Summer on the Cape (9 page)

“Don’t get too comfortable,” he said. “I’ve been looking at your pictures, and we need to talk about them.”

“My pictures aren’t the only thing we have to talk about!”

“Later, my dear. Later. We’ll save that for dinner.” He held out a hand to help her up from the sofa, and led her into the wood-paneled library, where her pictures had been set up on a viewing table.

Standing in front of them, she was surprised by their effect. Here, in this very sophisticated setting, her paintings were vividly alive with the clear light and the salt smell of the ocean. The light breeze that lifted the sea gulls in the pictures seems to blow gently through this elegant room. Only a minute before, she’d been wondering what was happening to her universe. Spread out in front of her, she saw the beginnings of an answer. Her few weeks on Cape Cod had brought something—and someone—into her life, and she sensed she’d been changed. What the nature of that change was, and how long lasting it would prove to be, it was still too early to tell.

“Allie,” Adam was saying, gesturing toward her paintings, “they’re very good. I told you I liked the photos you sent. Now that I’ve seen the pictures themselves, I must tell you, I’m impressed. You know I don’t say that lightly.” He leaned against the back of a burgundy leather armchair, his arms folded across his chest, his hand still holding his scotch and soda. His head was tipped a bit, and he studied Allie’s face closely. “Something has happened to you up there on the Cape. I see it in these pictures. Do you want to tell me about it?”

She was startled by Adam’s uncanny sensitivity. He might have been reading her mind, and she felt exposed and vulnerable. She didn’t like the sensation at all.

“I don’t know what you mean, Adam.” She felt completely defensive. “I don’t know what you see.”

“First of all,” he said, looking at the pictures in the very focused way he had when he examined anything of importance—a painting, a piece of statuary, a client’s contract—“first of all I see an increased technical assurance. That’s good, of course, but that’s bound to come anyway. I expect that.” He finished his drink and reached around behind him to put his glass onto the table that stood next to the leather chair. “But there’s something more,” he continued. “There’s a new depth of feeling in these paintings. It’s even possible to follow the course of that development. Look, for example, here at this one.” He pointed to the painting of
Sea Smoke
, and Allie felt a shiver of remembered excitement run through her. “Now, that’s a lovely painting, of course, bright and lively. I may even have a buyer for it already.” A tiny movement at the corner of his mouth made Allie think of a cat licking at a drop of cream. Then his hand swept along the row of later paintings. “But it’s not nearly in the same class as these. For example, look at the light and the composition in this one.” He pointed at one of the last pictures Allie had done, a seascape, the ocean surface tremulous, with a rain squall building on the horizon.

Allie knew, of course, what had happened between that first carefree painting of
Sea Smoke
and the later picture of an approaching squall, full of ominous portents, threatening upheaval, perhaps even danger. Zach had happened. Zach and his remarkable power to confuse and excite her. Zach Eliot had come into her life.

She made her response as casual as possible. “I think I see what you mean, Adam, and I’m glad if you’re pleased. But I don’t think there’s anything very mysterious about it.” She shrugged her shoulders, hoping she was successfully diverting his attention away from her private life. “I’m working in a new medium, a new setting, a new subject matter. I suppose it’s natural that aspects of myself would show up that you haven’t seen before.”

“Hmm. Well, that may be.” Adam was looking thoughtfully at her. “We’ll see. Anyway, I’m eager to see the finished paintings.” He pointed at his watch, indicating that it was time to leave for the restaurant. “I just came from a meeting with that dreadful Smucker woman,” he continued as they left the library, chuckling as he added, “It must be hard to live with a name like that.” In front of the foyer mirror, he smoothed his jacket into place and made sure his gold cuff links were pulled just clear of his sleeve. “She’s a dragon to do business with, but she certainly does bring in the paying clients.”

Allie laughed mirthlessly. She’d had one encounter with Leslie Smucker, and she wasn’t looking forward to future ones. She remembered the fierce personality, black hair flying out of control around a dead white face, bright red lipstick, sharp red fingernails. “I don’t know how you manage her,” she said. “She frightens the hell out of me.”

“Me too. After an hour with her, I feel I should check to be sure I still have all my vital organs.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to handle these business types.” She paused to take one quick look at herself in the mirror and brushed her rebellious bangs back from her forehead. “I never understand what they’re talking about and they never seem to understand what I’m talking about.”

“That’s because you’re an artist, my dear. And that’s why artists have agents.” He led her through the foyer to the elevator. “I depend on artists never knowing how to talk to business types. That’s just fine. As long as the artists go on painting pictures and people with money want to buy them, folks like me will be happy to help them get together. And we’ll be happy to take some of that nice money as it changes hands.”

Allie knew he was right. And she knew that he’d been much more than an agent to her. He’d been a substitute father, mother, and guardian angel, and he tolerated her stubbornness with marvelous good humor. As headstrong as she was, Allie always, finally, knew enough to listen to Adam’s sound advice and to benefit from his enormous experience. Whatever his schemes were, they’d always turned out well for her.

They had reached the lobby of the building and went outside into the hot summer night where even the sidewalk seemed to be steaming. Marcus was waiting at the curb to hold the car’s door open for them. Allie slipped into the air-conditioned interior and smoothed her silk dress into place, while Adam walked around the back of the car and got in from the other side. Then, as the big car turned out of 52nd Street and glided up First Avenue, Adam opened the bar that was set into the console in front of them.

“Another sherry?”

“No, thanks.” There’d been a time, when she was younger, that Allie got a kick out of all this luxury. Now it was beginning to seem excessively self-indulgent. Not that it wasn’t fun, of course. But she was getting old enough to not take it all too seriously. “We have things to talk about and I want to keep my head clear. You’re tough enough, Adam, without my getting all fuzzy and making it easy for you.”

Adam smiled at her comment as he poured a scotch for himself and splashed some soda into it.

“Ah, you misjudge me, my dear.” His tone was only partly playful. “I have no intention that you be fuzzy. Quite the contrary. For our little discussion tonight, I need you to be quite clear-headed.”

“Come off it, Adam. I know you. For what we need to talk about, you could have had me come directly from the airport, jeans and all.” She turned squarely on the deep leather seat and faced him directly. “So why did I have to get all dressed up in my good green silk dress, and why are we going to the Silver Dove?” Then, as though she’d just had a brilliant insight, she added, “Unless you’re just interested in seeing to it that I get a good meal. That’s it, isn’t it? You’re always complaining that I don’t eat right.”

“Well, that’s certainly true, Allie. I’ve never known anyone with worse eating habits than you have. How you stay alive is beyond me.”

Allie pouted as she sat back in the seat again. “I’m not as bad as all that. It’s just that I get busy with what I’m working on, and I forget.”

“Exactly. You’ve been hard at work for weeks now, and you’ve probably been living on canned spaghetti and Twinkies.”

“Not at all.” Even her mother had never nagged her like this, she thought. “You know you had the kitchen up on the Cape stocked with all sorts of good things. I’ve been eating very well.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Nevertheless, I am going to be sure that tonight, at least, you get a good meal. I’ve had Maurice whip up some of that superb salmon mousse of his and he’s chilling a good Chablis to go with it.”

Salmon mousse and Chablis, indeed. Allie knew she was supposed to be appreciative, but some fried clams and a Coke would have been just as good. Maybe better. She also knew that Adam had successfully deflected her challenge, and she was going to have to wait to find out what he had up that well-tailored sleeve of his.

The car pulled up in front of the unpretentious door that was the entrance to the Silver Dove. A casual passerby would never have realized that this was one of New York’s most expensive and exclusive restaurants. Inside, they were greeted with quiet enthusiasm by Oscar, the maître d’, who led them to a quiet corner table where soft lighting and banks of flowers created an air of comfortable privacy. As Oscar held Allie’s chair for her, she looked around the room, noticing several faces that were familiar on movie and television screens. She tried to preserve an air of sophisticated unconcern as she sat down. Oscar moved over to Adam’s side of the table.

“Maurice has prepared the mousse as you requested, in the light dill sauce. I think you will be pleased.”

Without another word, he vanished, leaving Allie and Adam alone.

Allie settled uncertainly into the brocaded chair, beginning to feel a thin edge of tension. Making an effort not to fidget, she smiled pleasantly at Adam, who was studying her face closely.

“I have not mentioned,” he said, “that you look wonderful. Tanned and healthy. Cape Cod apparently agrees with you.”

“I suppose it’s because I’ve been working outdoors so much. I don’t get much chance to do that when I’m working in New York.”

“Well, it’s done wonderful things for your coloring.” He examined her face with his expert eye. “You have that natural golden color to begin with and the sunlight has put some highlights in your hair. The tan has brightened you up delightfully. It brings out the different tones in your eyes. I always like hazel eyes. They have such rich possibilities for variety.”

What’s all this about my eyes? What’s he getting at?

“I had no idea you paid so much attention to my eyes.”

“My dear, I pay attention to everything. That’s why I’m so successful.” He paused and then added slyly, “That, together with a very large inheritance which I have had the intelligence to manage with great skill, care, and patience.”

She wasn’t sure if he was being serious. She knew Adam was a very wealthy man and had come from a very wealthy family, but she couldn’t imagine why he was telling her this. She was also embarrassed by his close scrutiny, and was glad the waiter arrived just at that moment to take their order. She decided to allow Adam to choose for her, partly because she knew he would do it so well—“Something cool I think, something cool on this hot day; the cucumber soup will do nicely, and a light salad”—and partly to give her a chance to collect her thoughts and prepare for whatever surprises he had in store.

When Adam and the waiter finished fussing about the details of their dinner, the waiter left and Adam turned his attention back to Allie.

“You were about to say—”

“I was about to say, we have other things to talk about besides my eyes and my hair. Why don’t we get right to it?”

“Ah, the sweet impatience of youth.” Adam was smiling at her indulgently. “We do, indeed, have all sorts of serious and interesting things to talk about. But not now. Not yet. Not until we’ve eaten a bit and had some wine. In the meantime, I’m quite satisfied to discuss your lovely eyes and beautiful hair.”

“Okay, if you insist,” she said, a little testily. “But, Adam, you know perfectly well, way back when I was in art school and you came into that class and decided to take an interest in my work, you were not looking at my hazel eyes and my golden hair. And I am—and I was—very thankful that you weren’t. It was my work that interested you, wasn’t it?”

Adam laughed. “Of course it was your work that I was looking at, Allie. If it had been just the girl, then all I’d have seen was an awkward scarecrow of a young thing with smudges of paint on her hands and face.”

“Oh, Adam,” she said, feeling embarrassed for the young girl she’d been those long years ago. “Was I really so awful?”

“No, not awful. Just young. Young and not yet formed.” He sat back, also remembering—remembering a very young girl, a girl of just sixteen years, struggling so bravely, with never a word of complaint or self-pity, struggling to make her way, alone in a very hard world. She would never know, probably, how touched he had been, how much he, who had always known only privilege and wealth, admired her tenacity and courage. He smiled at her, comparing the young woman across the table from him now with the girl she had been.

“You had that wonderful thick hair of yours pulled back with a rubber band. Not even a ribbon or a clip. Just a rubber band! And that dreadful smock, a ragged man’s shirt, all paint-smeared.”

“You really were paying attention, weren’t you?” She was astonished at his memory. “What else did you see?”

“I saw you had no idea that you were going to grow up to be a very attractive woman. You were fortunate in that way. When a girl is very beautiful early in her life, she learns to rely on that beauty to get her what she wants. She doesn’t understand the necessity for hard work and she becomes spoiled and self-indulgent. And that is ugly.”

The wine steward arrived with their wine. Adam took a minute to look at the label, the waiter poured a bit into Adam’s glass, Adam tasted it, nodded his approval, and their glasses were filled. Then, when that bit of theater was concluded, he returned to his little lecture.

“But more importantly, Allie. You had—you have—a genuine talent, and talent needs care and nurturing. It needs discipline and courage. It needs patience. And it needs very, very hard work. I’d have been sorry to see you give all that away to spend time on your hair and your eyes. So I was pleased and interested in what I saw. And now”—their soup had just arrived and was being ladled into the shallow plates that had been set before them—“and now, we will enjoy our dinner, and discuss serious matters after we’ve filled our tummies.”