Portrait of a Love (17 page)

“I see.” His voice sounded unusually clipped. “Well, if that is the case, there’s nothing more to say, is there?”

Isabel took a step toward him. “We don’t have to say good-bye forever. I didn’t mean that.”

“You mean you are willing to continue to sleep with me, you just don’t want to be my wife.” Isabel halted. “Well, that isn’t good enough for me, Isabel. I’m sorry, but it just isn’t good enough.”

She could feel herself growing pale. “Oh,” she said. Helplessly, pleadingly, she began, “Leo ...”

He left the house, closing the door behind him with a gentleness born of violence precariously controlled.

It was dark when Leo returned. He was calm and polite and pleasant, and it was as though a wall of ice had been erected between them. Isabel served dinner and made conversation. He ate and answered her with unfailing courtesy. He dried the dishes as he had done on every other night of the summer, and then sat down at the desk in the living room to write out checks. When he was addressing envelopes, Isabel spoke.

“Leo? Please don’t be like this.” She crossed the room to stand in front of him. The lamp on the desk illuminated his hair and face. There were threads of gold spangled across his forehead.

“How do you want me to be?” he asked patiently.

“Can’t we at least keep what we had?” she asked, and looked down into his eyes. It was like speaking to a man she hardly knew but with whom she was terribly in love.

He shrugged. “What did we have, Isabel? It was a nice summer, but now it’s over.”

He would not be placated. There was nothing she could do. Isabel went to bed and pretended to be asleep when Leo finally came in. She lay awake for a long, long time, listening to his quiet breathing, feeling the loneliness of being shut out from him. She wanted to reach out to him. She wanted to be held by him and loved and comforted. But she couldn’t even touch him. It was like sleeping with a stranger.

The following morning she told him she was returning to New York. He helped her pack and drove her to the airport.

* * * *

New York. Bob. Her own studio. Her own life.

September went by, and October. It was all loneliness, bitter, bitter loneliness.

In November one of the TV stations aired the documentary on Leo. Isabel and Bob watched it together.

There was Leo as a college junior, so very young looking. There was a shot of his parents in the stands watching a football game, and Isabel saw Mrs. Sinclair next to a big, broad-shouldered, good-looking man. So that was Leo’s father. That was where he got his size, she thought.

There was a picture of Leo receiving the Heissman Trophy. He looks so young, so golden, she thought. Leo the lion.

Then there were the pro games. “God,” said Bob, “but he was the best. Look at that, Isabel. Look at him go through that field.”

“Yes,” Isabel said. “I see.”

Of course they talked about his knee injuries just as Leo had foreseen. If he was watching, though Isabel doubted that he was, he would be hating every minute.

Bob turned the set off, sat down, and looked at her.

“I still can’t understand why he did it,” she said. The last football shot of Leo in obvious agony as he unsuccessfully tried to get to his feet had shaken her badly.

“You saw how he played, Isabel,” Bob said gently. “Perhaps once in a generation you get a Leo Sinclair.” He paused. “If you developed arthritis in your hands,” he said, “would you continue to paint until you quite literally could no longer move your fingers?”

Isabel’s eyes were very bright. “Yes,” she said, and finally understood.

* * * *

November passed. Isabel worked every day at her studio. She had sold several paintings; her name was beginning to be talked of seriously in art circles. A few dealers were recommending her to their clients as a “good investment.”

She had an offer for one of the Hampton Island paintings. She refused to sell it and the offer went higher. It was like a dream; last year at this time she would have been thrilled to receive a tenth of what was now being offered.

Her work since the summer had not gone well. Technically, it was brilliant, but the glow, the magic, the vision that had made the Hampton Island paintings so extraordinary were gone. Nothing could destroy the drawing skill or the exquisite brush work, but even if she might fool others, Isabel could not fool herself. Something was lost.

And all the time, no matter where she was or what she was doing, there was an acute and overwhelming sense of loss. Painting didn’t help. Painting the way she was painting now made it worse.

I
did this to myself, she would think. This was my decision. And Leo’s words when she accused him of the same thing would come back to her: “I know. But strangely enough, that doesn’t seem to make it any better.”

The Christmas season was upon them. Isabel and Bob bought a tree and Isabel decorated the apartment with vases of holly. Bob’s firm had its Christmas party, which they attended together but after the intellectual sharpness of Washington, Isabel found the New York festivities silly and boring.

The day after the party was Sunday, a day Bob usually slept late. Isabel got up at eight o’clock, went out to the kitchen, and found him at the breakfast table drinking coffee. He was wearing a sweatsuit.

“Are you going running?” she asked in surprise.

“I’ve been. I just got back.”

“My, you’re energetic.” She belted her robe more firmly around her waist and went to the stove to pour herself a cup of coffee.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he said.

“Oh?” She sat down across from him. Isabel had not slept well either, but then that was nothing new.

“Isabel,” Bob said, “we’ve got to talk. About us.”

She looked at him gravely. “All right.”

“It’s something I’ve been thinking for a while, ever since you came home in September looking like grim death.” Isabel stared at her coffee cup. “You said then you wouldn’t marry Sinclair because marriage would interfere with your work,” Bob went on. “And I’ve said I needed to live with you because of my work. And we’re both liars, Isabel. We’re both hiding.” His voice was very calm and very clear. Each phrase was spoken deliberately. “We’re both afraid.”

Isabel pushed her coffee cup away and, putting her elbows on the table, rested her forehead on her hands. Her face masked from his view, she said, “What do you mean?”

“I know something about you, Isabel. We’ve been friends for many years. And I know how your father’s alcoholism has affected you. You’re afraid, honey. You’re so afraid to trust a man. You’re afraid to trust Sinclair, that’s why you won’t marry him.”

Honey.
Bob never called her honey. Isabel’s breath came painfully.

“And what are you afraid of, Bob?” she asked.

“The truth about myself. I’ve hidden the truth from the firm, I’ve hidden it from my family, and most of all, I’ve tried to hide it from myself.” He met her eyes directly. “All these years I’ve said to myself, maybe I’ll change, maybe one day Isabel and I
will
get married. I’ve hidden behind you, Isabel. For all these years, I’ve hidden behind you.”

“I see,” she said. Her voice was very gentle.

“And then, last night, when Mrs. Barrows talked about our getting married, I knew.” The room was very quiet. “I knew then that there was no way I was ever going to marry you or anyone else.”

There was a painful line between his brows. “Is there someone special?” she asked softly.

“Yes.”

Isabel put out her hand. “I love you,” she said. “My parents never gave me a brother, but I found one in you.”

The line between his brows smoothed out. He reached out and covered her hand with his. “I love you too,” he said.

Isabel sniffed and he released her. “I need a tissue,” she said, and went to the sink to get one.

“Your work has been lousy ever since you got back home,” he said to her back.

Isabel blew her nose. “I know.”

“Those things you did this summer were the best you’ve ever done.”

Isabel’s voice was muffled. “I know,” she said again.

“You have to
feel
to be an artist, Isabel. You have to be open to life.”

Isabel turned to look at him. “What should I do?” she asked helplessly.

“Marry Sinclair.”

“What if he doesn’t want me anymore?”

“You’ll never know, will you, unless you ask.”

Isabel pushed her hair behind her ears. “I’m going to get dressed,” she said. “I need to walk.”

“Go ahead. And think about what I’ve just said.”

She did think about it. She walked with hands in pockets and bent head, totally unaware of her surroundings, and she thought. And, without conscious direction, her steps took her to the doors of St. Mark’s Catholic Church. Before she had a chance to change her mind, Isabel went in.

Mass was in progress and Isabel slipped into a rear pew. The congregation was coming back from Communion and she rose with them for the final prayers. When the church had emptied, she moved forward to the altar.

There was a crèche scene on the altar steps with Mary and Joseph kneeling on either side of the empty manger, watched over by angels and shepherds. She knew the baby would be put in the manger on Christmas Day.

“Look, Isabel!” she could hear her mother’s voice saying. “Look! The Baby Jesus is born.”

Isabel knelt in the front pew and bowed her head. The familiar smell of the church surrounded her. Why do all Catholic churches smell the same? she thought. She hadn’t been inside one in years and yet she would know the smell anywhere.

You’re afraid to trust Leo, Bob had said. That had perhaps been true in the spring; it wasn’t true anymore. She was no longer afraid that Leo would betray her as her father had. She wasn’t afraid of any failing in Leo at all.

The church somehow brought her parents very close to her. She remembered how her father would give her a quarter for the collection basket on Sunday. She remembered her mother’s face the day she made her First Communion.

She looked at the statue of Mary on the altar and thought about her mother. She thought of what her mother had suffered and about what her mother’s death had done to her father.

It was true that she was afraid, not of Leo, but of loving Leo. All her fine philosophy had been a cover-up for one simple fact: she was petrified of being hurt as her father had been. Loving someone left you so terribly vulnerable. What if Leo should die ...

You coward, she said to herself. You poor, stupid, ignorant coward. She looked at the scene on the altar. Mary didn’t say no, she thought. When the angel appeared to her, she didn’t hesitate. “My soul doth magnify the Lord,” she had said to Elizabeth. My soul will never magnify anything, Isabel thought. It’s been too busy huddling in a corner.

The church began to fill up for the next Mass, so Isabel got up and left. She didn’t need public prayer right now. She needed to go home and write a letter to Leo.

Isabel couldn’t put pen to paper fast enough when she got home, and the letter was posted Monday morning. “If it’s all over, don’t bother to reply,” she had written. “I’ll understand.”

The Christmas mails were slow, and she had sent the letter to Charleston. He should get it by Thursday, she reckoned. She couldn’t expect a phone call before Thursday ... if a phone call came.

On Wednesday night she and Bob were sitting in front of the TV watching a Christmas special when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” Bob said, and left the room. Isabel kept her eyes on the screen even though her thoughts were hundreds of miles away.

She heard the door open.

“You must be Bob,” a familiar and well-loved voice said. “I’m Leo Sinclair.”

Isabel quite literally stopped breathing.

“Come in, Senator. She’s in the living room.” Bob’s voice came to her through the wild tapping of her heart.

Then Leo stood in the doorway, big and vibrant and lightly sprinkled with raindrops. Isabel was on her feet.

“Leo?” she said. She took one step across the room. He didn’t say anything, he just looked at her. Then she began to run.

His arms around her felt so strong. She had thought she would never feel them again. She locked her own arms around his neck and looked up into his face.

“It’s you,” she said. “It’s really you.”

He said something she didn’t quite hear and then he was kissing her. He kissed her for quite a long time, and when he finally raised his head, they were both shaking.

“It’s really me,” he said, his voice not quite under control.

She stared up into his face, drinking in the sight of him as a thirst-driven traveler might stare at an oasis. She touched his cheek and then his hair. It was damp with rain. “Did you get my letter?” she asked wonderingly.

His hands were still on her waist. “This morning. Ben flew me up.”

“Ben! He doesn’t have a license.”

He removed one hand from her waist and slid it into her long black hair. “He just got it,” he murmured.

“Oh, Leo,” she said shakily. And he kissed her again.

It was ten minutes more before he finally took his trench coat off. Isabel went to hang it in the bathroom, and when she returned to the living room, he said, fiercely, “Do you know the hell you’ve put me through?”

“Yes, oh, yes.” He was standing in front of the green velvet sofa. She stayed where she was in the doorway and gazed at him. She couldn’t get enough of looking at him. “I’ve been through it myself,” she said. “Bob says I’ve looked like grim death ever since I came home.”

“Bob,” said Leo. “Now there is a fellow whose hand I want to shake.”

Isabel looked into the hall. “Where is he?” she asked, missing him for the first time.

“I reckon he’s being tactful.” Leo smiled and held out his hand. “Come and sit next to me,” he said softly. “No sense in wastin’ such thoughtfulness.”

When Bob finally returned a half an hour later, he closed the front door with unnecessary force before he came into the living-room doorway. “Is it safe for me to return?” he asked the couple on the sofa.

Isabel laughed and got to her feet. “You poor thing. Come on in and be introduced.”

“We met at the door, briefly,” Bob said, and came into the room. There was a guarded expression in his eyes as he looked at Leo, and Isabel suddenly realized that he was afraid of how Leo was going to react to him.