Valerie faced Peter. In the twilight he could see her staring at him through the mesh over her face. She drew a horizontal line with a finger where her abdomen would be beneath the greatcoat.
“—Did this. And then I—” She held up an arm, exposing another scarred wrist above the fur cuff of the coat sleeve. “—did this. I was so . . . angry.” She let her arm drop. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.
But Dr. Gosden says ‘Don’t keep the bad things hidden, Valerie.’ And you are a friend of John’s. I would never want him to think poorly of me, as my mother used to say. Skip my mother. I never talk about her.
Would you let John know I’m okay now? The anger is gone. I’ll be just fine, no matter what Goz thinks.”
She lifted her face to the darkened sky, snowflakes spangling her veil. She swallowed nervously. “Do you have the time, Peter?”
“Ten to five.” He stamped his feet; his toes were freezing.
“Gates close at five in winter. We’d better go.”
“Valerie, when did Silkie pose for Ransome?”
“Oh, that was over with a year ago. I’ve never been jealous of her.”
“Has Silkie had any accidents you know of?”
“No,” Valerie said, sounding mildly perplexed. “But I told you, obsessing about John John John all the time has her in a state What I think, she’s just having a hard time getting over him, so she makes up stuff about how he wants to hurt her. When it’s the other way around. Goz would say she’s having neurotic displacements. Anyway, she uses different names and doesn’t have a home of her own. Picks up guys and stays with them a couple of nights, week at the most, then moves on.”
“Then you don’t know how I can get hold of her.”
“Well—she left me a phone number. If I ever needed her, she said.” Valerie turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled. She looked back at Peter. “I can try to find the number for you later.” Her usually somber tone had lightened. “Why don’t you come by, say, nine o’clock?”
“Where?”
“415 West Churchill. I’m in 6-A. I know I must seem old to you, Peter. Sometimes I feel—ancient. Like I’m living a whole lot of lives at the same time. Skip that. Truth is I’m only twenty-seven! You probably wouldn’t have guessed. I’m not coming on to you or anything, but I could make dinner for us. Would you like that?”
“Very much. Thank you, Valerie.”
“Call me Val, why don’t you?” she said, and drove off.
Echo was rosy-fresh from a long hot soak, sitting at the foot of her bed with her hair bound up, frowning at the laptop computer she couldn’t get to work. She looked up at a knock on her door; she was clearing her throat to speak when the door opened and John Ransome looked in.
“Oh, Mary Catherine. I’m sorry—”
“No, it’s okay. I was about to get dressed. John, there’s something wrong with my laptop, it isn’t working at all.”
He shook his head. “Wish I could help. I’m barely computer literate; I’ve never even looked inside one of those things. There’s a computer in my office you’re welcome to use.”
“Thank you.”
He was closing the door when she said, “John?”
‘Yes?”
“It’s going well for you, isn’t it? Your painting. You know, you looked happy today— well, most of the time.”
“Did I?” he smiled, almost reluctant to confirm this. “All I know is, the hours go by so quickly in good company. And the work— yes, I am pleased. I don’t feel tired tonight. How about you? Posing doesn’t seem to tire or bore you.”
“Because I always have something interesting to think about or tell you. 1 try not to talk too much. I’m not tired either but I’m starving.”
“Then I’ll see you downstairs.” But he didn’t leave or look away from her. He’d had his own bath. He wore corduroys and a thick sweater with a shawl collar. He had a glass of wine in his left hand. “Mary Catherine, I was thinking—but this really isn’t the time, I’m intruding.”
“What is it, John? You can come in, it’s okay.”
He smiled and opened the door wider. But he stayed in the doorway, drank some wine, looked fondly at her.
“I’ve been thinking of trying something new, for me. Painting you contrapposto, nothing else on the canvas, no background.”
She nodded thoughtfully.
“Old dog, new tricks,” he said with a shrug, still smiling.
‘You’d want me to pose nude, then.”
“Yes. Unless you have strong reservations. I’d understand. It’s just an idea.”
“But I think it’s a good idea,” she said quickly. ‘You know I’m in favor of whatever makes the work go more easily, inspires you. That’s why I’m here.”
‘You don’t have to decide impetuously,” he cautioned. “There’s plenty of time–”
Echo nodded again. “I’m fine with it, John. Believe me.”
After a few moments she rose slowly from the bed, her lips lightly compressed, with a certain inwardness that distanced her from Ransome. She slowly and with pleasure let down her hair, arms held high, glistening by lamplight. She gave her abundant dark mane a full shakeout, then stared at the floor for a few seconds longer before turning away from him as she undid the towel.
Ransome’s face was impassive as he stared at Echo, his creative eye absorbing motion, light, shadow, coloring, contour. In that part of his mind removed from her subtle eroticism there was a great cold weight of ocean, the tolling waves.
Having folded the towel and lain it on the counterpane, Echo was still, seeming not to breathe, a hand outstretched as if she were a nymph reaching toward her reflection on the surface of a pool.
When at last she faced him she was easeful in her beauty, strong in her trust of herself, her purpose, her value. Proud of what they were creating together.
“Will you excuse me now, John?” she said.
TWELVE
When Valerie finished dressing for her anticipated dinner date with Peter O’Neill, having selected a clingy rose cocktail dress she’d almost forgotten was in her closet and a veil from her drawerful of veils to match, she returned to the apartment kitchen to check on how dinner was coming along. They were having gingered braised pork with apple and winter squash kebabs. She’d marinated the pork and other ingredients for two hours. The skewers were ready to grill as soon as Peter arrived. There was a bowl of tossed salad in the refrigerator. For dessert—now what had she planned for dessert? Oh, yes. Lemon-mint frappes.
But as soon as she walked into the small neat kitchen Valerie saw that the glass dish on the counter was empty and clean. No pork cubes marinating in garlic, orange juice, allspice, and olive oil. The unused metal skewers were to the left of the dish. The recipe book lay open.
She stared blankly at the untouched glass dish. Her scarred lips were pursed beneath her veil. She felt something let go in her mind and build momentum swiftly, like a roller-coaster on the downside of a bell curve with a 360-degree loop just ahead. She heard herself scream childishly on a distant day of fun and apprehension.
But I—
“There’s nothing in the refrigerator either,” she heard her mother say. “Just a carton of scummy old milk.”
The roller-coaster plummeted into a pit of darkness. Valerie turned. Her mother was leaning in the kitchen doorway. The familiar sneer. Ida had compromised the ardor of numerous men (including Valerie’s daddy), methodically breaking them on the wheel of her scorn. Now her once-lush body sagged; her potent beauty had turned, glistering like the scales of a dead fish.
“Hopeless. You’re just hopeless, Valerie.”
Valerie swallowed hurt feelings, knowing it was pointless to try to defend herself. She closed her eyes.
The thunder of the roller-coaster had reached her heart. When she looked up again her mother was still hanging around with her wicked lip and punishing sarcasm. Giving it to little Val for possessing the beauty Ida had lost forever. Valerie could go deaf when she absolutely needed to. Now should she take a peek into the refrigerator? But she knew her mother had been right. Good intentions aside, Val accepted that she’d drifted off somewhere when she was supposed to be preparing a feast.
Okay, embarrassing. Skip all that.
Valerie returned to the dining nook where the table was set, the wine decanted, candles lit. Beautiful. At least she’d done that right. She was thirsty. She thought it would be okay if she had a glass of wine before John arrived.
No, wait—could he really be coming to see her after all this time? She glanced fear fully at her veiled reflection in the dark of the window behind the table. Then she picked up the carafe in both hands and managed to pour a glass nearly full without spilling a drop. As she drank the roller-coaster stopped its jolting spree, swooping from brains to heart and back again.