Chapter 10

Val pulled a sketch pad out of the pile on the coffee table, the same pad she had used for her first penciled impression of Carolyn Blake. The latest drawing was of Carolyn on the white sofa in a silk shirtwaist dress, her feet drawn up under her, her head tilted slightly to the left in what Val knew to be unconscious habit when Carolyn was listening. A hand rested on a knee, and Val spent some time on the tapering fingers and the thumb that was in interesting apposition, a wide angle out from the fingers. She filled in details of the dress, the folds of soft silk, her pencil straying back up to the throat, lightly sculpting and accentuating the curve.

She turned the page, and in a few strokes Carolyn stood with her feet close together, arms crossed, her hands clasping the inside of her arms; as she had stood in this room only a few minutes ago looking at paintings. Several lines completed the shorts Carolyn wore, but Val lingered over the legs, the long curves, the slenderness of them.

Again she turned the page. In close-up she emphasized delicate bone structure, the rounding at the end of the nose and at the center of the chin, the fine breadth of forehead. She feathered in an irregular hairline at the temples, a suggestion of eyelashes not readily apparent because of their blondeness.

She held the sketch at arm’s length, appraising not her work but the subject. Carolyn Blake was by no means conventionally pretty, yet she was exquisite.

With tender strokes she finished the soft lines of the throat. The sketch was now asymmetrical on the page but still her pencil descended. Under her hand slender shoulders and then small breasts took shape, shadowed, suggested by a top piece of the bikini, cleavage clearly visible.

The image of Alix filled Val’s mind, and Val’s pencil stilled.

—Sometimes when a person wants another for so long, the want can go away. And finally the want of you has gone, Val. I’ll always love you but I don’t have to have you anymore. You know it, how I wanted you. And I know you could have loved me. Even with Bette and my other lovers, knowing you could love me kept me hoping, kept me tied to you. You never allowed yourself to love me.

—I do love you, Alix. I never wanted…more.

—You did. The year we lived together we never went to bed but there was everything else. How you touched me, how you looked at me.

—What was real for you was a phase for me. Experimentation.

—I see you better than anyone in your life, Val Hunter. Better than both your husbands, your parents, anyone. I know how you think, I know your self-control. You make something not exist by denying that it does. One day you’ll admit what you want—to yourself, if to no one else.

—I’ll admit nothing. All the choices I’ve made, even if they turned out wrong, seemed best for me. I have a choice about everything. Look at me, Alix. I’m independent. Free.

—Free? You’ve let everyone else dictate how you’ve lived. And when you finally couldn’t stand it anymore you withdrew completely. Soon you’ll be totally consumed by your art because there isn’t anything else. Maybe you’ll even devour your son.

It had been six months since she last heard from Alix. “Why Houston?” she had asked her.

“Because Helen came out to her parents and they want nothing to do with her. She wants to be with friends in Houston. There’s a large gay community there. And because I need to get away from you—to finally break the tie.”

She would hear from Alix, of course. They had been supreme presences in each other’s lives since the year they lived together. Alix—tiny, blonde, desired by men who expired like moths against her brilliant cold flame—was right. Val knew Alix loved her, and the depth and sexuality of that love. After Alix had turned in anger from her to other women she had never taken any of Alix’s lovers seriously, including the current Helen. Val had basked in Alix’s love; she missed it. If a man could ever love her like that…What Alix perceived in her and was attracted to was the androgyny all good artists must possess, nothing more…It was the reason for her own attraction to Alix.

That Helen’s parents had disowned Helen was additional proof, if more was needed, that a lesbian lifestyle was a complication anyone should avoid who had any choice in the matter. She certainly had a choice. Bad enough to lack anything resembling a fashionable female body let alone the height and size and physical strength and deep voice and aggressive personality to go with it. Bad enough that because most people assumed she was a lesbian she had to wear her two failed marriages and her production of a son like a badge. Why on earth should she seek further ostracism?

Neal came in. She closed the sketch pad, slid it in among the stack on the coffee table, and leaned forward for his hug. She followed him into the kitchen, listening to his chatter with one level of consciousness, thinking that she should have Carolyn Blake come over soon. Neal would love Carolyn.

Date: 2015-02-03; view: 586