This seemed like a strange question. “Yes.”
“Were you looking for something to paint the day you ran my car off the road?”
“You were speeding,” I reminded him.
He picked up another watercolor and scanned it. “These are good,” he said, “but they’re not worth dying over. I know I said it’s none of my business where you go on your time off, but I want you to do me a favor. For the time being, do your painting at Thornfield Park.”
I must have looked startled.
“There are plenty of interesting things to paint around the estate. I bet you haven’t seen nine-tenths of the grounds,” he said.
“I don’t know,” I told him. “Probably not.”
“Have you checked out the path behind the pool house? If you follow it into the woods and bear right, you’ll come to a stable. I don’t keep horses,” he added, anticipating my next question. “It was there when I bought the place. The building’s run-down, a little haunted-looking, and there are these wild twisted trees around it. Would you try painting there instead of wandering all over the county? Not forever, just for a while?”
“I’ll go there tomorrow if it doesn’t rain,” I promised him.
And I did. I spread out my supplies on a low, flat boulder and painted three landscapes — one of the stable’s warping boards and deep, shadowy interior, and the other two of the gnarled tree trunks that looked, when I squinted, like figures in black caught in a ghostly dance. I got so involved in painting that I forgot to check my watch and was almost late for Maddy’s pickup time. I hurried to the house and raced in through the back door and up to my bedroom to drop off my paints. Just as I was about to turn the corner into the hallway, I heard voices — Amber and Linda — and could tell by their tone that they were gossiping again.
“Nico pays her well, right? Benjamin mentioned something about her being rich. Not that you’d ever know it to look at her,” Amber said.
“A lot better than he pays us,” Linda replied. “I’m not complaining. I know I make more than most housekeepers, but she makes five times as much. She told me once that she’s saving up to buy her own bed-and-breakfast someday.”
Amber said something I couldn’t quite catch.
“I know, she looks almost sixty with that bun of hers, but she’s much younger. Fortysomething, maybe. So she’s a long way from retiring.”
They were describing Brenda.
“Why do you suppose she’s worth that much money to him? What makes her so special?”
I could hear the creak of the laundry cart. Any moment now they would turn the corner and find me there. And wouldn’t I be
embarrassed to be caught listening to their private conversation? I forced myself forward, around the corner.
“If she were younger and prettier, I’d wonder if Nico…,” Linda was saying, but Amber gave her a nudge, then both of them looked my way. I saw Amber shake her head emphatically, and seconds later, they were gone. I fumbled for the key to my room and dropped my portfolio and my tackle box of art supplies on the bed. Then I sat down to catch my breath and to give the blood burning in my cheeks a moment to cool down.
What I’d heard did little to answer my questions about Brenda. All it did was confirm for me that there was something mysterious going on at Thornfield Park and that it somehow involved her.
Mr. Rathburn was in the breakfast room at eight the next morning, earlier than I had ever seen him there. Before she left for school, Maddy popped in to the kitchen to kiss him good-bye; from the hallway, I could see he had been drinking coffee at the table, the business section of the
New York Times
spread open before him. When we returned at lunchtime, the door to the music room was shut; the sound of electric guitar seeped through the walls. As Maddy carried her plate to the dishwasher, she announced that she would be spending the afternoon with her father.
“He’s working,” I reminded her. “You’ll see him later.”
While she was napping, I stayed in my room. I hadn’t yet figured out how visible I should be to Mr. Rathburn. I needed to stick close to Maddy, of course; I had to stay within the range of her voice when she spent time with her father. But while she was
off at school or asleep, I imagined I should keep out from underfoot. I thought about asking Lucia what was appropriate, but when I saw her in the hall she was gesticulating wildly with one hand, the other pressing a cordless phone to her ear. “Not Friday! I could be dead by Friday. Tomorrow. We need delivery
tomorrow
.”
I read while Maddy slept, bedspread pulled up to my chin. The scent of baking bread wafted upstairs from the kitchen. I was feeling around the bed for the bookmark I’d dropped, thinking about closing my eyes for a brief nap of my own, when the intercom crackled, and Mr. Rathburn’s voice startled me. “Jane? Are you there?”
I jumped to my feet. “I’m here,” I told the intercom.
“Could you come here a second? I’m in my dressing room.”
It seemed an odd request. I considered it for a moment, wondering if maybe it would be unwise to join him in such an isolated part of the house. But then I caught sight of myself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door and realized how silly I was being. I looked completely unlike the women he had dated. Maybe he wanted to discuss Maddy? “I’ll be right there.”
I had to think hard to remember the location of his dressing room, just off his bedroom in the wing opposite mine. I hurried first to Maddy’s bedroom and peeked in. She was still asleep, clutching her pink pillow. When I reached the dressing room, I found him standing there, piles of clothes flung on various surfaces. He was holding a shiny, black button-down in front of his T-shirted chest.
“You’re the demographic I’m trying to impress,” he said. “Or one of them, anyway. What do you think?”
This was an interesting turn of events. I thought for a second. “It depends. What’s the occasion?”
“We’re doing a photo shoot for the tour program this afternoon. Javier is home with a migraine; usually I would ask him. I don’t want to be at the mercy of the photographer and Mitch. I want to go in there with a set idea, so I don’t get sidetracked into some ridiculous, trendy…” He tossed the black shirt on the chair and reached for a plaid flannel one. “How about this?”
“It’s not very flashy.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Well, right,” he said. “I’m not going for flashy. I haven’t been flashy since my first album.” I’d been standing in the doorway; he beckoned me closer.
“What
are
you going for?” There must have been ten piles of shirts, pants, and scarves strewn around the room.
“What
am
I going for?” he asked the ceiling. “What should I be going for?”
“What does your new album sound like?”
“More acoustic than the others.” He reached for a candy-orange silk shirt. “More folky. Lyric intensive, if you know what I mean. Less dynamic, more reflective. Intimate. My fan base is going to hate it; it will remind them they’re not teenagers anymore.”
I thought for a moment. “I wouldn’t dress too formally, but I wouldn’t go too far in the other direction and wear a ripped T-shirt or a lumberjack shirt or anything like that.” I looked around; a crisp burgundy-colored shirt slung over a chair in the corner caught my eye. “That one would be nice — with blue jeans.”
“That one?” he asked. “Why that one?”
“I think that color will suit you,” I said. He waited, as though
expecting a more persuasive rationale. “But maybe you should get somebody else’s opinion,” I added. “I’m no expert on clothes, as you can see” — I gestured to my denim skirt and oxford shirt — “and I don’t know anything about rock music.”
“You don’t?” He sounded shocked. “What do you listen to?”
“Classical music, sometimes.”
“Do you listen to
my
music?” he asked in a somewhat quieter voice.
“I’ve heard it. My brother played your third album all the time, so I know it very well. And I’ve listened through all the others.”
“Listened through all the others?” He massaged his temples. “You mean only once?”
I nodded, and he looked at me oddly for a moment, as though I were a bird who had flown in through the window and he was trying to figure out how to get me back outside.
“I believe the agency picked me for that reason,” I reminded him.
“Oh. That’s right. I told them not to send me any more fans.” He made a snorting sound, a laugh devoid of humor, and picked up the shirt I had chosen. “You wouldn’t believe the kinds of trouble it causes.” His tone was grudging. He held the shirt up in front of him. “But couldn’t you humor me for a moment? Pretend you like my work. Imagine you could be won over by something as frivolous as a tour program or a poster. Would this shirt do the trick?”
I considered the question for a second. It would be a nice color on him; it made his gray eyes seem darker and moodier, and it
brought out the color in his lips, softening his rough features just a bit. “I think it would.”
“I’ll put it on.” He grabbed a pair of jeans from the pile. “Don’t go anywhere.”
A minute later, he was back, standing in front of his three-way mirror, striking a pose, holding an imaginary guitar. “So?” he asked me.
“I’d go with that one. It’s flattering. And it’s not too formal, but it looks grown-up.”
“Grown-up. That’s me. Earrings?”
“Yes. You don’t want to look too much like a soccer dad.”
“Soccer dad? Ouch.”
“And maybe roll up your sleeves to show your tattoo.” He rolled them up, revealing the serpent that coiled through the sparse hair of his left forearm.
“Motorcycle boots?” he asked me, and when I nodded, “Black or brown? Maybe you’ve just found yourself a new career — stylist.” He ruffled his hair, making it stand up. “Don’t go yet. You’re not done here.” And he disappeared again into the bedroom.
When he came back out, the transformation was complete; I could half imagine what the cover of the tour program might look like. “What do you think?” he asked.
“Perfect. I think that’s the right balance.”
“Should I shave? I’m thinking about growing a soul patch,” he said. “You know, one of those little blobs of hair right here?” He pointed to the spot beneath his lower lip.
“I know even less about beards than I do about men’s clothes.”
“That’s right,” he said teasingly. “You’re a girl.”
“Maybe you should ask your barber.”
“I don’t want my barber’s opinion. I’m asking
because
you’re a girl. A woman, I mean.”
I didn’t really know what to say to that.
He surveyed himself in the mirror a moment, then turned back to me. “Do you think I can pull it off?” he asked. “Will I pass?”
I waited for him to explain further.
“As a sex symbol?”
“Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think men worried about things like that.”
“They do when they’re using their face to sell CDs.” He exhaled sharply. “And when they have to shoot a fucking tour program.” Then he softened a little. “Sorry. I can see you don’t like swearing. I’ll try to rein it in. So. Passing as a sex symbol. Can I?”
I weighed my words carefully. “You might not be movie-star handsome,” I said finally, “but you’re good-looking for a rock star.”
Mr. Rathburn’s eyes widened. “That’s three times you’ve hurt my feelings in one conversation,” he said a bit gruffly.
“Three times?” I really hadn’t meant to be rude.
He counted on his fingers. “You don’t like my music. I’m a soccer dad. And I’m good-looking…
for a rock star
.”
“A lot of women throw themselves at rock stars.”
He surprised me by laughing, a belly laugh that went on for a while. When he laughed, his eyes crinkled, and I could see how his fans might consider him attractive, despite the scowl and his less-than-classically-handsome features. Then his laughter gave way to a sly smile. “What about you, Jane? Can you imagine throwing yourself at a rock star?”
I probably should have tried to come up with a more diplomatic answer, but instead I spoke without thinking. “No, Mr. Rathburn.”
His jaw dropped. “You’re something else. You know that? What planet are you from?”
I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. How did I manage to keep saying the wrong things? “I should have chosen my words more carefully. I should have said I can’t imagine throwing myself at
anyone.
” I thought a moment. “I should have said looks aren’t important, especially not in a man.”
“You’re kidding, right? Looks aren’t important?” He snorted again. “We both know that’s not true. You’re not a movie star either, are you, Jane?”
“That’s right,” I replied. “I’m not.”
“And has your life taught you that looks don’t matter?” He dropped to a chair to adjust one of his boots.
I considered the question. Was he trying to hurt my feelings? His expression was calm enough, without spite, as he fiddled with the buckle of his boot. I decided he wasn’t trying to hurt me any more than I had been trying to hurt him. “No,” I said. “I mean, I know from experience that looks do matter. Quite a bit.”
“Well then.” He patted the other boot. “Have you had many boyfriends?” He looked up at me quizzically.
“No. Not many. Not any, actually.”
“Why not? Don’t you like men?”
“Yes.” I thought for a moment about the other question. “At Sarah Lawrence the girls outnumbered the boys by far. And I wasn’t the kind of girl the boys noticed.”
“And you were perfectly fine with that?”
“I wasn’t fine with it,” I replied. “But I’ve learned to accept the way things are.”
“The way things are,” he repeated absently. “You don’t mind, do you? That I’m prying into your personal life?”
“No, Mr. Rathburn.”
“I don’t suppose I’ll ever get you to call me by my first name, will I?” He stood, walked back over to the three-way mirror, and looked at his reflection for a long time. “So,” he said finally. “Be your usual blunt self. Is there any hope for me?”
“For a comeback, you mean?”
He shook his head. “Is there any chance I’ll turn from plastic back into flesh?”
The question was such a strange one that I had no idea what to say. I waited a moment to see whether he would explain himself.