Thirty-one
“You!” Cam said, banging open the kitchen’s swinging door and hoping the return might knock Peter senseless. “You have a goddamned lot of nerve.”
She didn’t like the way he looked at her, that “been there, had that” gaze that made her want to stick a paintbrush in his eye, and she hated the way her heart had done a high jump when she’d first seen him.
It wasn’t that he looked so good in the khakis and work shirt, she told herself, though, to be frank, Rusty had never filled out that shirt the way Peter did.
It was just that he looked so different, so… part of her world.
She didn’t know how he got here, he had no right to be here, and in about three minutes she was going to have to deliver a riveting explanation to a bunch of people in her living room, who were probably lining up their popcorn and soft drinks right now.
“I have a lot of nerve?” Peter rubbed his head. “Is there something you’d like to tell me, ‘Mrs. Post’?”
She flushed. “What difference did it make what my name was? You apparently knew it wasn’t the truth.”
“Aye, the truth was a rather precious commodity that night.”
The fire in his eye only fanned her fury. “But you, you’re a paragon of honor. School for Wives. Hilarious. That was a month of hard work.” Her voice choked on the last words, and she had to muster iron determination to vanquish the memory of nearly destroying her career. “You’re a jerk.”
He hesitated. “I-I am not proud of that. I was put in a difficult situation by a friend and allowed myself to believe that excused a willful deception. I was wrong, and I apologize.”
“Yeah, well, this time I don’t need to depend on secondhand sources. This time I know the story perfectly.”
“I don’t think you do know the story.”
“Don’t I?”
“I would assert there are pieces of which you are not aware, pieces which might persuade you to abandon your project.”
“Such as?”
“There are people who will be hurt.”
“Really?” She gave him a look.
“I can’t deny that I’ll be affected, but that’s not why I’m asking you to stop.”
“Then why are you? Tell me the pieces.”
He faltered. She could see the enormous pride in his eyes. “Can you not trust me?”
“Trust? Are you serious? No, I can’t trust you. You nearly destroyed my career.”
Their eyes met, and he squared his shoulders. It was eerie the way he projected his position, even in the building engineer’s castoffs.
She thought of that night at his studio and all the things she had hoped for. She wondered if he had done any of those things he had done that night without an ulterior motive. She wondered if he had done any of those things because he cared for her.
“Then I will tell you. I should like you to do this for Ursula.”
“Ursula? The woman of the street raised to pampered society mistress by way of your bed?”
Peter looked as if he had been punched. “How…?”
“We are not entirely without means where I come from.” The flip answer did not satisfy her anger as she’d expected, and she found her tongue loosening further.
“I’ve seen your models. I’ve seen your portraits of her.
And I’ve experienced your methods.” The past five weeks had given her more than enough time to satisfy her curiosity regarding the life of Peter Lely, though it had satisfied little else.
“Might I guess which had the most impact on your decision?”
Cam inhaled. “Fuck you.”
“I see you and your artist share a deep esteem for poetics.”
“What my artist and I share is a deep esteem for the truth.”
An odd stiffness came over Peter. He opened his mouth to speak, thought better of his decision, and made a deep bow. “I wish you both great joy.”
But she didn’t want his wishes, and she certainly didn’t want his reserve. She wanted his emotion.
“Much happiness has been visited upon you,” he said. “Can you not find it in your heart to leave Ursula out of the story?”
How dare he manipulate her to protect a woman who hadn’t even bothered to be true to him? “Ursula is the story. Rescued from the streets, she abandons her rescuer. It’s a classic ‘whore with a heart of stone’ story.”
“It’s a lie,” he said.
“‘All art is fiction, mine more than most.’”
“You’re making a mistake. And I hope you see that before it’s too late.”
“Is that a threat?”
The door swung open slowly and Jeanne’s head appeared. “Hey, kids. How’s it going?”
“Great,” Cam said. “Party in a box. Peter was just going.”
“Going…?” Jeanne waited for a location.
“Going?” Ball said, appearing next to her in the doorway.
“Gone.” Jacket strode by, tossing a bottle into the recycling bin and reaching for the refrigerator door.
“Sounds like a plan to me.” He pulled out four beers, handed one each to Jeanne, Ball, and Cam, then gave Peter a smile that made Cam wonder exactly what had transpired before she arrived. “Pleasure to meet ya, buddy.”
“I’m Woodson Ball,” Ball said. “Jeanne tells me you’re an artist.”
Jacket choked, and Peter accepted Ball’s outstretched hand.
“’Tis kind of her,” Peter said. “I paint.”
“I was just telling Jacket here the stuff he does—oh, it’s marvelous, don’t get me wrong—just isn’t what moves me anymore.
It’s the new guard pushing the old guard, the Jackets of the world, out of the way.
Not that Mr. Sprague here will ever be going hungry, right?
” He gave Jacket an affectionate thump on the back, and Jacket grimaced.
“I’m looking for something new, something that knocks your loafers off, something that says in the context of everything that’s come before me, ‘This is where I stand,’ you know what I mean?
Not an iconoclast for iconoclast’s sake.
A synthesizer. Someone who stands upon the shoulders of giants and doesn’t say… ”
“‘Fuck you’?” Jacket suggested.
“Well,” Ball said, pushing his thick black frames up with a finger, “I think I was going for ‘Y’all be damned,’ but I suppose ‘fuck you’ captures the essence as well.
Someone who stands on the shoulders of giants and doesn’t say ‘fuck you,’ but says, ‘I understand, and I see even more.’ Do you see what I mean? ”
Jacket tipped the beer and swallowed thoughtfully. “Sounds like an irritating little sod to me.”
Peter crossed his arms and slouched against the counter. “You’re a patron?” he said to Ball. “A collector?”
Ball beamed. “As if my life depended on it.”
“I can see where you find the ‘fuck yous’ of the world tiresome,” Peter said. “They betray a lack of substance. It’s all rhetoric. And when the posturing’s done, where are you?”
“Exactly,” Ball said, and Cam postured a discreet middle finger in Peter’s direction.
Ball rubbed his hands. “Well, Cam, I hate to chat and run, but the Gators are on in half an hour.”
Cam silenced Jeanne with a sharp look. “No problem, Mr. Ball. I really appreciate the ride.” She gestured for Jeanne to follow as she walked Ball to the elevator. When the elevator door closed behind him, Cam whispered, “How did he get here?”
“What do you mean, ‘How did he get here?’ The same way you did. He landed at your desk.”
“Couldn’t have. No in 1673.”
“?”
Peter appeared behind them. He smiled. “Do you mean the river?”
Cam didn’t say anything. Jeanne gave her a look and said, “Yes.”
“Ah. I’m afraid the river did exist in 1673. And for a good deal before that, I can assure you.”
“Thank you,” Jeanne said.
Cam rolled her eyes and jabbed the Down button.
“No, no, no,” he said, holding up his palms. “I cannot stay. Thank you for the kind offer, though. I am most sensible of your generous hospitality.”
Jeanne giggled, and Cam shot her a glare that would have ignited marble.
Ignoring this, Jeanne said, “Do you need a ride? I’m heading back to the office. I mean, like, what exactly do you do now?” She met Cam’s eye in a quick sidelong glance.
“What town do I have the pleasure of visiting?”
“Mt. Lebanon,” Cam said dryly.
“There is a small public house I spotted across Mt. Lebanon’s strand. I believe I shall retire there.”
“For the night?” Jeanne said. “It doesn’t work like that here.”
“Don’t fret, Miss Turner. I’m very resourceful.”
“So, you’re not going to go. You’ll stay?”
“Jesus, Jeanne.” Cam looked to see if Jacket was nearby, but he seemed to have disappeared into the studio. “He can stay or he can go. I don’t give a rat’s ass.”
Peter clapped his hands together. “There you have it. A prettier invitation a man could not desire.”
The elevator dinged, and Cam pressed the security button. When the door slid open, she leaned in and pressed 1. “Bye.”
Peter made a courtly bow and stepped through the door.
Jeanne giggled again. “You know who he reminds me of? Cary Grant.”
Cam smacked her forehead. “Christ,” she muttered, then barked “No!” at Peter when she caught him eyeing the buttons. “Don’t touch anything. Just get out when the door opens.”
Jeanne called, “Wait!” as the doors drifted closed and lunged to get an arm in, but Cam blocked it.
“Now what?” Cam demanded when the Down button went dark. “Were you planning to ask him to the prom?”
“Your key,” Jeanne said, crossing her arms. “He’s got it.”