Page 7 of Zenith
4
Afortnight passed, and I neither heard nor saw anything of Edward, so I began to relax.
The stab wounds in my chest worried me less and less until one day, the pain stopped altogether. The scars would remain for the rest of my life, but I was free of the burden of their reminder tickling my nerve endings every time I raised my arm.
I was now working three nights a week at The Gossiping Shrew alongside Adele and three other bartenders—Freddy, Guido, and Francesca—and my purse was beginning to fill once more. The work wasn’t particularly exciting, but the company made the time fly.
I spent my days off sleeping or wandering the streets around Rivers’s studio, getting to know the neighborhood. I wished to observe the works my housemate worked on all day long, but I was much too wary of provoking a renewed interest in his pursuit of romance. There needed to be a distance between us.
Still, curiosity won out over practical thinking, and the second Friday after my arrival, I lingered in the garage instead of going for my usual walk.
Rivers was absorbed in his current painting, and I observed closely, just as mesmerized as I had been the day I’d first seen him working in the grounds of Thornfield.
He hadn’t noticed me, so I edged closer, watching him dab his brush into the paint on his palette, then swish it across the canvas. The colors built, and the image solidified, and it mystified me how he knew what he was doing. It all seemed chaotic to me, the blending and the angles, but it was beautiful in its madness.
It appeared to be a landscape, but it wasn’t anything like the paintings that hung throughout Thornfield. This one was made up of a strange combination of white, blue, gray, and purple. It was a very modern interpretation of a traditional concept, and the style reminded me of a mixture of Monet and Picasso. I knew next to nothing about art save for the few things Rivers had told me at the retreat, but I did know that Monet was an Impressionist.
“I was wondering when you would come down here,” he said, not turning from his painting.
“You were?” I asked hesitantly, moving to stand beside him.
“Of course. You showed a great deal of interest in the mechanics of painting when I was at Thornfield, and I assumed you’d want to see more.” He set down his brush and smiled at me.
“I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
“Not at all.” He nodded at the painting. “Do you recognize this vista?”
I glanced at the painting and knew it was a landscape of the moors surrounding Thornfield, but it was unrecognizable in the colors he’d chosen.
“You’re still painting the moors,” I said, loathe to speak the name of the hotel aloud.
“I am. Upon returning to the city, I set about constructing an entire series of works inspired by the landscape there.” He turned and pointed to the canvases set against the wall. “Six months’ worth of them, to be specific. I was a bit obsessive about it.”
Counting the paintings, I ended up with twelve—thirteen with the one he was working on—all in various sizes and variations on the same color scheme.
“There are so many,” I murmured, wanting to reach out and touch each one, but I curled my fingers into the sleeves of my top instead. “What are you going to do with them all? Sell them?”
Rivers nodded. “Sometimes, I merely list them on my website, and they sell quite well. Other times, I fancy a big showing at a gallery and allow the curators to have their bonuses. It really depends on my mood and how invested I am in the subject matter.”
“I can’t imagine it,” I said. “Not being beholden to an employer like you are. Your whims sound delightful to me, though I suppose it’s just another day to you.”
“Money is nice, Jane, it keeps the lights on and food on the table, but it is nothing compared to adoration.”
I laughed at his unashamed bragging. “So that is your wish? Not to be rich but to be remembered?”
Rivers studied me for a moment before saying, “That’s the ultimate goal, isn’t it? To create something so profound you’ll never be forgotten.”
It was a lovely notion, though I couldn’t think of a single thing I would be remembered for. Such a quiet life wouldn’t amount to a page—not even a passing mention—in the history of the human race.
“Are you working tonight?” Rivers asked, and when I shook my head, he smiled brightly. “Then let’s have an adventure. Tonight some of London’s most famous art galleries are open late, and I wish to take you to one.”
The thought sparked a flame of excitement within my aching heart. It was not a date or anything close to romance, but a man like Rivers thrived on experience, and he wanted to share some of it with me. After being looked over for most of my life, being thought of in this way, no matter how small it was, was a great gift in my eyes.
Edward had never taken me anywhere outside of Thornfield—other than that horrible morning at the church. Granted, there were not many places he could have shown me, but he’d never wanted to experience life like this. I would take a chance and go.
We departed the studio half an hour later, took a bus, and then rode the tube across London before finally alighting at a station named Pimlico. A short walk through the streets and along the Thames brought us to a grand building along the riverbanks.
Rivers guided me through the front doors, a look of excitement on his face.
