Chesapeake Blue
Page 46
"Maybe I am, but I'm still better than you."
Her hand curled into a claw, but she fisted it, laid it on the table as he walked out. She snatched the bag, tucked it against he hip on the seat.
Down payment, she mused. Enough to tide her over for a few weeks while she worked out the rest. She wasn't done with Seth. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Eleven
HE BURROWED IN HIS STUDIO. He used painting as an escape, an excuse, and as a channel for his frustration.
He knew his family was worried about him. He'd barely seen them, or anyone else for that matter, for three days. He hadn't been able to go back to them after leaving Gloria.
He wouldn't take any part of her into their homes, their lives. She was the monkey on his back, and he'd do whatever it took to stop her from leaping onto theirs.
Money was a small price to pay to get rid of her. She'd be back. She always came back. But if ten thousand bought a space of peace, it was a bargain.
So, he'd work through his anger until he found that peace.
He'd hauled the big canvas up from storage, and he'd painted what he felt. The messy mix of emotions and images took shape and color and, as they did, emptied out of him.
He ate when he was hungry, slept when his vision blurred. And painted as if his life depended on it. That's what Dru thought as she stood in the doorway. It was a battle between life and death, between sanity and despair waged with a brush.
He had one in his hand, stabbed at the canvas, sliced at it. Another was clamped between his teeth like a weapon in reserve. Music boomed, a violent guitar riff that was like a battle cry. Paint was splattered on his shirt, his jeans, his shoes. Her floor.
A kind of blood loss, she thought and gripped the vase she carried.
He hadn't heard her knock over the blasting music, but looking at him now, she realized he wouldn't have heard her if the room had been silent and she'd screamed his name. He wasn't in the room. He was in the painting. She told herself to back up and close the door, that she was trespassing on his privacy and his work. But she couldn't.
To see him like this was compelling, intimate, oddly erotic. He seduced her with a passion that wasn't simply beyond anything she understood, but was as distant from her world as the moon. So she watched as he switched one brush for the other, as he swiped and swirled at the paint, then whipped at the canvas. Bold, almost vicious strokes, then delicate ones that seemed to hold a kind of contained fury.
Despite the breeze spilling in through the windows, she could see the dark line of sweat riding up the center back of his shirt, the damp gleam on the flesh of his arms and throat. This was labor, she thought, and not all for love. He'd told her he'd never suffered for art, but he'd been wrong, Dru realized. Anything that consumed so utterly came with pain. When he stepped back from the canvas, she thought he stared at it as if it had appeared out of thin air. The hand that held the brush fell to his side. He took the one he'd clamped between his teeth, set it aside. Then rubbed, almost absently, at the muscles of his right arm, flexed his fingers.
She started to ease back now, but he turned, peered at her like a man coming out of a trance. He appeared to be exhausted, a little shell-shocked and painfully vulnerable. Since she'd missed her chance to leave unnoticed, she did the only thing she could think of. She walked in, crossed over to his stereo and turned the music down.
"I'm sorry. You didn't hear me knock." She didn't look at the painting. She was almost afraid to. So she looked at him. "I've interrupted your work."
"No." He shoved away the stray strands of hair that fell over his forehead. "I think it's finished." He hoped to Christ it was, because he didn't have any more to give it. It had, finally, blessedly, emptied him.
He shifted to his workbench to clean his brushes. "What do you think?" he asked with a nod of his head toward the canvas.
It was a storm at sea. Brutal, savage, and somehow alive. The colors were dark and fearful—blues, greens, blacks, vicious yellows that combined like painful bruises.
She could hear the wind screaming, feel the terror of the man who fought a desperate battle to keep his boat from being swallowed by towering walls of waves.
The water lashed, lightning speared out of the turbulent sky. She saw faces—-just ghostly hints of them—in the feral clouds that spewed a sharp and angry rain. More, she realized as she was drawn to it, more faces in the sea.
They seemed hungry to her.
The single boat, the single man, were alone in the primal war. And in the distance, there was land, and light. There, that small piece of the sky was clear and steady blue. There was home. He was fighting his way home.
"It's powerful," she managed. "And it's painful. You don't show his face, so I wonder, would I see despair or determination, excitement or fear? And that's the point, isn't it? You don't show his face so we look and we see what we'd feel if we were the one fighting our demons alone."
"Don't you wonder if he'll win?"
"I know he will because he has to get home. They're waiting for him." She looked over at him. He was still caught up in the painting, and rubbing his right hand with his left. "Are you all right?"
"What?" He glanced at her, then down at his hands. "Oh. Yeah. They cramp sometimes when I've been at it too long."
"How long have you been working on this?"
"I don't know. What day is it?"
"That long. Then I imagine you want to get home and get some rest." She picked up the vase of flowers she'd set beside his stereo. "I put this together before I closed tonight." She held it out. "A peace offering."
It was a mix of blooms and shapes in a squat blue vase.
"Thanks. It's nice."
"I don't know whether to be disappointed or relieved that you haven't been up here the last few days stewing over our disagreement."
He gave the flowers a quick sniff. Something in the bouquet smelled a little like vanilla. "Is that what we had?"
"Well, we weren't in agreement. I was wrong. I very rarely am."
"Is that so?"
"Very rarely," she acknowledged. "So it's always a shock when I am, and when I am, I like to admit it, apologize and move on as quickly as possible."
"Okay. Why don't you tell me which portion of the disagreement you were wrong about?"
Her hand curled into a claw, but she fisted it, laid it on the table as he walked out. She snatched the bag, tucked it against he hip on the seat.
Down payment, she mused. Enough to tide her over for a few weeks while she worked out the rest. She wasn't done with Seth. Not by a long shot.
Chapter Eleven
HE BURROWED IN HIS STUDIO. He used painting as an escape, an excuse, and as a channel for his frustration.
He knew his family was worried about him. He'd barely seen them, or anyone else for that matter, for three days. He hadn't been able to go back to them after leaving Gloria.
He wouldn't take any part of her into their homes, their lives. She was the monkey on his back, and he'd do whatever it took to stop her from leaping onto theirs.
Money was a small price to pay to get rid of her. She'd be back. She always came back. But if ten thousand bought a space of peace, it was a bargain.
So, he'd work through his anger until he found that peace.
He'd hauled the big canvas up from storage, and he'd painted what he felt. The messy mix of emotions and images took shape and color and, as they did, emptied out of him.
He ate when he was hungry, slept when his vision blurred. And painted as if his life depended on it. That's what Dru thought as she stood in the doorway. It was a battle between life and death, between sanity and despair waged with a brush.
He had one in his hand, stabbed at the canvas, sliced at it. Another was clamped between his teeth like a weapon in reserve. Music boomed, a violent guitar riff that was like a battle cry. Paint was splattered on his shirt, his jeans, his shoes. Her floor.
A kind of blood loss, she thought and gripped the vase she carried.
He hadn't heard her knock over the blasting music, but looking at him now, she realized he wouldn't have heard her if the room had been silent and she'd screamed his name. He wasn't in the room. He was in the painting. She told herself to back up and close the door, that she was trespassing on his privacy and his work. But she couldn't.
To see him like this was compelling, intimate, oddly erotic. He seduced her with a passion that wasn't simply beyond anything she understood, but was as distant from her world as the moon. So she watched as he switched one brush for the other, as he swiped and swirled at the paint, then whipped at the canvas. Bold, almost vicious strokes, then delicate ones that seemed to hold a kind of contained fury.
Despite the breeze spilling in through the windows, she could see the dark line of sweat riding up the center back of his shirt, the damp gleam on the flesh of his arms and throat. This was labor, she thought, and not all for love. He'd told her he'd never suffered for art, but he'd been wrong, Dru realized. Anything that consumed so utterly came with pain. When he stepped back from the canvas, she thought he stared at it as if it had appeared out of thin air. The hand that held the brush fell to his side. He took the one he'd clamped between his teeth, set it aside. Then rubbed, almost absently, at the muscles of his right arm, flexed his fingers.
She started to ease back now, but he turned, peered at her like a man coming out of a trance. He appeared to be exhausted, a little shell-shocked and painfully vulnerable. Since she'd missed her chance to leave unnoticed, she did the only thing she could think of. She walked in, crossed over to his stereo and turned the music down.
"I'm sorry. You didn't hear me knock." She didn't look at the painting. She was almost afraid to. So she looked at him. "I've interrupted your work."
"No." He shoved away the stray strands of hair that fell over his forehead. "I think it's finished." He hoped to Christ it was, because he didn't have any more to give it. It had, finally, blessedly, emptied him.
He shifted to his workbench to clean his brushes. "What do you think?" he asked with a nod of his head toward the canvas.
It was a storm at sea. Brutal, savage, and somehow alive. The colors were dark and fearful—blues, greens, blacks, vicious yellows that combined like painful bruises.
She could hear the wind screaming, feel the terror of the man who fought a desperate battle to keep his boat from being swallowed by towering walls of waves.
The water lashed, lightning speared out of the turbulent sky. She saw faces—-just ghostly hints of them—in the feral clouds that spewed a sharp and angry rain. More, she realized as she was drawn to it, more faces in the sea.
They seemed hungry to her.
The single boat, the single man, were alone in the primal war. And in the distance, there was land, and light. There, that small piece of the sky was clear and steady blue. There was home. He was fighting his way home.
"It's powerful," she managed. "And it's painful. You don't show his face, so I wonder, would I see despair or determination, excitement or fear? And that's the point, isn't it? You don't show his face so we look and we see what we'd feel if we were the one fighting our demons alone."
"Don't you wonder if he'll win?"
"I know he will because he has to get home. They're waiting for him." She looked over at him. He was still caught up in the painting, and rubbing his right hand with his left. "Are you all right?"
"What?" He glanced at her, then down at his hands. "Oh. Yeah. They cramp sometimes when I've been at it too long."
"How long have you been working on this?"
"I don't know. What day is it?"
"That long. Then I imagine you want to get home and get some rest." She picked up the vase of flowers she'd set beside his stereo. "I put this together before I closed tonight." She held it out. "A peace offering."
It was a mix of blooms and shapes in a squat blue vase.
"Thanks. It's nice."
"I don't know whether to be disappointed or relieved that you haven't been up here the last few days stewing over our disagreement."
He gave the flowers a quick sniff. Something in the bouquet smelled a little like vanilla. "Is that what we had?"
"Well, we weren't in agreement. I was wrong. I very rarely am."
"Is that so?"
"Very rarely," she acknowledged. "So it's always a shock when I am, and when I am, I like to admit it, apologize and move on as quickly as possible."
"Okay. Why don't you tell me which portion of the disagreement you were wrong about?"
