy time.” Her singsong vo
ice and the look on her face warned Natalie that now was not a good time for a visit. “We just had lunch at the university, and Ben was there, and Dr. Takamachi, who knows everything about nuclear engineering!” She touched the SUV door handle and it slid closed. She lugged her purse and diaper bag and her drowsy little boy up to her house. “See you later, gator.” Her voice was now almost a whisper.
Natalie waved, not wanting to break the silence. She walked back to her own house, let herself in, and then stood in the hall, frowning.
Morgan had had lunch with Ben at the university? Morgan had had lunch with some nuclear engineer? Well, of course, Morgan was a scientist. So that made sense, kind of.
But Morgan wasn’t a nuclear engineer. She wasn’t a chemical engineer. She wasn’t even employed. Why would Ben ask her to meet him for lunch?
Morgan was married. So Ben wasn’t interested in her that way, was he? He certainly wasn’t like Slade, who tried to get every woman he met into bed. It had to be a purely intellectual friendship.… Still, for one blood-red moment, Natalie hated Morgan. She hated Ben, too. She was so full of anger she didn’t know what to do with herself.
In the next moment she knew she didn’t hate Morgan or Ben, she hated herself. When was she going to grow up? Why was she such a basket case? So what if Ben had asked Morgan for lunch! Natalie hadn’t come out here to fall in love; she’d come here to paint. What she needed right now wasn’t a man. She needed some stimulation, some life, people, city stuff.
She took another quick shower and pulled on one of her few dresses. It was black, like everything else she’d worn in New York. Suddenly she had a fierce yearning for a pretty sundress. Aunt Eleanor was paying her to “look after the house,” so for the first time ever, Natalie had some money to spend on herself. Maybe she’d get some new sandals, too. Stop by the used-book store in Northampton. Perhaps she could find some nice art books. Aunt Eleanor had a few books scattered around the house, but they were mostly thrillers, paperbacks with water-stained pages.
As soon as she was in the silver Range Rover, she felt better. She punched in the classic rock station on Sirius and sang along as she drove. Northampton was a funky little town, its streets trailing away from the dignified campus of Smith College. Mixed among massive, fortresslike stone buildings were coffee boutiques, Afghani restaurants, and hole-in-the-wall shops selling tie-dyed bedspreads from India. She found a parking spot on the main street and ambled along the sidewalks, the tension flowing out of her shoulders as her eyes filled with the sight of so many young people, men and women, many of them dressed in colorful hippie garb. It was like photos she’d seen of the seventies.
At the Mercantile, she found several sundresses in filmy cool prints, priced for a college student’s wallet, swirling with color and easy to wear, draped material falling from a sort of rope tied around her neck. She bought three and wore the purple one out of the shop. Much better now, much cooler. As she walked, the material belled out and gathered in around her knees, creating her own summer breeze.
The used-book store was around the corner and down a hill. Inside, it was cool and slightly dampish, and packed wall to wall with books. She settled in the art section and surrendered to delight. She discovered a book with several Lilian Westcott Hale portraits in charcoal on white board or paper and a more modern drawing by Margarett Sargent, a fourth cousin of John Singer Sargent whom Natalie had never known existed. She found a biography written by Margarett Sargent’s granddaughter, entitled The White Blackbird, and grabbed that as well. And a book called A Studio of Her Own: Women Artists in Boston, 1870-1940. She went to the cash register, dazzled with riches, stunned at how inexpensive the books were.
“Natalie?”
She turned. “Aaron!”
Bella’s boyfriend was holding as many books as she was, and it didn’t take more than a second to spot that they were all various histories of San Francisco. “Oh,” Natalie said. “San Francisco! Did you get the job?”
“I’m one of the final three contenders,” Aaron said. Rather sheepishly, he gazed down at his books. “Whether I get the job or not, the city fascinates me. Not just the architecture now, but the way it changed and evolved throughout the city’s history.”
The cashier cleared her throat.
“Oh.” Natalie dumped her books on the counter. “Here you are.”
The cashier herself was a mobile work of art, so covered with tattoos and piercings she shifted like a hologram of herself as she rang up the purchases and took Natalie’s money.
“Want to get some coffee?” Aaron asked as he laid his pile on the counter.
“Sure.” This was just what she loved about the city, just what she needed—clothes, books, friends with interests that complemented hers.
“The Golden Gate Bridge,” Aaron was saying as they left the shop and headed uphill toward the main street, “is both practical and romantic. It’s been called one of the wonders of the modern world.”
Natalie stopped walking and talking. She stared at Aaron. Her blood thundered. “You’re a man!”
Aaron stopped, too. He frowned at Natalie. “What?”
“You’re a man, Aaron!” Natalie took a few steps to the left, estimating the depth of his rib cage beneath his shirt. “And I really need a man.”
In a monotone, Aaron replied, “You really need a man.”
She shot a question at him with her eyes, then burst out laughing. “I mean for my drawing, Aaron! I want to draw a man. I need a male model. I don’t want to sleep with you, for heaven’s sake!”
Aaron hesitated. “How long will it take?”
“Just a few hours a day for four or five days. It will help Bella, Aaron, think of it that way. She’s going to hang my drawings in her shop. Look, we can go home and set up the sketch now. I’ll make you iced coffee, or give you a drink, whatever you want, just follow me home, okay?”
Aaron shrugged. “Okay.”
The studio was cool and quiet. Natalie made an iced coffee for Aaron and one for herself, but she was too psyched to drink hers as she calmly but quickly set up her easel with fresh paper near the table holding her charcoal.
“Could you take off your shirt?” she asked Aaron.
He hesitated.
“Oh, Aaron, come on. I saw you in your bathing trunks, what, two weeks ago, when we had the picnic and we all swam and played volleyball? Take off your shirt.”
Aaron took off his shirt.
Natalie studied him. Aaron was compact, more fleshy and muscular than Slade or damned Ben. His chest was also extremely hairy—she’d forgotten that, and it made the drawing of his pecs difficult. But he had an extremely strong-looking neck, with a powerful sternomastoid running down to his trapezius, and his deltoid muscles bulged. He’d worked out. A lot.
“Did you wrestle in high school?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Aaron was staring at the ceiling, uncomfortable with her inspection.
“Okay, I got it! Here. Sit on this chair. Now raise your arms and push them back as far as you can, and turn your head to the side and bend it back, too.” She showed him the pose she wanted. Aaron wasn’t really trying; he was reluctant, as most people were in unusual poses. “You’ve got fabulous musculature, Aaron. I want to take advantage of your trapezius and deltoids.”
Those were words he understood. Immediately his pose improved.
“Great! That’s great! I know it’s a strain on your muscles, but you can take a break every so often. Hold it just like that for me as long as you can. It’s like, oh, let’s say you’re being held down by a lion, you’re twisting away so he won’t get to your face, but your muscles, your body is tensed, ready for one last struggle, you’re at that moment just before you lunge—”
She drew rapidly, inspired. Her charcoal scratched against the paper. This was going to be awesome. Quickly she sketched in the broad outline, his profile, his ear, his jaw, his shoulders, stressed and straining, his sturdy chest and abdomen. It was a hard pose to maintain, especially wi
th his arms held out and back, and after a while she could tell he was tiring.
“Let’s take a break. Shake it out. Get up and walk around.”
Aaron headed for his iced coffee. “I’ve never sat for an artist before.”
“You’re fabulous,” she told him. “Want to see? I think this is the best thing I’ve ever done, Aaron. It’s going to be …” She searched for the right word. “It’s going to be epic. And masculine. I’m not just painting roses in a bowl here.”
Now Aaron was studying Natalie. He said, “You’re ambitious.”
“Gosh, yes.” She sipped some of her coffee. “Not for money. Not even for fame, although I’d like my pictures to be bought and hung and shown. I’m ambitious for myself, Aaron, for”—she waved her arm, indicating her entire studio—“for this. I want to keep pushing myself, I want to see what I can do. I never knew until today that I could do anything like that portrait of you, although you do understand that’s not you on the page, it’s something else; it’s Struggle, or Endeavor, or—”
“Survival,” he offered.
“Yes! Survival, that’s it, that’s what it’s becoming. That’s what I’ll call it.” Impulsively, she wrapped Aaron in a big hug. “Oh, Aaron, thank you! I’d never have gotten to this without you!”
Aaron flushed bright red from his chest, up his neck, to his entire face. “You’re welcome,” he muttered.
“Oh God.” Memories suffused Natalie: all the times artists she’d posed for had hit on her, assuming that her nakedness, her willing arch and arrangement of limbs and torso, constituted some kind of invitation. Assuming that posing was some kind of tacit agreement. “Aaron, I’m sorry. I wasn’t hitting on you, I promise. I’m just excited. Intellectually excited, artistically excited. I would never hit on you!”
Aaron was grinning. “You’re assuming my reaction was embarrassment.”
“What else could it—Oh!” Now it was Natalie’s turn to blush. “Well, Aaron.” She began to dither. “I’m not saying you’re not, or rather that I couldn’t be, but, come on, you’re practically engaged to Bella!”
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