The Shadow Portrait (14 page)

After Phil’s visit, Cara felt livelier than she had for days. She did not, however, mention the painting to anyone. Rather, once it was dry, she wrapped it carefully and concealed it
behind several others. She had made a good beginning with it, she thought, but would not allow Phil to see it until it was all finished. He came back twice, always in the afternoon, and the painting progressed. Each time she grew more and more pleased, for the painting had released something in her she had not known was there. Phil wore the same clothes each time, and she had caught some of his lean, muscular strength. She had taken special care with his dark brown hair, which he still wore over his collar, and had carefully delineated his tapered face and his cleft chin. She wanted to capture the rough masculinity, the strength, and the vigor in his face and also in his figure. She could not remember ever painting anything that had caused her to wake in the morning thinking about the work she could do. It had become a joy to her she could hardly explain.

When he came back the following week for the third visit, she said, “I’m going to finish today. I’ve worked on it ever since you left. Now sit down!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Phil said with mock subservience. He picked up Charley, ruffled his fur, and said, “That mistress of yours is getting to be quite the bossy woman.”

He sat still, stroking Charley’s fur, looking out the window, occasionally glancing toward Cara. Her face was serious and intense, and he thought, not for the first time,
If she’d just get some color, and get her hair fixed, she’d be a beautiful young woman.
He continued to speak for a time about his travels abroad, amusing her with his anecdotes, and finally she stepped back.

“All right. You can look now,” she said rather nervously.

Phil put Charley on the floor, then walked around and stood in front of the canvas. He studied it carefully, aware that her eyes were fixed on his face.

Finally she said, “Well, don’t just stand there.
Say
something!”

Phil turned and said, “Cara, you’ve got more talent than I thought. That’s a great portrait. Look at Charley,” he said.
“You’ve caught him exactly. You made him come alive on the canvas. Look at the glint of light in his eyes, and you’ve captured the wiggle he makes before he jumps.”

Cara expelled a gust of air with relief. “Never mind Charley. What about
you?
”

“Well, I think I’m better looking than that.”

“Why you egotistical—!”

Phil laughed and in his excitement reached over and took her hand and kissed it without thinking. “Miss Cara, you’ve done a great job on a very unworthy subject.” He held her hand and saw her face grow pink, and then realizing that he may have embarrassed her, he dropped her hand. “I didn’t mean to get so carried away,” he said, “but the painting is great.”

Cara was upset by the sudden touch he had given her. It was the first caress from a man she had felt for ten years. Her head seemed to swim for a moment, and her hand had the sensation of burning. She turned away slightly so he would not see her confusion, then whispered, “Do you really like it, Phil?”

“More than like. It’s outstanding! You’re a better artist than I am.”

“Oh no, not really!”

“Oh yes. Really.” He reached out, took her shoulder, and turned her around. “I’m glad I met you,” he said simply. “I . . . I haven’t ever been able to tell you this, but I like you very much, Cara.”

Cara dropped her head, unable to face his penetrating eyes. She was very conscious of his hands on her shoulders. It made her feel strange indeed, and then she managed to tell him, “What a nice thing to say, Phil. You’ve been a breath of fresh air to me.”

Phil laughed and said, “Well, that’s the first step on the emancipation of Cara Lanier.”

Startled, Cara looked up at him. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean, now that you’re not condemned to painting one daisy after another, we’ll have to find new ways to spend some time together. For example, why don’t we go out in the garden and take a little walk?”

“Oh, I couldn’t!”

“See there? You’re not emancipated yet. Come on, Cara,” he urged. “I’m your guest. There’s nothing wrong with going for a little walk. You need to show me all your beautiful flowers that you’ve been painting.”

Cara knew that Dr. McKenzie would object and her father, if he discovered it, which he probably would, would be angry. In fact, he might even forbid any more visitors. Nevertheless, it was too tempting. “All right, Phil,” she said, “let me get a coat.”

Phil waited until she pulled a light off-white jacket out of the chifferobe, then he helped her put it around her shoulders. Moving ahead, he opened the door for her. When they walked downstairs, they encountered Mary Ann and George Camrose, who were still in the parlor.

Mary Ann jumped up from the couch, saying, “Why, Cara, what are you doing?”

“I’m only going out to walk around the garden and to show Phil the flowers,” Cara said quickly. She hesitated, then said, “I’ll be all right, Mary Ann. Please don’t tell Father.”

When the two stepped outside, Mary Ann turned to Camrose and her face filled with astonishment. “If Father finds out she’s gone outside, he’ll have a fit.”

Camrose understood Mary Ann’s concern completely. He had already felt enough of Oliver Lanier’s displeasure to understand what the man was like. “Then don’t tell him,” he smiled. “And tell the servants not to tell him. It’ll be our little conspiracy.”

“I thought preachers weren’t supposed to do things like that.”

“It will give Cara a little happiness and some freedom. That’s not wrong,” he said simply.

Mary Ann was touched by his obvious consideration for Cara. She touched his chest and said, “How sweet of you.”

“Then I’ll have a reward for being so sweet.” Camrose leaned over and kissed her on the lips, then leaned back. “That’s another thing preachers get criticized for. Kissing pretty girls. I don’t think it’s such a sin though, not when the girl is you.” He smiled broadly at her expression. “Sit down again. I’ll tell you some more about Africa.”

Outside in the garden, Cara walked slowly on the cobblestones and saw the shock on the gardener’s face as he looked up from where he was digging in the rich brown soil. “Hello, Henry,” she said. “The snapdragons are magnificent. You’ve done so well.”

“Why, thank you, Miss Cara.” He stood to his feet, dirt on his knees, the look of astonishment obvious on his face. “You’re lookin’ better. Glad to see you outside, and good day to you, sir.”

“This is Henry. He’s the best gardener in America, or anywhere else for that matter,” Cara said, smiling.

“I believe it, looking at these flowers. You’ve done a great job, Henry. I commend you on it.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” The gardener watched as the two walked on down the rows of red and gold and yellow flowers and muttered, “Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle.”

Cara enjoyed the fresh air and stroll for thirty minutes, but it seemed like only a few seconds to her. Finally she turned and said, “I must be going in now. Thank you so much for coming by. It was thoughtful of you.”

“Do I get the picture?”

“No,” she said. “I want to keep it for myself.” A humorous light touched her eyes, and she smiled. “I like the job I’ve done on Charley.”

“What a put-down,” Phil groaned. Then he took her hand and said, “I’ll be going then, but I’ll get even with you.”

“Why, what do you mean by that, Phil?”

“It’s my turn to do a painting of you now. I’ll come next Tuesday and you can sit for me.”

“All right. That would be nice.”

He walked her to the door, and when she stepped inside, he said, “Good-bye. I’ll see you when I come by for your first sitting.”

“Good-bye, Phil.”

Cara shut the door and walked slowly down the hall. Her heart was beating fast, and when she passed the sitting room, Mary Ann came flying out. “Oh, how nice that you two are able to talk! He is nice, isn’t he, George?”

“Fine fellow. He’s coming to church Sunday,” Camrose said.

“Yes. He has relatives who are missionaries in Africa.”

“Does he, indeed!” Camrose exclaimed. “I’ll have to ask him about that. They might be of some assistance when I arrive there.”

Mary Ann reached out and took her sister’s hand. She whispered, “Do you like him, Cara?”

“Yes. I do indeed, Mary Ann. I like him very much!”

CHAPTER SIX

A Family Affair

June 15 was a target day for the Four Musketeers. The big race on Long Island was set to begin at one o’clock that afternoon. Clinton was more excited than any of the others. He had made excuses to be out of the house at night and had even managed to slip away from the office during the day several times to come and check on the progress of the car. He had been permitted to drive the
Jolie Blonde
on a test run, and when he had come back, he jumped out and threw his arms around Jolie unselfconsciously. “There’s nothing like it!” he shouted, spinning her around, his eyes blazing with excitement.

Jolie was crushed to his chest and laughed. “Put me down! You’re going to break my ribs!”

Embarrassed, Clinton quickly set her on her feet and apologized. Over the weeks they had become close friends as they worked on the race car. He liked to take her out for coffee and talk about racing, and she enjoyed listening to him.

On the fourteenth, they finished tuning the car up in the backyard, and when Peter and Easy decided to go out early to Long Island and sleep there, waiting for the events of the next day, Clinton said enviously, “I wish I could go.”

“So do I. Let me go with you, Peter,” Jolie pleaded.

“Oh, that’s no place for a woman, sleeping out under the stars,” Peter said firmly.

Jolie begged, but Peter was firm, and finally Clinton said,
“Let’s you and I go out and get something to eat. I’ve got to be in fairly early, but I’m starving.”

“That sounds like fun.”

The two of them went to an Italian restaurant named Mama Mia, a small place Jolie had discovered one day when she was out for a stroll. It was a family-run business, and Mama herself came to take their order.

“I’ll have manicotti a la romana with ricotta, and bring me some of that eggplant parmigiana.”

“I didn’t know you spoke Italian,” Clinton said with astonishment.

“I don’t, except to know the names of some food. What will you have, Clinton?”

“The same, I guess.” He grinned at the large woman with the black eyes. “Bring me twice as much as you bring her.”

While they waited for their orders to come, Clinton talked excitedly about the upcoming race. In the meanwhile, they ate huge chunks of freshly baked bread layered with butter.

After Mama had returned with their food, Clinton ate with enthusiasm. “This is great,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I just never tried Italian food before. I didn’t know what I was missing.”

“Well, it’s cheap and filling. I guess rich people don’t have to worry about that,” Jolie said wryly.

Clinton’s face flushed. “I wish you wouldn’t call me rich,” he protested.

“Well, you are rich, aren’t you?”

Squirming uncomfortably, Clinton picked up the bread, broke off a piece, and buttered it. After he had nibbled at it, he said, “I guess so, but it sounds like a bad disease the way you say it.”

“Why, I don’t have anything against being rich,” Jolie said with surprise.

She underscored her protest with a sweet smile and indeed made a charming picture. Her coal black hair formed a halo of thick curls, and with it her light gray dress, trimmed with
lace and pearl buttons made a perfect frame for her expressive face. As she continued to speak, he admired her enormous blue eyes and mobile mouth, which could subtly tease as well as express her delightful moments of gaiety. Clinton found her most provocative, a beautiful picture of a woman like no woman he had ever known before, and he felt the things that a man feels when he looks upon beauty and knows it will never be for him.

“Clinton,” she asked abruptly, “do you intend to spend the rest of your life doing exactly what your father tells you to do? Don’t you ever hope to have any life of your own?”

Her question cut Clinton Lanier deeply, for it was something he had been struggling with for some time. He was a clever young man, with a fair share of business acumen. Yet, despite his seeming success, he was not at peace with himself. At the office, he spent a great deal of time gazing out the window and daydreaming of what it would be like to be free in exactly the way Jolie suggested, but there always was the shadow of his father looming over him. He had often wondered if other fathers ruled as absolutely as Oliver Lanier did in his own house. Long ago, Clinton had determined that if he ever had a family, he would have none of his father’s autocratic ways. Now he twisted in his seat and lifted his hand to rub it along his jaw line, a certain sign that he was nervous. “I hope not, Jolie. I have dreams of my own,” he said finally.

They left the restaurant then, and he took her back to the rooming house. When they reached the front door, he said, “I enjoyed our time together, Jolie.”

“It was fun,” she said. She hesitated, then put out her hand. “I’ll see you tomorrow at the race.”

Taking her hand, he held it for a moment and nodded. An impulse came to him, and he studied her face, which seemed soft and glowing in the silver moonlight. The streets were vacant, and a strange silence hung over the neighborhood.
“I promised my mother something once, but I’m going to break that promise.”

“Why, you shouldn’t break a promise to your mother,” Jolie exclaimed. “I’m sure she’s a nice woman!”

“Yes, she is, but I’m going to break this one.” He hesitated for a moment, then said, “I promised her I would never kiss a girl on the first date, but I’m going to.”

Leaning forward, he kissed Jolie on the lips, then straightened up. It was a quick caress, but he savored the warmth of her lips and smelled the fragrance of her hair. “You’re looking very pretty tonight, Jolie. Good night.”

Turning, he walked quickly away, got into the carriage, and drove off. Jolie stood watching him. She slowly reached up and touched her lips, then shook her head in wonder. “Well, what am I supposed to think about that, Mr. Clinton Lanier?” She was not shocked, for she had been kissed before, and yet there was something touching about this man. A dissatisfaction came to her then, and she said, “Clinton Lanier, you’re going to have to declare your independence someday,” then she turned and walked into the rooming house.