Chapter Six
“Yes, Mr. Cunningham, I believe we’ve chosen the very best way to protect your investment, and I’ll send around a note as soon as the paperwork is ready,” Roman said, shaking the older man’s hand.
“It’s been a pleasure, young fellow. I’ll look forward to hearing from you.” Mr. Cunningham nodded once before leaving.
Roman sat down and made a note on the sheet of paper on his desk.
He’d lost an investor the previous week, a man who had chosen to go with one of the larger companies in the area, and he’d taken several thousand dollars with him.
It hadn’t hurt Roman’s bottom line—he’d amassed a nest egg against such things—but it did worry him because fortunes could be made and then lost overnight, and no matter how healthy that nest egg was, he always wanted more.
It wasn’t greed—it was survival, both for himself and his company.
If his calculations were correct, he only needed two more customers like Mr. Cunningham and he’d be back to where he was before the loss. Hopefully, the appointments he had that afternoon would pan out, and then he could breathe again.
Or maybe he could.
When was the last time he’d truly relaxed?
He smiled as he remembered the day before in the park. Miss Smith. Just passing through town on her way to bigger and better things. He’d likely never see her again, but that was fine. He didn’t have time for the distraction of a pretty girl anyway.
Except she was more than pretty, and she was more than a distraction.
She’d taken him out of himself entirely, out of the stuffy office and into a world where more things were possible than just numbers and money.
He’d never enjoyed a conversation so much in his life, and going back to the office to find it exactly how he’d left it had been a disappointment.
He’d hoped that maybe some of Miss Smith’s magic had touched his surroundings too and made them less dull just like she’d brought something to life inside him.
But everything was the same, and after an hour or two of studying numbers and analyzing market trends, he was the same too.
That spark had fizzled out, but it did make him smile to remember it.
“It’s time for lunch,” Louise said, appearing in his doorway. “Why don’t you take another walk? Yesterday seemed to do you a lot of good.”
“No, I don’t think so. Yesterday won’t be there anymore—she was just passing through.”
“I . . . I beg your pardon?”
“Oh, sorry.” Roman shook his head. “I mean, I have a lot to do.”
“You always have a lot to do.”
“That is the nature of work.” He glanced up at her and noticed the worried look on her face. “You take good care of me, Louise—you really do. But I’m all right. My mother made me breakfast this morning, and I ate enough to last me until supper.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right, but I’m not very happy about it.” She closed the door behind her, but only a moment later, she opened it again. “There’s a young lady here to see you.”
Roman frowned. “I thought my next appointment was at two.”
“It is. She doesn’t have an appointment.”
A young lady by herself without an appointment? That was odd. “Show her in, please.” His curiosity wouldn’t let him send her away.
Miss Smith came into his office with a flurry of blue skirts and a smile that lit up her whole face.
“Mr. Kendall, please forgive me for dropping by like this. I realize I’m interrupting your schedule, and I’m so sorry.
But you see, there’s something wrong with your eyes, and I had to speak with you right away. ”
Roman had come to his feet when she entered, intending to say hello, but now he wasn’t sure how to respond. “My eyes, Miss Smith?”
“Yes. They aren’t quite right.”
“I . . . I haven’t noticed any problems with them,” he replied. “No blurriness or anything.”
She threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, my. That’s not what I meant at all, and I’m sure I’ve confused you horribly.
I mean, the eyes in my drawing.” She opened the sketchbook she held in her arms. “I think I did well with the rest of you, but the eyes are wrong. If you could spare me just a moment to try again—I honestly couldn’t sleep last night because I couldn’t stop thinking about it. ”
Roman tried not to smirk. “You couldn’t sleep because you were thinking about my eyes?” As soon as he spoke, he realized how impertinent he sounded, and he rushed to apologize. She didn’t even seem to notice his slip of the tongue, however.
“Not your eyes themselves, of course, but my drawing of your eyes. I’m terribly hard on myself—I don’t think anyone critiques my work as harshly as I do. I must correct my mistake or I’ll never sleep again.”
“Well, we can’t have that. What do you need me to do?”
“Could you come over here by the window? Yes, that’s it.
Perfect.” She sat down in front of him, pursing her lips in thought.
“I drew the shape correctly, and their placement in your face, but there’s something in your expression that I can’t replicate.
” After another moment of contemplation, she said, “Are you sad about something, Mr. Kendall?”
Her question surprised him. “Sad? Why do you ask?”
“I feel as though you’re showing yourself to me in layers—the top bit, of course, is what everyone sees.
You’re a businessman, so you must be professional at all times.
Then there’s a softer side beneath that, and you show it when you’re laughing or smiling or sitting in the sun.
But underneath that, there’s still something else, and it’s that something I’ve been trying to figure out.
Yes, I think you’re sad. Deeply sad. You don’t have to tell me why or even if I’m right—that’s not important.
The important part is recognizing that it’s there so I know how to change my drawing. ”
“And . . . and you can do that now?” He was suddenly ready for her to leave his office, a stark contrast to how glad he’d been to see her a moment before.
It made him uncomfortable that she could read him so easily, that she had the ability to examine him down to the core.
Only Lacy knew him that well, and for a stranger to have that insight . . . It was unsettling.
“I believe so. It will just take a moment.” She pulled out her pencil and guided it across the page, then found her eraser and rubbed it in a few spots as well. “There,” she said. “So much better. It’s not perfect, you understand, but it’s more accurate by far.”
“And I still don’t get to see it?”
“No, you do not, and in fact, I might make you wait even longer because you’ve been so impatient. Don’t you know that patience is a virtue?”
“Another of your father’s sayings?”
“Yes, but the poet Langland said it first.” She tucked her pencil and eraser away.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of him.”
“That’s because he lived in the 1300s. Hardly anyone has heard of him after all this time.”
“Understandable. But . . . now I’ve forgotten what we were talking about.”
“Your eyes and my drawing, and why you don’t get to see it yet.”
“Ah, that’s right.”
“Frankly, I think you’ve been trying to distract me so I’ll forget that I forbade you to look at it.”
“Distract you? How?”
“By changing the subject all the time.” She stood up. “Well, goodbye, Mr. Kendall. I feel much better now, and I’ll let you get back to work.”
Just as suddenly as he’d wished her gone, now he wished she’d stay. “How did you find my office, anyway?” he asked. “I don’t recall telling you where I work.”
“No, you didn’t, and it did make things a little challenging. I opened my sketchbook and started showing people your picture. A lady on the corner identified you almost immediately and pointed the way here. She seemed quite enamored with you.”
“I don’t socialize much here. I don’t know what chance she would have had to become enamored with me.”
“She didn’t say how she knew you or when you’d met, only that she too appreciated art when she saw it. Thank you again, Mr. Kendall. I hope all goes well for you from this day forward.”
She closed the door when she left, an echoing sound that was too final.
He fought the urge to run across the room and fling the door open again so he wouldn’t have to live with the memory of that finality, but he exercised a bit of self-control and remained where he was.
It didn’t matter whether the door was open or closed.
Miss Smith was gone, heading on the next leg of her journey.
His memory of her was the only thing she was leaving behind for him.
Which was how it should be, to be honest.
***
Anastasia crossed the street and entered the park, choosing to sit on the same bench where she’d first met Mr. Kendall.
She hadn’t accomplished everything she needed to while at his office, but with another minute or two of work, she’d be finished to her satisfaction.
A little more rubbing with the eraser, filling in a few lines, and she was done—his eyes were now more realistic, and she’d even managed to bring forth the sadness while emphasizing the humor.
This was why she found portraits so much more difficult than trees and mountains.
As long as she paid attention to the light sources, it was easy to recreate things from nature.
But human beings could go from emotion to emotion with very little provocation, and she hadn’t learn how to identify all those emotions.
Even worse was trying to draw them without understanding them, and until she learned how to school herself and her feelings, she never would be a truly great artist.
Her instructors at Vassar had cautioned her not to plan on becoming rich with her art, that only a few were paid what they were worth and that most of the world’s greatest masterpieces weren’t appreciated until years after their creator was dead.
That didn’t matter to Anastasia, though.
She didn’t care if she never received a penny for her work.
She wanted to know that she had touched someone’s heart, that she had given them a reason to pause and be grateful for the beauty that exists in the world.
That was the purpose of art, in her opinion.
Her instructors had argued that of course she didn’t care about money—she came from a wealthy family.
It was true that she had never known true want, but it was also true that her tastes were simple.
As long as she had a paintbrush nearby, she had everything she needed.
Well, perhaps that wasn’t entirely true. She needed her father, but no amount of money could keep him with her, so what good was it anyway? Money was a tool, a means to an end, but it wasn’t the answer to everything. It was certainly no more powerful than those who wielded it.
As she walked the short distance back to the hotel, she noticed little children skipping along beside their mothers.
She saw a few young couples obviously in love, staring at each other instead of gazing in the shop windows they passed.
One older gentleman was barreling down the street with his eyes on the ground, his hat pulled low, ignoring everything except his important errand.
Every face shone with a different emotion, and she longed for the ability to paint them all.
What stories their eyes had to tell. What experiences their smiles or their frowns had to share.
She felt utterly incapable of the challenge she’d placed for herself, but she had to try.
Her father had often said that a man only rose to greatness when he left the mundane world beneath his feet.
That required courage of a kind she didn’t know if she had, but she wanted it badly.
That was what it would mean to her to be a real artist.
And somehow, it all began in Mr. Kendall’s eyes.