The Color of Light (59 page)

Then she moved on, asking Ram about a layout that had gone to the printer. Tessa let out a deep breath; she hadn’t realized she was holding it in.

“What is the craziest thing you have ever done to a lover?” Anastasia was now demanding of the table.

The beauty editor, whose name was Poppy, answered first. “I was having this big fight with my boyfriend,” she said. “We were at my place. While he was in the bathroom, I threw his pants out the window. And then I left for work.”

Thea held a cigarette in a long black holder clenched between her teeth. “I was living with a musician,” she said languorously. “When I found out he was cheating on me, I dragged all his stuff to the club and threw it at him.” She expelled a cloud of smoke. “Including his stereo and his record collection.” Another puff of smoke. “I waited until his big drum solo.”

“Tell them, Gaby,” said Ram.

“Oh, all right.” She rolled her eyes. “Benno was supposed to drive my parents to the city. They had this big doctor’s appointment. And he came home from work and said he couldn’t do it, he was too tired. I got so mad, I went outside and slashed his tires.” She smiled sheepishly. “Twenty minutes later, he said he felt better, and he could take them now. So then I had to explain to him about his tires.”

“What about you?” Gaby asked Anastasia. “You’re French. You’ve got to have some good stories.”

Anastasia smiled, her teeth gleaming. “Oh, you know all about me,” she said self-deprecatingly. “The worst thing I ever do is leave them thirsty for more.” There were hoots of laughter. She trained her attention on Tessa. “But, my friends, all our stories pale in comparison to what our little
jeune fille
has done, only a few weeks ago.”

Bewildered, Tessa turned to Anastasia. A smile was spreading across her scarlet lips. “Do I have your permission?” She leaned forward. “There is something you may not know about our little assistant. Up until recently, she was deeply involved with Lucian Swain.” All heads turned to look at her in surprise. “Behind her back, he was seeing April Huffman. Who just so happened to be one of her teachers at art school. I know. It is fabulous. So. Our girl happens upon a nude picture of Lucian’s new girlfriend that he is using in a painting. She steals this picture. She and her little classmates make hundreds and hundreds of copies, in every color of the rainbow. And paste them up all over school.”

The table exploded into incredulous laughter. Tessa, feeling pleasantly buzzed under the influence of the Bellini, blushed furiously, dropped her head into her hands, found she was laughing too. Gaby actually fell off her chair. Ram turned lipstick red, wheezing. Gaby pounded him on the back until he could speak again, whereupon he burst into laughter all over again. “Oh my God, Crumpet,” he kept repeating. “Oh my God. Oh my God.”

She didn’t get home until midnight. As she put the key into the lock, a dark figure materialized beside her.

“You’re late,” said Rafe.

“And drunk,” she said, leaning sleepily against him. “Anastasia took us all out to dinner.”

He put his arms around her to steady her. “Portia said you weren’t in school this morning.”

“Busy at work. Closing the April issue. Anastasia asked if I could give them the whole day.”

Tessa plopped down on her bed, pulled off her cowboy boots one by one, let them drop on the floor.

“Have you started on your next canvas?” he asked.

“No. Too busy.”

“Tessa,” he said, his lovely voice chiding her in reprimand. “You should be well along by now.”

“I know, I know.” She yawned charmingly, covered her mouth, giggled. “I’ll start tomorrow.”

He hung his coat on her easel, came to sit next to her.

“You look different,” he said, passing his fingers through her hair. It was long, lustrous, the same glorious shade of red-gold-brown one might find on a Madonna in a Titian painting, but infinitely changed; it lay perfectly flat, an untroubled river flowing from the top of her head to her waist.

She was having some trouble rolling down her tights. He used it as an excuse to kneel between her knees and roll them down for her.

“There was this stylist, shooting a story about some new Japanese hair straightening techniques. Anastasia had him experiment on me. I’m the only one in the whole building with curly hair. Do you like it?”

Sitting on her single bed, she was barefoot, adorable. “Of course,” he said, but the truth was, it made him feel a little uncertain, as if she were someone else dressed up in a Tessa suit.

“S’temporary,” she mumbled. “Wash out when I shower. Is the world spinning,” she said, “or is it me?” and she settled onto her side. After a moment, he pulled his shirt up over his head, lay down beside her.

“I love you,” he whispered, his lips in her hair, familiar yet unfamiliar.

“Mm,” she said, seeking his lap with her bottom. He folded himself into her angles, gave himself over to the peaceful oasis that was her body.

“Gotta get up early,” she exhaled, her eyes closed. “Meeting Anastasia downtown. Photo shoot for the cover.”

“But class, Tessa,” he said, feeling a twinge of concern. “What about class?”

She was already asleep, her chest rising and falling with the guileless rhythm of sleep. With a queasy jolt, he wondered if Anastasia was intentionally leading her astray.

It was silent but for the steady tick tick of her clock. They were alone in the apartment, the alleged roommate was staying uptown with the alleged boyfriend. In the long, still hours of the winter night, Rafe closed his eyes.

Ahead of us stands an ordinary yellow brick building, rather long, with a gabled roof. The only thing that sets it apart is a tall chimney, a smokestack, really, embedded in the stars. The smoke belching out of the top is red against the moonless black
sky. She puts her arms around me, rests her head on my shoulder. Reflected in her eyes, I can see the chimney, the smoke, the stars. Holding his precious little body close, dressed in the warm coat I bought for him, I fall out of line.

He threw the covers off and got out of bed. Pulling on his coat, he came to look at Tessa one more time before grabbing his hat and stalking back out into the cold February night.

5

T
he students were all well along in their thesis projects by now. Harker had several finished portraits glowering on his wall, denizens of the East Village, calling to mind Toulouse-Lautrec’s
fin-de-siècle
singers, dancers and prostitutes. Gracie’s column of women had acquired a silvery coating of underpaint; even at this early stage, it had a lazy, sensual feel to it. David’s
nature morte
had an otherworldly stillness to it, the light filtering tenderly over objects he had found in the streets of New York; a silk opera hat in a velvet-lined hatbox, a school clock from the 1930s, a brass watering can, a dressmaker’s dummy, an old Barbie doll. Graham was almost finished with St. Sebastian, his beautifully articulated body pierced through with arrows, his eyes lifted heavenward, suffering sexily. Shaded in black, Portia’s paintings of children had an eerie, Diane Arbus-like quality to them; the Balthus book Rafe loaned her was exactly the inspiration she needed.

Clayton’s centaur was gorgeous. Other students, even teachers, would stop by to ooh and ahh over the anatomy and the musculature. The mythical creature, half-man, half-horse, stood on three legs, the right foreleg raised and curled close to the chest. The human half of the torso rocked back, the hands fumbling at an arrow embedded deep in its clay breast.

It was nearly complete, breathtaking, filled with pathos, or it would have been, had it possessed a head. Originally, Clayton had used himself as a model. The following morning he had come in to find a doobie clenched between its gray teeth. Daily, he would come in to find it had sprouted wings, flippers, a martini glass, a jet pack, an enormous phallus, fangs.

Since then, he had tried David’s head, Ben’s head, the dual heads of the Olsen twins. In a fit of frustration, he had sculpted the head of the
custodian’s cat and grafted it onto the torso, and this was how it remained. Harvey was after him to hurry up and choose so that he could go on and cast it in plaster already.

Tessa stood before a large white canvas, gazing at the drawing she had made. Following Levon’s suggestions, she had come in tighter on the figures, cropping the mother at the knee for a three-quarters view. She had also scrapped the clothing from the Forties, deciding instead to leave them nude. The changes had certainly helped, dramatically increasing the emotional impact of the image. Still, something just wasn’t right.

She put her pencil down and rubbed her eyes. Working at the magazine was more consuming than she had thought it would be. And last night, Anastasia had taken the whole staff out to a private screening of a new movie, then to dinner at 150 Wooster, where there had been drinks, a meal, coffee, fancy desserts, more drinks. She had fallen into bed after two. It was only noon, but she was already exhausted.

When someone knocked outside her door, her heart fluttered. Perhaps it was Rafe. But it was only Levon, there for her advisory meeting. He came to stand behind her, filling up the space with his big ex-athlete’s body, viewing her progress.

Since the end of Intersession, her paintings had acquired a new depth, greater clarity and richness. He was startled by the speed of her progress. She had begun as a good painter. She was becoming a great artist.

“That’s right,” he said approvingly. “That’s what I’m talking about. Look at how the whole thing just snaps into focus now.”

“It still isn’t right. Something’s missing…I don’t know.” She yawned, stretched. “Sorry. Late night.”

“Have you started on your other canvases yet?”

Guiltily, she shook her head. “Work is taking a lot out of me,” she confessed.

“You’ve got to get your priorities straight,” he said, admonishing her. “You have the whole rest of your life to work. You’d better get a jump on this if you’re going to finish all three canvases in time for the show.”

Rafe had said the same thing. She nodded her assent. He didn’t even mention that she was jeopardizing her chance for the coveted Prix de Paris. Probably, he didn’t think she had a shot.

Levon shoved his hands deep into his pockets, gazed up at Gracie’s tapestry of female figures.

“Got a minute?” he said.

Touched by a sense of foreboding, she perched lightly on the edge of the velvet couch. Removing his golf cap, Levon passed his hand over his shining head. Turned around. Looked at her earnestly. Burst into laughter.

“I can’t talk to you seriously when you’re sitting on that whorehouse sofa,” he said.

“This is going to be about Rafe, isn’t it,” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

She was looking at him warily, like a tiger in a cage at the zoo. “I won’t give him up,” she said, quiet but resolute. “I need him, Levon.”

He sat down at the edge of her swivel chair, leaned forward. “I’ve been working for Raphael Sinclair for four years, now. In that time, I have seen his name connected with at least a dozen gorgeous, accomplished women. Now, I like Rafe. I like him a lot. I consider him a friend. But tell me, Tessa. How is this not going to be Lucian Swain, all over again?”

Her eyes turned a malevolent, crackling black. Levon was startled backwards into his seat. He’d never seen her express that kind of intensity of emotion, didn’t known she was capable of it. She seemed so sweet, so suggestible, so
nice.

“There are things you don’t know,” she said.

Levon sighed. “Look, Tessa. Rafe was nearly thrown off the board a couple of weeks ago. Did he tell you that?”

The shock in her eyes told him he hadn’t. “Why?”

“Turner told them that the two of you have been having an affair.”

She sat quietly for a moment, absorbing the seriousness of the situation. “We haven’t. I mean, we don’t…we, uh…” She lapsed into silence.

“There’s going to be a vote,” he said. “On the future of this school. Whether it stays classical or goes modern. Or whether it ceases to exist, altogether.” He leaned forward. “The board members love Rafe. Every time he opens his mouth, every time he bats his pretty eyelashes at them, they fall in love with the idea of a classical art school all over again.

“But Rafe hasn’t been around much lately. So I’m asking for your cooperation. Matter of fact, I need you to be seen around town with
someone else, to throw Turner and his minions off the scent. David, maybe. He already has the hots for you.”

The quirky eyebrows drew together, the dark eyes marked and measured. She turned away from him, towards the window, surveying the water tanks and rooftops of the East Village. There was a look on her face that was too wise for her years, as old as the forests, as old as time. Levon watched the play of love and loyalty chasing each other across her face. It was no wonder Rafe wouldn’t give her up; if she were his, he wouldn’t give her up, either.

“Look, Tessa,” he went on, his deep voice compassionate. “I know you’ve had a rough year. And I’m glad you’ve found yourself this little patch of happiness, even though I’m worried about how it’s all going to end. I’m not saying forever. Just till graduation. What is that, three and a half months away? Three and a half months to save the school.”

He gripped her shoulder as he got to his feet, and she was struck by the odd sensation that it was more for his support than for her comfort. He paused at the door. “Look at the bright side,” he said affably. “Think of what all that frustrated sexual energy will do for your paintings.”

Tessa pressed her cheek against the cool surface of the table, folded her arms over her head. She wondered how she would begin each morning without the promise that Rafe was her reward at the end of the day, how she would pick up a brush without the shivery certainty that each stroke was for him.

The hairs on the back of her neck prickled to attention. She lifted her head to find Rafe watching her, his strange eyes full of sorrow. “How long have you been here?” she asked miserably.

“Long enough,” he said.

“So you heard?”

He nodded, came slowly forward. Put a hand out to touch her, jerked it back, buried both hands in his pockets. “This is all my fault,” he muttered. “If I had been more careful. If I hadn’t missed all those bloody meetings. This never would happened.”