Page 96 of The Grave Artist
As he stood, he noticed Maddie giving him a slow perusal, her gaze lingering just below his belt. He was certain she’d noticed his reaction to her. In that moment, he couldn’t resist joking to himself, if she’d asked him whether there was a pack of razor blades in his pocket or if he was happy to see her, he could honestly answer yes to both.
She looked back up at his face. “Lead the way.”
He considered taking her hand but did not. Instead, he walked to the mirror that was the secret door to his den, then turned to watch her reaction when he pushed the side to open the hidden entrance and gestured for her to go inside.
She hesitated on the threshold—the room he was ushering her into was completely black.
He felt that power thing again, tipping in his direction. Then he flicked on the light.
She scanned the walls. “Well.” A step farther inside, studying the frames. “I recognize some, but the others, did you paint those?”
He said, “I appreciate art, I know art, I teach art. I can’t paint or draw. I tried. I don’t have the talent.”
Her eyes went to Hopper’sAutomat, the print that had caught Tristan Kane’s attention as well. Did the solitary woman remind Maddie of herself?
Urban alienation . . .
She asked, “Was that a disappointment? Deciding you couldn’t paint?”
He considered the question. “I had a governess. She raised me after my mother and father were gone.”
“You’re an orphan. I’m sorry.”
“Well, in a way. My mother died when I was a kid. My father assholed his way out of my life. He died when I was older.”
She blinked. A smile followed. “I shouldn’t laugh, but that’s a good expression, about your father. I lost my parents too. An accident. I was twelve.” This seemed to be something she didn’t want to discuss, and she nodded briskly when he said he was sorry. Then she was moving on. “You had a governess? For real?”
“I did.”
“Cool. I didn’t know they made them anymore. I mean, not after, like, 1900 or whenever.”
“Miss Spalding ... she said I was good at everything, including drawing and painting. She was afraid to make me feel bad, afraid to, you know, alienate me. But finally a teacher told me I simply wasn’t talented. I wasfightingthe sheets and canvas. A real artist doesn’t have to.”
“You must have been mad.”
She’d moved on toChristina’s Worldby Andrew Wyeth. Some people thought it was a painting of peace of mind. Damon found it one of the most sorrowful works ever created.
“I was,” he said. “But then he told me Iwasan artist. One of the best he had ever seen.”
Maddie frowned.
“He explained that there are those who can paint and draw and sculpt brilliantly. But they’re not artists. They have technical trade skills. There are millions of them. But only a few people were like me. I understood what art was—it was giving voice to those with profound feelings they couldn’t express. That’s the value of art. It gives us understanding that science and religion and education can’t. It completes us. Without art, we would exist with gaps.”
“In what?”
“Everything. Our daily existence, our faith, our souls, our purposes, love. You can’t be an artist if you don’t understand that.”
“But—” Maddie was truly curious. “How can you be an artist and not draw or paint?”
“The teacher said I just hadn’t found my medium. It would only take a little time. But one day I would.”
“Have you found it? Your medium?”
He didn’t answer but redirected her. “What do you think of the art?”
As she looked at each wall in turn, he gazed at her, thinking that she was even more beautiful than he’d initially believed.
She was Felicia beautiful.
