back across the years, the lines in his face seemed to deepen, and his blue eyes
appeared faded. After a moment he shook his head and continued:
“Anyway, those were different times, when a woman betrayed by a husband was an
object of pity, ridicule. But even for those days, I thought Violet’s reaction
was overblown. She burned all his clothes and changed the locks on the house . .
. she even killed a dog, a spaniel, of which he was fond. Poisoned it. And
mailed it to him in a box.”
“Dear God,” Travis said.
Garrison said, “Violet took back her maiden name because she didn’t want his any
more. The thought of carrying George Olmstead’s name through life repelled her,
she said, even though he was dead. She was an unforgiving woman.”
“Yes,” Nora agreed.
His face pinched with distaste at the memory, and Garrison said, “When George
was killed, she didn’t bother to conceal her pleasure.”
“Killed?” Nora half-expected to hear that Violet had murdered George Olmstead
yet had somehow escaped prosecution.
“It was an auto accident, forty years ago,” Garrison said. “He lost control on
the Coast Highway driving home from Los Angeles, went over the edge where, in
those days, there wasn’t a guardrail. The embankment was sixty or eighty feet
high, very steep, and George’s car—a large black Packard— rolled over several
times on the way down to the rocks below. Violet inherited everything because,
though she had initiated divorce proceedings against him, George had not gotten
around to changing his will.”
Travis said, “So George Olmstead not only betrayed Violet but, in dying, left
her with no target for her anger. So she directed that anger at the world in
general.”
“And at me in particular,” Nora said.
That same afternoon, Nora told Travis about her painting. She had not mentioned
her artistic pursuits before, and he had not been in her bedroom to see her
easel, supply cabinet, and drawing board. She was not sure why she had kept this
aspect of her life a secret from him. She had mentioned an interest in art,
which was why they had gone to galleries and museums, but Perhaps she had never
spoken of her own work because she was afraid that, On seeing her canvases, he
would be unimpressed.
What if he felt that she had no real talent?
Aside from the escape provided by books, the thing that kept Nora going
through many grim, lonely years was her painting. She believed that she was
good, perhaps very good, though she was too shy and too vulnerable to voice that
conviction to anyone. What if she was wrong? What if she had no talent and had
been merely filling time? Her art was the primary medium by which she defined
herself. She had little else with which to sustain even her thin and shaky
self-image, so she desperately needed to believe in her talent. Travis’s opinion
meant more to her than she could say, and if his reaction to her painting was
negative, she would be devastated.
But after leaving Garrison Dilworth’s office, Nora knew that the time had come
to take the risk. The truth about Violet Devon had been a key that had unlocked
Nora’s emotional prison. She would need a long time to move from her cell, down
the long hall to the outside world, but the journey would inevitably continue.
Therefore, she would have to open herself to all the experiences that her new
life provided, including the awful possibility of rejection and severe
disappointment. Without risk, there was no hope of gain.
Back at the house, she considered taking Travis upstairs to have a look at a
half dozen of her most recent paintings. But the idea of having a man in her
bedroom, even with the most innocent intentions, was too unsettling. Garrison
Dilworth’s revelations freed her, yes, and her world was rapidly broadening, but
she was not yet that free. Instead, she insisted that Travis and Einstein sit on
one of the big sofas in the furniture-stuffed living room, where she would bring
some of her canvases for viewing. She turned on all the lights, drew the drapes