Portraits

by Stef Ann Holm

  “Pretty as you are, the possibility would be welcome.” Her lips parted a fraction at his compliment. “But, no, darlin’. I only see one of you.”

  She abruptly let go of his arm, her expression bewildered. “My equipment is getting wet.”

  Going to the camera, she removed it from its three-legged support and wrapped the top and sides with the black cloth. But with the water splattering the street, she had no place to set the wooden box while folding the tripod. She struggled with both, not asking Wyatt for his help.

  That she didn’t bruised his ego. Before he could think, he went to her and snatched the camera from her arm. “You’re going to drop it.”

  She bit her lip but didn’t argue with him. Loosening the screw on one of the tripod’s legs, she folded the three sections.

  With a lead feeling in his gut, Wyatt gazed at the Kodak in his grasp. He’d never held an image taker before. He hadn’t anticipated the heaviness of the fine wood-grain box.

  Gathering the tripod and a case, Leah juggled them in her arms. The wind threatened to snatch the full-brimmed hat from her head. Her lashes fluttered against the sparkles of water caught on them. He didn’t want to notice her eyes, and lowered his gaze. A mistake. The thin white fabric of her blouse had become near-transparent and adhered to the generous shape of her breasts. He’d always been attracted to women with some depth to their curves. He could see the contoured outline of her corset cover and the delicate lace and ribbons at the shoulders of her chemise. An involuntary tremor of arousal began to heat him.

  He shot his eyes to hers, meeting the purposeful gleam in the brown color that showed intelligence and the spirit of her independence. She reached for the camera, but he didn’t relinquish it.

  “You can’t run holding all this,” he said. “I’ll see you home.”

  For a moment she seemed frozen in limbo, but then acquiesced. “We need to hurry. I can’t redo the shot in this weather.”

  Nodding, he took off in a sprint after her. The hem of her skirt skimmed the street, the soft, swishing motion of her bustle catching his attention with its naturally alluring sway. She was quite adept at running in high heels, and more than once hopped over large puddles.

  They reached the house at the end of Main. The soles of her shoes crunched across the tiny pebbles of the pathway. As she climbed the veranda steps, he noticed a lasso lying on the white planks of the porch. Without missing a step, she kicked the rope aside. Iron-cast soldiers and a baseball were strewn across the cushion of the summer settee, and miniature pewter dishes and a tea service were still set up on a wrought table.

  With a snap of her wrist, Leah turned the front doorknob and gained entrance into the foyer. He drew up behind her but suddenly froze, his mind and body flinching. He retreated a step. The odor of photography chemicals, though not overly pungent, jumped out at him. There was enough of a sharpness in the air to choke and pull at Wyatt’s memory. He squeezed his eyes closed, not wanting to bring forth the image of a little girl’s face that had been so filled with hatred.

  Wyatt felt Leah’s presence close to him; he could pick up an elusive hint of her floral perfume and was able to breathe again. His eyes opened. She stood not a foot away from him, examining him with a concerned gaze. “You really did hurt your head,” she said compassionately. “You’d better come into the kitchen and dry off so I can see if you’re bleeding.”

  Walking around him, she shut the door, and he was caught in a house with smells that brought on the haunting fringes of a nightmare that hadn’t gone away in seventeen years.

  * * *

  “You’ll have to excuse the disorder,” Leah said, depositing her tripod in the umbrella stand. “I was experimenting with lighting earlier this morning when Mr. McWhorter called.” The ring of her shoes was buffered by the runner of oriental carpet that spread through the entry hall over an intricate parquet floor. Rosalure’s lawn tennis racket was in the path, next to Leah’s white duck tennis balmorals. She and Rosalure had played against Pinkie Sommercamp and her mother last week. Leah had never been organized, but at least she’d been tidy enough to encourage customers to keep coming back to her upstairs gallery for portraits. Today was just a hectic day.

  Leah didn’t look back to see Wyatt’s reaction to the clutter as she shook the rain from her hands, then took the Kodak from him. She set the camera on the hall table, not bothering to check her appearance in the gilt-framed mirror above after she removed her bolero hat. She could bet she looked her worst. There was no sense in confirming it. Besides, she wasn’t altogether sure she wanted to catch Mr. Holloway’s eye. His attitude toward her had been running hot, then cold, and now warm. She didn’t know what to think of him.

  “The kitchen’s this way,” she stated, and turned around.

  The parlor was indeed a mess as she entered the room with glassware and painted arabesque pottery strewn on various plant stands and tables. She’d even been tearing up the kitchen. It had been a fluke, really, that had made her consider photographing the scrub bucket. She’d tripped over it on her way with the last pedestal jar and cracked glass vase. Emptying the cupboards hadn’t been her intention, but once she started a project it took on a life of its own, and she wasn’t satisfied until she knew she’d used and tried every means available to her to capture the perfect picture. So the bucket had been pure inspiration when a light prism had caught on the hoop iron. She would have dropped everything—if the pieces hadn’t been breakable—to get her camera. As it was, she set the delicate objects on the worktable, hurriedly collected her Buckeye, and caught the bucket’s image precisely when the cloud cover diminished the light that had streaked across the oilcloth floor. And just as Mr. McWhorter cranked her doorbell with enough energy to jam the winder and render the chime useless.

  Deep into the parlor, she held back a groan. Every free space was littered with most every piece of decorative glass from her kitchen cupboards and the dining-room sideboard. She glanced at Mr. Holloway to make sure he was all right. A glint of wonder held his expression, but he said nothing as he watched his step around a bowl of waxed fruit at the foot of her ottoman.

  “You see,” she plunged in, feeling the necessity to explain, “I was going to test the qualities of special velox and regular velox against the exposure and development of soft negatives and contrasty negatives. I needed still subjects. Inanimate things with line definition. Vases, bowls, pedestals . . . each has to be on its own plane for light variance, thus the tables . . . and on the floor.” She connected her palms with the swinging door that led into the kitchen. “It’s not always like this in here.”

  Once in the spacious kitchen, Leah bent and picked up the bucket without missing a step. She went to the sink, stuffed the plug in the drain, then grasped the brass fixtures in both hands and ran the hot and cold water together. In the same efficient motion, she flipped on the electrical wall switch, then dabbed her face dry with the linen towel that hung next to the stove. “Come stand over here beneath the light,” she directed.

  Wyatt reluctantly came forward.

  She removed his rain-pelted hat and set it on the counter, feeling suddenly nervous. Disassociating herself from anything other than Wyatt’s injury, she brought her hands to either side of his neck, with thumbs at the base of his ears. A muscle jumped along his jaw, and she grew so conscious of his nearness she could hardly think. The slight scratch of dark stubble beneath her fingertips made her tinglingly aware of Wyatt’s virility. Under his steady gaze, she couldn’t move. The blue of his eyes was startling and as vivid as a summer sky. Tracing the generous shape of his mouth with her gaze, she caught herself wondering what it would be like to be kissed by him.

  Letting out an uneven breath and taking in a steady one to retain an air of sensibility, Leah hoped her half-lidded expression hadn’t betrayed her wayward thoughts. She tilted his head, lifting herself on her toes to see properly. Skimming her fingers through the silky coolness of his long hair, she felt for and found the lump
at the side of his head. Then she made a part so she could determine the severity of the damage. A thin line of blood colored the white of his scalp.

  “Am I a goner?” The rich timbre of Wyatt’s voice was low.

  Leah lowered herself to her heels and shut the water off. “In my estimation, you’ll live. Tug’s broken his skin open a lot worse than this before.”

  “How is the boy? He was pretty torn up about not having his hat.”

  Dipping the dishcloth into the warm water, Leah was touched that Wyatt would inquire. “I don’t like to punish him, but he’s got to learn the difference between right and wrong. At times, I can’t make him understand that.”

  “Your husband can’t set him straight?”

  Leah delayed squeezing the cloth out. Her eyes stayed fastened to the faucet. “I’m a widow, Mr. Holloway.”

  “I’m sorry,” he returned with consolation in his tone.

  Backing away from the sink, she managed a soft smile. “It’s been a few years since my husband died. I’ve come to terms with my grief and have gone on.” She rose the warm cloth to his head. “And you, Mr. Holloway? Do you have a wife?”

  “No.” Wyatt stood stock-still.

  As she lifted her arm to blot the blood on his cut, her breasts accidently brushed against the front of his damp duster. She quickly backed away from his tense, hard body, feeling the heat of a blush creep into her cheeks. Not daring to meet his eyes, she fought to stifle the racing cadence of her heart and pretended as if nothing had happened. Keeping her distance, she stretched to reach his head, using a light stroke to clean him.

  The Cilicia clock on the shelf above her sink tolled the quarter hour at fifteen to eleven. Within seconds, the other clocks in the house sang their various chords. The last to engage its tune was the European cuckoo in her studio. The bird’s call faintly drifted to the quiet kitchen.

  After rinsing the dishcloth a third time, she’d barely moved toward him when Wyatt’s strong fingers gently encircled her wrist, preventing her from lifting her arm toward him. “I have to go.” His husky voice wrapped around her like a velvet-edged blanket. “I took that job at the Happy City, and Leo wants me there at eleven.”

  He released her, and a twinge of disappointment left Leah’s mind reeling with confusion. “Oh.” The dishcloth in her hand fell into the water. “I’m sure Mr. Wang will appreciate the help. He’s been without a dishwasher for two weeks.”

  “It’s only temporary.”

  “You’re moving on?” An instant of regret fluttered in her breast, though she couldn’t fathom why.

  “As soon as I’m able.”

  “Leah,” Geneva Kirkland announced from the doorway. “You have company.”

  She and Wyatt broke apart, Leah flushing to the roots of her hair. Her mother-in-law’s untimely intrusion caused guilt to sweep over her. “Geneva. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  Tug loved to tinker with anything mechanical, and he normally cranked the door chimes whenever he plodded up to the front door. Only now the bell was broken—no doubt her son’s perpetual abuse foreshadowing its demise—and Leah could have used that signal to prepare herself to face Geneva.

  The stamp of Tug’s feet vibrated the floor as he marched toward the kitchen. On a lighter tread came Rosalure. Her children filled the door’s opening, standing next to Geneva without commenting on the articles that were strewn through the house. Three sets of eyes were on Mr. Wyatt Holloway. To Leah’s recollection, there had never been a man in her kitchen besides her husband. It hadn’t dawned on her until now. Mr. Winterowd and Mr. Quigley never came for supper. Just refreshment, and that was served either on the veranda in the summer months or when the weather cooled, on the davenport in her parlor. By the look on Geneva’s face, Leah had broken some cardinal rule that men shouldn’t be admitted into the kitchen.

  “Can I wear your hat again, mister?” Tug promptly asked.

  “No, Tug, you may not,” Leah replied.

  A dead silence clung to the room. Only the steady tick of the clock split through the thick layer of awkwardness that had suddenly fallen. Tug’s question insinuated not only that she and Mr. Holloway hadn’t had a chance meeting, but that Mr. Holloway was open to sharing his personal belongings with her son. Geneva would surely misconstrue things.

  Leah looked at her mother-in-law and struggled to find words of explanation. Geneva was not an easy woman to talk to. Her appearance had always daunted Leah. Mrs. Kirkland wasn’t a tall woman, but she was broad in body and built with a sturdy frame. Her hair was frosted with gray, though she would never admit to such a disgraceful sign of aging. She dyed her hair with Old Reliable hair dye. Leah had spotted the bottle on the bathroom cabinet shelf when she’d had to use the upstairs necessary in the Kirkland home. But that hadn’t surprised her.

  Geneva was a hypochondriac. She feared getting old and decrepit, so she used every trumped-up product available to keep her youthful and peppy. The latest she swore by was Dr. J. Parker Pray’s Plixine toilet preparations, though Leah was dubious about its effectiveness. Geneva’s peach-fuzz mustache was still somewhat noticeable even after several applications of the good doctor’s powder.

  “This is Mr. Holloway. He had an accident and I was seeing to his cut.”

  “I see.” The fullness of Geneva’s bosom appeared even fuller by her exaggerated collar.

  “Mr. Holloway,” Leah said, “this is my mother-in-law, Mrs. Hartzell Kirkland. You know Tug, but you haven’t met my daughter, Rosalure.”

  “Hello,” Rosalure returned, though rather than repeat the greeting herself, Geneva bluntly asked, “You’re no doctor, Leah. Why didn’t he go to Doctor Hochstrasser’s office?”

  Leah wanted to die. She and Geneva had locked horns on many prior occasions, but nothing recently.

  Rosalure recognized her mother’s discomfort and interjected, “Look, Momma. Nanna and I cut the invitations for my party.” She plucked one from the basket she was holding and held the card out for Leah’s inspection. “Isn’t it lovely?”

  Leah took the card that had been carefully cut from a fine-grade linen paper and festooned with a pressed flower, lace papers, and a gold tassel much like a fancy valentine. “Why, Rosalure, it is very lovely.”

  “I made some and Nanna made some.”

  Geneva shrugged as if her craft talents were nothing. “A little patience and a lot of hard work pays off.”

  As if Leah didn’t know this. She lived by that credo ever) day of her life when she was in her studio.

  “It was nice to meet you, ma’am,” Wyatt said congenially to Geneva, though Leah doubted that was his true thought He grabbed his hat from the counter and fit it over his head He tipped the brim politely at Rosalure, then to Tug, “You be good and you’ll get your hat back.”

  “I got six more days left.”

  “They’re liable to go by fast if you don’t think about them.”

  Leah left the sink. “I’ll walk you to the front door, Mr Holloway.”

  Geneva asserted herself in a firm tone, “He found his way through the front door, dear, I’m sure he can find his way out of it.” Stepping aside, she offered, “Good afternoon Mr. Holloway.”

  Leah tried to catch his eye to communicate with him When his gaze shifted to her, she sent him a silent message that said she was sorry he had to leave in such a way.

  “Thanks for looking at the cut,” Wyatt said, then hi walked around Geneva and went through the parlor.

  Once the front door clicked into place and the children scattered to the icebox for a drink of lemonade, Geneva strolled into the kitchen with her put-upon face. “You know, no one could replace my dear Owen, Leah.”

  “I know that, Geneva.”

  “Mr. Holloway isn’t of your social caliber,” Genev clucked. “His clothing was in disrepair. That hat looked like it had been trampled by a horse.”

  Leah was aware of that. But she was also aware that good men wore shabby hats.

  5

 
If you wish to know the road ahead, inquire of those who have traveled it.

  —Chinese proverb

  Wyatt was uncertain what to make of Leo’s nephew, Tu Yan. For hours, he and Tu had been sharing the steamy kitchen of the Happy City. Seeing as how Wyatt couldn’t speak a word of Mandarin Chinese and Tu couldn’t speak a word of English, one would have thought there would have been a communication problem. But that wasn’t the case. Tu never stopped talking, and oddly, Wyatt picked up on a few of the young man’s gestures and could actually decipher a little of what he was saying.

  But mostly, when Wyatt listened hard enough above the clink of dishes in the deep pan of soapy water, the inflections out of Tu’s mouth sounded like “women hen you cry.” Now why exactly Tu would be saying “women hen you cry” had Wyatt puzzled, though rather than insult Tu by shrugging his misunderstanding, it was easier to nod and smile his agreement at whatever he was agreeing to.

  The night was hotter than a laundry pot left on the fire until the water bubbled down to nothing. Wyatt had opened the back door to coax a breeze into the stifling room. All those little pieces of paper Tu had stuck up on nearly every available wall space and shelf just sat on their tacks, motionless. Wyatt had asked Leo what all the symbols were for, and he’d said they were Tu’s proverbs. Philosophical sayings and sages that Tu swore were good luck. But they weren’t lucky in keeping the heat out of the kitchen.

  Those big six-burners that Tu Yan kept fired up lent a bake to the room like a summer parch on the plains. Sweat ran down Wyatt’s temple. He’d all but stripped down to his underwear. The worn sleeves on his shirt were rolled up a notch above his elbows, and he didn’t mind the occasional splash of watery suds down the partially buttoned front.

  He should have chosen a cooler set of trousers to wear, but all Wyatt owned by way of clothing were two pairs of faded jeans, a couple of soft-laundered shirts, some underwear and socks, a broken-in Stetson, scrub-scarred boots, and his single-caped duster. Not a hell of a lot to fuss over by way of extra laundry, but he was thinking now that drawers hemmed to the knees would be a smart investment.