Page 20 of Zenith
9
Spring was almost over. The days had lengthened considerably, warmth enveloped the city, and I hardly saw Rivers since we’d kissed.
He hid away in his studio and worked all hours of the day and night, avoiding me whenever I came and went. It seemed we were on the same page, and for that, I was thankful. I could not handle another loss, not even one as fickle as John Rivers.
One evening, after I’d returned from working at The Gossiping Shrew, he appeared out of the darkness, scaring me half to death. I’d been skulking through the garage, hoping he was too embroiled in his work to notice my arrival, but it seemed he had been waiting this particular night.
“Rivers!” I exclaimed, placing my hand over my bursting heart. “You startled me!”
“My apologies,” he said. “I was hoping I would catch you.”
“Well, you have well and truly caught me.”
He stood awkwardly and thrust his hand through his shock of unruly hair, pushing it away from his eyes. His skin was covered in drops of paint, his shirt askew, and his eyes were hooded, showing how tired he was. I found myself wondering when he last saw a bed.
“I must apologize for the other evening,” he said sheepishly, taking me by surprise. I had not expected an apology at all. “I took a chance knowing you were not interested and ended up taking advantage of your sorrow. I’m deeply sorry, Jane.”
“I never lied to you, Rivers,” I said carefully. “I’m not interested in romance, nor am I the kind of person who can easily give herself for pleasure. It is not who I am.”
He nodded, attempting to mask his disappointment but not succeeding.
“I’ve finished,” he declared, changing the subject. “That was why I was waiting for you tonight.”
“Finished what?” I frowned, wondering what he could be referring to.
He laughed and shook his head, bemused by my reaction. “Your portrait, of course.”
“I thought…” I allowed my words to trail off, not wanting to bring up the kiss and subsequent days of avoidance again. It seemed to have worked itself out, and dwelling would do no one any good.
“Will you see it, and give me your opinion?” he asked, nodding toward the rear of the studio. “It is only fitting you should be able to see the finished product.”
I didn’t see the harm in it now we were back in friendly territory, so I allowed him to lead me back to the scene of our awkward kiss. I glanced at the couch with narrowed eyes before moving to see the canvas. I had not laid eyes on it and was entirely unsure as to what I would find. Would it be abstract? Or a lifelike representation? Or a modern interpretation of his pointillism works? Perhaps it would be in the same style as his landscapes since he wanted the portrait to be part of the display.
Rivers swept his arm out wide as if he were unveiling a masterpiece and watched my reaction carefully as I beheld his work.
The canvas was as tall as I was, the vista so full of color and detail I knew he mustn’t have spent much time away from it. There I was, etched in blue, white, silver, and greens—ice in a field of green. I looked elegant and relaxed with my cheek turned to the side, my profile sharp. The background was wild with swirls of color, the studio discarded in favor of the moors he’d been painting all those months since the retreat. Was this how John Rivers saw me? A wild and elegant lady with nature as the only witness to her deepest thoughts?
“I was drawn to this image,” he said, studying the lines of his work. “Something inside me knew I had to complete it. It was quite a strange thing to experience. I’ve been known to go without sleep when I’m taken by my muse so completely, but never have I drawn it out so long.”
The air became thick with mounting tension, and I stared at the painting, torn between wanting to discourage him in the blunt manner he seemed to require and to placate him just enough to keep things civil between us. I feared he would lash out if I pressed the matter.
“Do you like it, Jane?”
I nodded, feeling quite overcome by the image despite my misgivings about his intentions.
“I shall be showing the landscapes at a gallery in Kensington from next week,” he declared. “I thought it would be a shame to have them sold and not appreciated, so I shopped them around, and Space Gallery snapped them up within moments of receiving the inquiry.”
“Is that unusual?” I asked.
He nodded. “Very. I told them if they wanted my paintings, then they had to show them within the week, or I would sell them direct to someone else. Dealers dislike when I threaten them so—they miss out on their commissions you see—but I do love to tease.”
“It’s a little cruel,” I retorted. “You mustn’t play with them so callously.”
“Perhaps not, but they thrive on wealth and numbers, none of which are healthy pursuits if you ask me. The catalog was rushed overnight,” he said, the pride shining in his eyes.
“You seem especially proud,” I mused, turning my gaze back to the portrait.
“I feel as if it is some of my best work to date. It is a testament to the retreat and the venue, none of which would have been possible without you, Jane.”
