Chapter 2

Val Hunter showered, and briefly toweled and brushed the short dark hair which would be dry in less than ten minutes in the heat of her house. Still nude, she tossed her wet shorts and T-shirt over the line behind the house, and came back into the cluttered living room thinking without enthusiasm that she should tidy.

She donned fresh clothing, another pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and tended to her paintbrushes. With her usual patience she rinsed each brush in mineral spirits, soaking them all in warm water, then rubbing the bristles of each on an Ivory soap bar, using her palm to lather, the soap turning into the bright hues of the paint. After rinsing the brushes in warm water she repeated the operation until the lather was color free. Delicately, lightly, she squeezed the damp, clean brushes to reshape the bristles, and laid them out to dry.

With dissatisfaction she contemplated the painting propped against the box on her worktable; there was nothing more she could do for several days until the paint dried. She studied the gray mists of the composition from different angles, bothered by the false light of the late afternoon falling on the paint—wan and pale citron compared to pure strong morning light.

When she next glanced at the clock she was shocked by the time. Neal was due home. She propped the painting against a wall where it would receive light but be out of her line of sight, and dispiritedly visualized the contents of her refrigerator. Frozen enchiladas would be fast but unappetizing in this heat…Maybe hamburgers. Neal could help decide.

“Guess who’s the next Pete Rose,” her son said from the doorway. “I got three hits today.”

In two strides she was to him, roughly gripping him. His body, small for his ten years, was sturdy and tanned to dark mahogany. She pressed her lips to brown hair streaked copper and blond from the sun, and inhaled his earthy smell. She knew not to comment; he never needed to be told he should shower. “You’re beautiful,” she said. “That’s just great.”

“Nah.” Neal extricated himself and straightened his shirt and running shorts. “My average’s up to only two-seventy-six.”

She nodded without comprehension. “I’m proud of you.”

He waved a self-deprecating hand. “What’s for dinner, oh great and powerful Oz?”

Ignoring his habitual reference to his favorite movie, she answered, “Crab legs mornay.”

His sneakers squeaked on the cracked tile of the kitchen floor. “Hey, we got lettuce,” he called, his head in the refrigerator. “How about a salad? And cheese and salami and crackers? That’s a good balanced meal.”

“Fine with me.”

“I’ll shower off and cut up the other stuff if you make the salad. Hey, Ma?” His voice was pleading. “If I clean up the living room could I maybe watch the ball game? The Dodgers are on the road, Fernando’s pitching.”

She said grudgingly: “It won’t kill me not seeing the news for once.”

Neal’s glance traveled the room. His tone was aggravated: “How do you get this place so messed up in just one day?” She grinned at the retreating back of her son as he went to shower. She dropped more ice cubes into her glass of water and settled herself on the sofa, unfolding the morning Times that Jerry Robinson as usual had left at her door after he was finished with it.

Much later that evening she thought of Carolyn Blake. She flipped open a sketch pad. Her drawing was incomplete—a rough pencil out-line of details impressed in her memory: a mantle of smooth polished hair—sand-colored, she remembered—reaching not quite to the shoulder, a few strands stirred by the hot dry breeze, and the almond shape of eyes she remembered as green coming out of gray.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 754