The Color of Light (36 page)

“My heart was beating about a hundred miles a minute. ‘You’re so talented,’ he said. Then, ‘Of all Caroline’s cousins, I think you’re the prettiest.’

“I loved him for that. Even then, I was a head taller than all my classmates. I didn’t feel pretty. I felt awkward and clumsy and shy. He came closer. Too close. I could feel his breath on my hair. And then he kissed me.

“I was shocked. ‘But you’re marrying Caroline tomorrow,’ I said.

“He gave me one of those winning smiles, you know, the kind that makes you feel all oogly, like your insides are made out of chewing gum, and he said, ‘Come on, Portia. We’re practically family.’

“So I let him kiss me. And then he was opening his mouth, and touching me, and I was saying no, no, no, and pushing him away, and he was holding me too hard and forcing me down onto the floor, and…” Portia stopped. Her long face was furrowed with an old grief. She shivered. “Let’s get out of here.”

They left the playhouse behind, ducking through the child-sized door. There were more trees now, trunks appearing out of the mist, the scent of crushed pine needles pleasantly reminiscent of turpentine. They had to watch where they were going; here under the trees, knotty roots heaved themselves up out of the earth. The ground under their feet grew soft, spongy, emitting a faint marshy odor of decay. The fog thinned for a moment, letting in moonlight, revealing a small clearing in the woods.

“Where are we?” said Tessa.

“The pet cemetery,” said Portia. Tessa ran her fingers along a bench
. Kermit, a St. Bernard. He Was A Good Dog 1913
was engraved in spidery capital letters on one of the weathered gray slats.

“Look. This is where I buried my cat.” At Portia’s feet was a lichen-covered stone with the name Alice inscribed in it, and the year 1979. “There’s a horse under here somewhere, too.”

“What happened?” said Tessa cautiously. “Drew. Did they call off the wedding?”

She looked down at the ground, studying the pitted, mossy stones. “No. Nothing like that.” She shoved her hands deep in her pockets. The breeze
stirred the tails of her coat. “Drew said that if I told anybody, he would swear that I was a liar, that I came on to him, that I made it all up because he turned me down. I believed him. I was fifteen, you know? Years later, I understood. He picked me because I was young, and shy, and vulnerable.

“I told my mother that I couldn’t go to the wedding, I was sick. My aunt was furious. My grandfather came stomping up to my room to give me a piece of his mind. Act like a Ballard, damn it. Couldn’t I just grit my teeth, walk down the aisle and puke later? I stayed in bed with the lights off for three days.”

“Did you ever tell anybody?”

“When I was eighteen, I told my mother. She was horrified. It couldn’t be
possible.
He was from such a
nice
family. Was I sure I hadn’t
imagined
it. Maybe he was just
horsing around.
Then she got angry. What had I done to make him think I wanted it? Of course, by then, it didn’t matter. Everyone knew he was cheating on Caroline.

“No one ever said anything. It just got swept under the carpet with all the other bits and pieces of stuff that was never discussed in my family. My grandfather leaving my grandmother. My mother, firing every nanny who ever got close to me. My parents, sending us off to boarding school so that we wouldn’t interfere with their party plans. Portia’s
feelings.”
Her shoulders trembled with unexpressed rage. “So
untidy.”

She squatted down, moodily picked a piece of moss off of the cat’s headstone. “Anyway. I didn’t pick up a paintbrush for the next eight years. Until I met Auden.” At the mention of his name, the soft, serene expression returned to her face.

Tessa shifted from one foot to the other. “Portia,” she began. What could she possibly say that wouldn’t sound trivial or banal?

Portia turned a smile to her, gracious as always. “You don’t have to say anything,” she said, getting to her feet, brushing pine needles from the tails of her coat. “I shouldn’t have burdened you with all of this.”

“The terrible things that happen to us,” Tessa said slowly. “What we do with them…I think that’s what makes us artists. Your paintings are filled with grace. With light. With air. With forgiveness. I don’t know how you do it. But somehow, you transform your pain into a world, a universe of beauty.”

It was a moment before she spoke again. “Thank you, Tessa,” she said. “Thank you for that.”

They sat in silence for a moment.
Mowgli, a mischievous Spider Monkey, 1927,
Tessa read.
Eloise, a beloved Pekinese, 1952.

“You know, you haven’t mentioned Lucian once.”

“Mm.” She didn’t want to talk about Lucian anymore. She wanted to forget about him forever.

“What happened Thursday night?”

“I was supposed to drive him to the airport. He wasn’t there. I waited. He didn’t show. I was walking home. Somehow, I ended up at April’s gallery. I saw the painting. I saw him kiss her. I left.”

Portia was kicking the moss off of a small gravestone so pitted with age that the writing on it was illegible. “How did Mr. Sinclair find you?”

“Oh. That.” She wondered, too. Was it a vampire thing? “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I may have mentioned to him that I used to go there with Lucian.”

Portia nodded. “I like the way he appreciates you,” she said. “And for all the right reasons. You’re smart. You’re talented. You’re beautiful. Of course he’s attracted to you. And him, well…I get it. That face, that body. That voice. But Tessa…remember what he is.”

Tessa felt a small tremor go through her body. What did Portia know?

“He’s the founder of the school, yes. But he’s also, well…he has kind of a reputation.” She sighed. “Look. I have a confession to make. I told you that story for a reason. Remember, the day after the Halloween Party, I tried to tell you. I have a sensitivity for these things. When I looked in his eyes, when he shook my hand, I felt…” She looked meaningfully at her friend, took a deep breath. “I don’t think this is going to end well.”

A pair of headlights came searching through the fog, turning in through the gate and into the driveway, stopping in front of the house.

“Who’s that?” Portia frowned. “There’s a bed and breakfast up the road. Sometimes tourists pull in here by mistake.” She glanced apologetically at Tessa. “I’ll be right back.” She marched off through the woods towards the house.

The night was getting colder; Tessa could see her breath. She wrapped her arms around herself, rubbing them for warmth. The layers of fog separated just enough for her to have a sightline to the house. A man was
getting out of the back of a taxi, paying the driver. Tessa heard the little dog yapping, saw Portia slow, then break into a run. As she reached the car, she launched herself into the passenger’s arms. He caught her, swinging her around in a joyful circle. Auden. He must have come up early to surprise her.

“Tessa! It’s Auden!” Portia’s voice confirmed it, sounding very far away through the fog. “We’re coming back for you!”

“That’s all right,” she hollered back, not wanting to intrude on their moment. They hadn’t seen each other since Thanksgiving, she knew. “I’m okay. Go on ahead.”

Portia waved, turned back to Auden. Tessa watched the lovers mount the wide stone steps, their arms around each other’s waists. The fog drew around them like a curtain.

Tessa shivered, her bravado fled. The sad little graveyard would have been spooky enough at any time, but at midnight, thick with winding sheets of mist, it was monster-movie scary. She could hardly see her hand in front of her face. She moved forward, towards the house, she hoped. After her third step, she snagged her shoe on an unseen obstacle, nearly falling flat on her ass on the boggy ground. She looked to see what had tripped her up.
Tessa, A Persian Cat Died 1945.
Wonderful, she thought.

She heard twigs snap and crackle, something moving towards her. Now she felt real fear. The hairs stood up at the back of her neck, the flesh of her arms prickled into goosebumps. She strained for a sound, any sound, in the dead quiet of the fog. At last, she heard an angry whir, a scuffle, taking place in the bushes nearby. Moments later a red fox trotted across the clearing, a few feet in front of her.

Tessa froze, holding her breath; she had never been this close to a wild animal before. The fox was carrying something in its jaws, the outstretched feathers of a wing stretched stiffly between its teeth. It stopped and glanced at her before trotting off, the white tip of his brushy tail disappearing into the fog.

She exhaled, pulled her arms a little tighter around herself. Finally, she allowed herself to think back on the events of last night.

Had she really been that stupid? Was she, nice, law-abiding Tessa Moss capable of doing something as dangerous as walking out onto a dark,
deserted pier at midnight, then throwing herself at a stranger who was, by his own admission, a vampire?

The clouds seethed and parted, revealing the silhouette of a man in a hat and overcoat standing between the trees. Just as quickly, the image was gone, the fog churning in the space under the boughs.

Last night, blind with pain, she’d fled up Bleecker Street, tears streaking down her face. Couples and crowds separated around her and stared as she stormed by. She knew exactly where she was going. Sepia-toned memories of sitting on the pier for hours, the sun warming her back, holding Lucian’s hand as the water lapped up against the pilings and he told her how much he needed her.

She’d stared at the broken surface of the water, watching the moon gather itself up and shatter, like her heart, over and over again. She knew now she could never have him, would never have him, if she waited as long as she lived. If she changed her face, her name, her shape, her religion, the color of her hair. She was not the one he wanted. She was not what he was looking for.

I’m nothing,
she’d realized.
Not his girlfriend, not his lover, not his colleague, not his friend.
The words clumped together, stopping her throat. She’d given so much of herself, and for so long, that there was nothing left. She was empty. Resting one foot on the steel cable, looking down at the river eddying by, she imagined the cold water closing over her head. Holding her breath until it escaped in a great gush of bubbles, her lungs filling with water. Darkness, expanding as far as the horizon, floating forever.

And then he was there, Raphael Sinclair, standing on the cracked and broken pier in his Savile Row coat and handmade shoes, calling her name. He always knew when she was in trouble. He always knew where to find her.

She remembered her desire for obliteration as she pulled his face down to hers, grabbing at him like she was drowning, the tightness in her chest as she tried to breath with his arms locked around her waist. The sound of his voice like the rustle of bare skin on cool sheets.

Fog coiled around her like a cocoon. She closed her eyes, remembering how right it had felt to be half-naked, enveloped in the warmth of his
overcoat. She brought her fingertips up to her mouth, wanting to feel the imprint of his lips. Spreading out her fingers, she followed the course his hands had taken down her body. The line of her jaw, under her hair. The back of her neck. Gliding down her flanks. His shadowy eyes watching her in the darkness. The feel of his thick hair falling between her fingers. His hands pulling on her hips, sliding under her shirt. Her breast in the cup he made with his hand. His soft, sensuous mouth tugging at her, over her heart.

Alone in the graveyard, wisps of fog gliding around her like spirits, she felt a dizzying rush between her legs, and collapsed forward onto her hands and knees.

Tessa pressed her forehead against the damp earth, breathing hard. And began to laugh. She had come again, this time just thinking about him.

It had been happening all semester, long before she walked into April Huffman’s exhibition last night. Raphael Sinclair, with his beautiful face, his stopped heart and his sorrowful story. One man, defying the establishment, trying to change the course of art history with his brave little art school. He might be a vampire, but he was twice the man Lucian would ever be.

To her right was a large rock, almost a boulder, that said,
Michael, A Golden Retriever.
Steadying herself on it, she climbed to her feet. “Good dog,” she said.

Looking up at the sky, she could make out a star or two, a crescent moon appearing in a hazy halo through the pine boughs overhead. The fog was dissipating as the night grew colder. The house swam into view, a monument to a vanishing world.

She heaved a sigh, squared her shoulders. Breathing in the salty air, she thought about the week to come. She had to look for a job. Build the canvases for her thesis project. Start drawing. If she had extra time this week, she would paint her apartment, make the kitchen red. That would be cheery.

The gravel path was clear now, shining with a rime of new frost that glittered like diamonds under the pale moonlight. Hugging her arms around herself, she made a mad dash for the house.

It was ten o’clock on Sunday evening by the time Clayton’s car eased up in front of her building. Ben popped the trunk. David got out of the car, handed Tessa her bag. He lingered, not wanting to say goodbye.

“Maybe I’ll see you.”

“Sure.” With Sara in town, she knew he wouldn’t. “I’ll be in my studio.”

He struggled to keep her a moment longer. “Look, if you need to talk. I mean, about the Lucian thing. Call.”

“I will.”

There was no longer any reason to stay. He leaned forward to give her a kiss, lightly touching her shoulder. Clayton rolled down his window, yelled, “Get a room!” He gave her a last look, got back into the car. Clayton stepped on the gas, and the Datsun roared down Sixteenth Street.

He was already beside her, shouldering her bag, a dark shape separating from the shadowed doorway of the brownstone next door.

“Hello, Tessa.”

“Hello, Mr. Sinclair.”

They stood beneath the canopy to her building. Inside, the lobby looked bright and inviting.