Chapter 62 #3
Three pages of cream-colored stationery, thin with age and slightly faded, bore the small, precise handwriting of Asher’s mother.
My dear Zila,
I am hesitant to send this letter, fearful that it might prompt a reply, but I do so with confidence that you will favor its receipt with the tenderness that drew me to you when we first met.
I know that my departure was sudden, perhaps unkindly so, but I saw no other way to leave than to disappear as I did. I have often wondered if I did the right thing, and I will never know how I mustered the strength to board the flight from Madrid to Golden.
I arrived home confused, heartbroken, afraid, and desperate.
I felt that I had no choice but to marry as quickly as I could.
He was — is — a dear friend, a very good and gracious man who had loved me since childhood.
He was the closest thing I had to a boyfriend in high school, and he often teased me that he would marry me someday.
We eloped shortly after I returned home.
I am still amazed that he took me in as he did, that he was willing to help hide my secret and even be the scapegoat for my scandal.
He married me knowing everything. Knowing that I was pregnant.
And that the little boy was yours.
The child is now six years old and gives every indication that he will be an artist. He brings such joy and is just beginning to write words.
For all these years, I have wanted you to know of him but did not know how or why I should tell you.
I also feared what might happen if we communicated with each other.
I still do. From all I read about you in the newspapers and magazines, you are making a lasting mark in the art world.
And I have the simple joys of being a happy mother, a cared-for wife, and a blessed woman.
It would be reckless beyond words, and pointless, to put either of our good fortunes in jeopardy, much less the hearts of the ones we love.
And so I ask, indeed beg, that you not write or call.
Please, Zila, never. And forgive me that I have taken a liberty that I deny to you. As heartless as my request might seem, and as hard as it is to make, I trust you see the wisdom in it, especially after all these years.
I hope it will not trouble you to know that, even now, you are thought of often and fondly.
Be assured I will not trouble you again.
But also be assured that I will love the boy with the affection of two hearts.
I enclose, too, the Evening of Biscopo. I have not worn it since coming home but have sometimes looked at it, held it up to the light, traveled in my imagination where it took me.
Please assume no bitterness on my part in its return.
Your dear grandmother and mother would be heartsick to know that such beauty is being deprived the light of day in a far-away jewelry box.
Surely there is, or will be, someone in your life who will wear it fittingly someday.
Every blessing in your well-deserved success. With it, I pray comes much happiness and peace.
Another piece of the cream-colored paper, bearing the large, irregular lettering of a child’s hand, followed.
Dear Mr. Zila,
I am six.
You draw nice.
I like to draw.
When I grow up, I want to draw.
From,
Asher
The reply to that little boy’s letter, Asher knew, was in a frame in the hallway on the wall of his studio, signed simply, “Zila.”
Asher would read the letters again when his head was clearer. But not that night. He knew enough for the moment. And true to Theo’s prediction, he had a host of questions that would never be answered.
Asher rose from the chair, stepped out onto the balcony, drew a deep breath, and stood with a weary gaze over the Promenade.
There was, and would be, much to think about.
Much to cherish.
Much to lament.
A whisper, something about good sadness and great love, passed through Asher’s mind.
He walked back indoors, gazed at the portrait, gathered up the letters, and was putting them in the envelope when he remembered the small box.
He sat down and opened it.
A necklace, just as Theo had described it, opal on a gold chain, in the shape of a heart, was in the box with a simple note.
It was my pledge.
Before turning off the lamp, Asher leaned forward, elbows on knees, toward the portrait of himself, as if nearness to it would somehow place him close to Theo again. Every brush stroke and line, after all, had been the work of the old man’s fingers, some perhaps very recently.
Only then did Asher realize that a second canvas had been placed beneath his portrait.
He carefully removed “himself” from the easel and placed it on the floor.
The second canvas was eighteen inches square. It was an oceanside scene. The bulk of the painting was sky and sea in various shades of blue and aquamarine with wisps of cloud and a seagull.
In the foreground, occupying the bottom third of the canvas, was a field in lush green and ochre. It appeared to end at a cliff that overlooked the sea.
No beach was visible.
In the field stood an easel.
At the easel stood a painter, largely obscured from view. Legs and portions of one arm were visible but no face or torso.
Asher, to confirm a hunch, looked at the back of the canvas. It said:
Me painting you painting me. I love you.
He turned off the light and walked home.