Restoration: A Novel (Contemporary / Women's Fiction) (15 page)

Tess sat up suddenly, her eyes riveted on Francesca.  “You
have children?”

“I gave birth to one child, a girl.”

“What about Aletta?”

“I grew up in a different time than you, Tess.”  Francesca
paused, a forlorn look settling on her face.  “I saw my love for Aletta as an
anomaly.  It did not enter my being that I could love other women besides her. 
That was not one of life’s possibilities.  I traveled a confusing road to get
where I am today.  During that journey, I experienced the love of men.”

“And you became a mother,” Tess said, her words a mixture
of surprise and admiration.

“No,” Francesca said softly.  “I brought a little girl
into this world, but I never mothered her.  Another woman raised her, cared for
her, bandaged her wounds, encouraged her accomplishments.  She is her mother.”

“Where is she now?  Tell me about her.”

Francesca sighed.  “I met her father in Rome.  We had a
love affair.  When I became pregnant, Mauro wanted to marry me.  It would have
been so convenient to marry him, but I knew it would be a mistake.  I knew I
was struggling with something that would complicate all of our lives much more
than they were about to be, yet I was uncertain exactly what that was. 

“After our child was born, Mauro and I both decided it was
best if he took her to care for her and raise her.  Unlike me, he had a family
to help him.  When the baby was six months old, he met a woman who loved him as
I could not, and she has raised her as her own.”

“Do you see her?”

“After her father married, I never saw her again.”

“What’s her name?”

“Dahnya.  Dahnya Alicandri.”

“I can’t believe you gave her up.”

“I gave her hope.”

“But how could you give up your child, just like that?”

“Because I loved her.  Because it was best.”

Tess shook her head, disagreeing.  “She grew up without
you, without knowing you.  How could that be the best thing for her?”

“Tess, I think you are looking at this through the eyes of
a thirteen-year-old girl whose mother deserted her.  It will never seem right
to you as long as you see it with those eyes.  I did not give Dahnya up to make
my life easier.  I gave her up so her life would be better.” 

“I’m sorry if I have difficulty understanding mothers
giving up their children.  I look at you and I see a smart, sensitive and
complicated woman who Dahnya was deprived of knowing.  It would’ve been hard,
but you could’ve done it.  You’re a strong woman, Francesca.  Anyone can see
that.  You would’ve been a great mother.”  

“I did not raise her; therefore, I was not a great mother
to her.  Yet, I know I did a great thing for her.  You think I traded in a
complicated life for an easy one.  No, I traded in the pain of one life for the
pain of another.  It would have been hard raising her alone, but it has been
hard on my heart not seeing her grow from a child into a woman.  My heart did
not disown her when I gave her up.  It suffered in silence, but it knew she had
the best chance for a good life with her father and stepmother.” 

“My mother—”

“Do not compare me with your mother!”  Francesca snapped. 
“I did what I did for Dahnya.  Your mother did what she did for herself.”

Tess leaned back and her eyes widened in the wake of
Francesca’s sudden rebuke.  “I’m sorry, Francesca.  I didn’t mean to—”

“No, Tess, please.”  She dropped her head and stared at
her hands folded in her lap.  “I am sorry, but I am not Raphael’s Madonna.”

Tess placed her hand over Francesca’s and squeezed it
until one of Francesca’s hands rolled over.  Their hands clutched.  She noticed
Francesca’s eyes awash with tears that clung to the rims of her eyes and did
not fall. 

“Have you ever considered contacting her?”  Tess asked.

“Of course.”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Yes, Sulmona, outside of Rome.”

“So why haven’t you?”

“I suppose it is fear.”

“I didn’t think you were afraid of anything.”

“We all have our fears.  You, of love.  Me,” Francesca
said with a sad smile, “I suppose of not being loved.”

“She would love you.  How could she not?  Even I love
you.”

Francesca nodded her gratitude.  A tear escaped and
streaked down her cheek.  Tess tucked herself back into Francesca’s arms and
they cuddled on the sofa with their feet resting on the coffee table, sharing
the comfort of each other’s company while each stayed deep within her own
thoughts.

Tess sat in front of an empty canvas willing herself to
see something besides the stark, white surface glaring back at her.  She didn’t
know how much time had passed since she’d arrived at the artist’s lair Ben had
given her a key to, only that it was her fourth fruitless evening. 

She’d started the daily pilgrimage on Sunday and continued
it after work each evening, hoping her persistence would give birth to
something resembling the art she’d created a lifetime ago, but she knew her
creativity didn’t lie in her persistence.  The waning hours and the still-empty
canvas were a testament to that.

Her creativity was somewhere else.  She wasn’t sure if it
was hibernating or if it simply had left her.  She’d given herself until
Thanksgiving to rouse it.  Thanksgiving was a week away, but it might as well
have been years.  

She fingered a charm on the end of a gold rope necklace. 
Her fingertips traced the outline of a miniature gold palette with a tiny
paintbrush soldered on it that Francesca had given her earlier that day.  In
the morning, she’d confided in Francesca about her recent visits to the studio
and her failed attempts to paint.  In her impassive way, Francesca had told her
simply, “Have patience.” 

After lunch, while Tess worked at her desk, Francesca had
come up behind her, draped the necklace and charm around her neck, and fastened
the catch.

 “I watched the movie you told me about with Dorothy and
her friends,” she told Tess.  “If tokens encouraged them, I thought this might
help you.” 

Tess squeezed the charm until its shape was imprinted in
her palm.  She stared at the indentation.  So far, it was the only thing she’d
managed to create in the borrowed apartment.  She reached for one of the
brushes on the table next to her where all her supplies were neatly arranged as
if on display.  She drew the brush across her palm.  It tickled her skin.  The
paint she bought stayed sealed in its tubes. 

She reached toward the canvas with the brush.  The naked
bristles skimmed over the white canvas while she went through the motions of
creating circles, ribbons and nonsensical designs, but the strokes felt forced,
not fluid like they used to.  The brush, which had once been an extension of
her, was an alien appendage forced into her unwilling hand.

She couldn’t even successfully pretend to paint. 

Tess tossed the brush on the table.  She’d tried.  It just
wasn’t in her any longer.  The blank canvas mocked her. 
Call Ben
, she
thought.  Describe what she was looking at.  Recount for him this time she’d
squandered creating nothing but frustration.  Rant and rave, “I told you so.”

Her eyes found the lifeless brush discarded on the table. 
Her shoulders slumped.  At least if she called Ben, even if only to say “I told
you so,” she’d hear the sound of his voice.

A knock on the door interrupted her imaginary diatribe. 
Ben!  She hoped it wasn’t him, hoped her thinking about him wasn’t responsible
for him suddenly appearing.  He’d be smiling, excited at finding her
endeavoring to overcome her demons, until he realized she was failing
miserably.  Seeing his disappointment would only make her angry with him for
pushing her toward something she knew was impossible.

She yanked opened the door intent on sending him away and
caught her words before they flew out of her mouth.  Kenyon LeMere filled the
doorway.

“We meet again, Tess Olsen.”  His wry, perfect smile
greeted her.  “I hoped we would.  The man who lives across the hall asked me if
I knew who the woman was who’s been coming here at night.”

She looked past him, toward the door where the spying took
place.

“He knows I watch over the apartment.  My place is right
next door.  I hope you’ve found the space conducive to creativity.”

Tess glanced over her shoulder into the studio, then back
to Kenyon.  “Thank you for making it available to me.  You can tell your
neighbor not to be surprised when he doesn’t see me again.”

“Finished your masterpiece already?”

“Actually, I haven’t begun.”

He gave her a sympathetic look conveying he was intimately
familiar with her struggles.  “Then you’ll need this place for a while.  I hate
beginnings.  They’re so awkward.”

She questioned him with her eyes.  His eyes, his smile,
his lips, his whole body spoke the language of seduction. 

“Paintings,” he responded to her questioning look,
grinning.  “The naked canvas is sometimes so difficult to face.  At times,
they’re so stubborn about accepting the artist’s vision.  I’ve destroyed more
than one canvas in my life over it.”

“I think I’d rather just walk away before getting to that
point.”

“And give up so easily?”

“I prefer to think of it as accepting the inevitable.”

“Rage against it.  Don’t accept it.”  He picked up her
hands, turned them over and stared at her palms.

“Don’t tell me you’re a fortune teller, too.”

“I’m curious to see what comes out of these.”  He brushed
his thumbs across her fingertips.

She jerked her hands away, her fingers tingling from his
touch.

“Your boyfriend says you’re very good, that you have the
gift.”

She rubbed her palms on her thighs and avoided the
temptation to correct him about the status of her relationship.  “I’m afraid
Ben’s not very objective when it comes to me.”

“Understandable.”  Kenyon looked over her head, attempting
to peer into the studio.

“There’s nothing to see.”

“Your boyfriend wanted to see the series I’m currently
working on.  But I have a rule about letting people see my work before it’s
finished.  I never want to hear any comments about it.  No criticisms or
unsolicited advice that’ll spoil my vision for it.”

 He folded his arms across his chest, leaned against the
door frame and scrutinized her.  “But for you, Tess Olsen, I will make an
exception.  You just have to promise not to comment on them.”

“I didn’t ask to see your work.”

“But I bet you want to.”

He held out his hand to her.  She didn’t take it; instead,
she walked past him and down the hall to his apartment.  He followed.  At the
door, he reached around her and opened it, and Tess walked inside.  It was set
up similar to the one she’d just left except she saw and felt the turbulence
possessing it.

Paint-stained drop cloths were strewn across the wooden
floors.  Tubes of paint, some full, others squeezed empty, littered
worktables.  Artists’ palettes with dried paint crusting over them rested
abandoned on the floor.  Gallon buckets of paint with ribbons of color dripping
down their sides lined the wall.  The canvases were displayed helter-skelter
around the room, some still on easels, others leaning against the wall. 

She picked up a brush, the kind house painters use, and
studied it.  She only worked with traditional artists’ brushes.  Her gaze
shifted between the brush and the canvases as if the brush was responsible for
the artwork awing her.

Tess wandered through the studio, mesmerized by the images
inhabiting the canvases.  Three blue hands in a sea of round shapes floated on
the surface of one painting and formed a triangle.  She held her hand over the
imprint of one of the hands.  They were about the same size.  She wondered
whose hands they were, hands he certainly would make famous with this piece and
unleash a whirl of speculation in the art world.  Captured on another canvas
was the profile of a woman’s face.  It wasn’t just a painted profile, it was
the imprint of a real one.  Paint fused passion onto the canvas.

She turned and looked at him, shaking her head,
astounded.  “These paintings are alive.”

“Yes,” he whispered and pressed his finger to her lips. 
“But say no more.”

“I’m sorry,” she said as he withdrew his finger.  “I broke
the rules.”

“No harm done.”

She stared at the paintings again.  “Can I ask questions
without breaking the rules?”

“Yes.”

“If no one is allowed to see your work in progress, how
and where—”

“Did the women get there?”  he said, finishing her
sentence.

“Always women?”

“Yes, always women.  A woman’s form is so much more
pleasing than a man’s.  It’s the embodiment of art.  God was a masterful
sculptor when He formed woman, and for thousands of years man has fallen
woefully short in his attempts to replicate His original work.  But we keep
trying.”

Kenyon walked up to the canvas with the blue hands floating
on it.  “The women who’ve been gracious enough to participate in my vision
become part of my work.  They’re not here to view it, so I don’t feel
threatened that they’ll obstruct my vision; rather, they add to it.  They give
flesh to the canvas, and my brush breathes life into it.”

“This is the series you were telling Ben and me about when
we met at Suzanne Hopkins’s gallery.”

“Yes, this is the series that is bedeviling me.  Every day
I struggle to find that one piece that will tie the whole series together.  It
seems my muse has abandoned me for now, so I understand your frustration as you
face your empty canvas next door.”

She walked past him toward the door, turned with a bereft
look and said, “No, I don’t think you do.  You’re frustrated because you can’t
find that one image that crystallizes your vision and speaks for the other
paintings.  I’m frustrated because I can’t find anything.”