The Sitter Read online

  Jeannie was pleased for him, he knew, but also chagrined that she had been unable to develop a more satisfying approach to her own work.

  He was relieved when she became pregnant with Stevie and her focus changed. Though she didn't put it in so many words, he felt she was relieved as well. She was very happy in her new role as mother-to-be.

  But that was a long time ago. Lately she seemed to view his work with uncharacteristic bitterness. Since the loss of Stevie, she viewed every aspect of their lives with bitterness. He couldn't really blame her. The death of their child...it was too much to bear.

  He heard the doorbell and from the flutter of nerves in his belly, he realized he was apprehensive. Steven couldn't remember the last time he had felt unsure of his work's reception in the eyes of a client. He was irritated with himself for this unexpected lapse in confidence, because he knew this portrait was good. Not Fine Art...no. But it was every bit the caliber his public had come to expect, and what they paid him well for. He certainly didn't need validation by his wife.

  He strode to the doorway and called down to Jeannie, “Get the door, Babe, and show the Gants up. And,” he added, “would you bring us some coffee up here please?”

  She didn't answer. Steven started down just as she appeared at the foot of the stairs. Hands on her hips, she stared up at him.

  “What?” he asked, arms lifted in a shrug. “That's not too much to ask, is it?” She looked like a little girl about to cry and he softened his tone. “You haven't met these people, Jeannie. You might even enjoy them.” Shaking her head--in anger or grief; he couldn't tell which--Jeannie turned away and went to greet the Gants.

  Steven saw he needn't have been concerned. Alicia and Joel Gant seemed genuinely pleased with his work. Admittedly Alicia more so than Joel, but the mother was always the significant client. With their coffees, the four of them stood in front of the easel, gazing at the painting. It was a good moment, the best he'd had in a long time. Steven was proud of the portrait and its favorable reception.

  “Exquisite, Steven, really. I am so very pleased!” Alicia exclaimed. “Aren't you Joel?”

  Alicia Gant was a gusher, her conversation punctuated by thrilled little breaths and cries of pleasure. She was a pretty woman--blonde like her daughters. This morning she was well turned out in an expensive looking crème-colored pants suit and a teal blue blouse. Gold glittered at her throat, ears and wrists.

  Standing next to Alicia, Jeannie was a pallid wraith, mute and serious. So fragile, Steven thought, with her too pale skin and her fair hair somewhat mussed.

  “Very nice indeed.” Joel answered. This was the first time Steven had met Joel Gant. He knew from Alicia that her husband worked for the Los Angeles Police Department as a psychologist, and did trial work as an expert witness. Apparently he was very successful at this, as the Gants lived in Cedar Valley, one of the most luxurious areas around. Those who commuted from Cedar Valley to Los Angeles did not punch time clocks.

  “What do you think, Mrs. Connor?” Joel asked.

  “Please, call me Jeannie.” She answered, and then appeared to study the portrait.

  “My wife is an artist as well,” Steven murmured, vaguely uneasy as he waited for Jeannie to say something. “She's very talented; she used to--”

  “I haven't met your daughters of course,” Jeannie said, “but likeness judgments aside, I think the overall effect is quite pleasing.”

  “But, you've seen their photos, surely,” Alicia interjected, brows raised, her cool gray-green eyes on Jeannie.

  “Yes, I have.”

  Silence.

  “My wife...” Steven began, hoping to God he wouldn't have to go into that whole tired business about how Jeannie didn't entirely approve of his use of photos. At least not as extensively--

  “Photographs are invaluable, of course...as reference material,” Jeannie stated. “The shape of an eye, the curve of the nose, that sort of thing. I think it was helpful though to see the girls in person as Steven did during his work.”

  He hoped she wouldn't mention that he had only seen the girls, in the flesh, so to speak, two times.

  “Steven is very good at bringing genuine life to a portrait,” Jeannie went on. “Which is why you two,” she turned her bright smile on Alicia, and then on Joel, “are so delighted with the result.”

  “Indeed,” Joel said, smiling down at Jeannie. He was a tall man, Steven saw, well over six feet.

  “Yes...I see what you mean,” Alicia said, her tone belying her words. Steven thought she was probably somewhat confused because he had relied more on photos than actually viewing her daughters.

  “What's left to do?” Joel asked. “It looks finished to me.”

  “Very little,” Steven answered, relieved to be on more comfortable footing. “Some general clean up and sharpening and then I'll take it to the framers.”

  “Wonderful,” Alicia breathed, her hands clasped to her bosom. She gazed at Steven as if he were another Michelangelo.

  “Well...” said Joel, looking at his watch. “I've got to go. I'm expected in Santa Monica by noon today.” He extended his hand to Steven. “Fine job, Steven--we're very happy.”

  “Thank you.” Steven shook his hand. The man had bright, icy blue eyes, he noticed, set off well by his tan.

  Moving to Jeannie, Joel took her hand. “It's been a real pleasure, meeting the two of you and seeing your husband's work.”

  Jeannie said nothing; she appeared distracted.

  Alicia made no move to go and Steven realized they must have come in two cars. “Jeannie, would you mind showing Joel out?”

  “Of course.” Jeannie murmured a goodbye to Alicia, and she and Joel left the room.

  “So,” Steven began. He was unsure why Alicia remained. “Is there anything you want to add?”

  “Yes, there is something.” She set her coffee cup down on a nearby stool. “Steven,” she spoke in a low, warm voice, and began to approach him, her arms outstretched. Steven had the definite impression that she was going to gather him into those arms--she was going to embrace him. Steven had been hugged by many grateful mothers and one or two might have been offering more than a hug. But Alicia lowered one arm and merely placed a cool hand on his arm. “I want you to make an exception. For me.”

  “What?” Her fingers lingered on his arm. He had no idea what she was talking about, but she surely did have his attention.

  “Do me, Steven.”

  He frowned. What the hell...

  “Do my portrait,” she said--almost a command--her hand now tightening on his arm with an unyielding pressure. “I know you're an accomplished painter of children, everyone knows that. I also know you have great potential in adult portraiture. Great potential. Think of it, Steven.” She moved closer, so close he felt her warm breath at his neck. “I would be the first--the first subject in your new career.”

  This was a new one. Steven set his cup down on the floor, thereby breaking her tenacious grip. Giving her what he hoped was a winning smile, he took her shoulders firmly into his hands. “I'm pleased you...would trust me with such a venture, Alicia. My place, though, is with children.” Her scent was light, flowery. He squeezed her shoulders slightly. “I have to stick with what I know--what I do best.”

  She looked at him, her smile fading, her hazel eyes growing darker. “Of course,” she said. Steven dropped his hands from her shoulders, wondering if he had offended her. But she moved in closer to him, stood on tip toes and brushed his chin with her lips. “I had to ask. And, if you should change your mind...

  “Now,” she said, smiling brightly, “tell me how you think this portrait should be framed.”

  *****

  I am not meant to play the role of devoted helpmate, I decide as Joel follows me down the steps. Since Stevie I have been unable to produce any enthusiasm for my husband's work or his clients or, to be brutally honest, much of anything.

  I think Alicia Gant was flirting with Steven--or is that all in my head? D
o I see anything in a realistic light these days? I know I've been cold to Steven lately. No sex, no warmth of any kind since Stevie. I must address that...

  “I'm very sorry for your loss,” Joel says, as we approach the front door. “Alicia told me about your son.”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

  “Do you know anything about how it happened?” His tone is that of a man inquiring about nothing more threatening than the weather, but his question quite literally takes my breath away. I gasp.

  “I'm so sorry,” Joel murmurs behind me. “Thoughtless of me.”

  Embarrassed, I shake my head. “No problem. I'm fine, really.”

  “It's my work,” he explains with a slight smile. “I do apologize.”

  “Your work?” I open the door and begin to walk with him to his car. In the sunny outdoor light his eyes are a very bright blue.

  “Yes, I work with the police sometimes. With deaths. Accidental and...otherwise”

  “Oh, yes. Steven has mentioned that to me. You do psychological work...?”

  “Profiles, studies--whatever. My professional curiosity got the better of me, I guess. You probably know more about the accident than you want to.”

  With a painful flash of clarity, I realize I know very little about Stevie's death. I am the boy's mother, and I know next to nothing about what actually happened that day.

  “I...don't really know,” I say. I can't meet Joel's eyes. “The details I mean. I know Stevie and his sitter were fishing and he fell into the water. And he ...drowned.”

  “Ah, well,” Joel mutters and I know he's probably very sorry he's asked the question. “Sometimes details help.”

  I'm silent as I look up at him.

  “To bring closure. Knowing all you can sometimes helps to end the pain--at least some of it. So you can move on.”

  What he says makes perfect sense. I am amazed the simple concept of some sort of closure has not occurred to me well before this. “Of course. I was so upset I kind of checked out. I left everything to Steven.”

  “Naturally.” He opens the door to his car.

  “I'll ask Steven more about it,” I say. “And there's Larry Cutler, the sitter. I don't want to talk with him, but I realize now I have to. I'm sorry I reacted so to your question. I'm much too fragile these days.”

  He smiles at me as he slides into the driver's seat. It is a crooked smile, a knowing one as if we share an amusing secret. “That's only natural.” He reaches into an inside pocket of his jacket and pulls out a business card. “Here,” he says. “If you need to talk or...anything. I'd like to help.”

  There are fine white lines at the corners of his eyes, I notice. And he has thick hair, a coarse looking salt and pepper gray. I take his card, smiling my thanks.

  “Kevin's a charmer, you know?” Bertie McQueen says fondly. We are on the McQueen's patio having some iced tea. Though it is after six, the heat of the day is just now beginning to fade. Kevin is playing with the McQueen's dog, Louie, a mutt Leo picked up at the pound about two years ago. He is a big dog with a tawny brindle coat and looks to be some sort of Boxer mix--maybe a little Pit Bull thrown in. Kevin and Louie are out on the grass having a rousing game of 'Where's the tennis ball?' It is one of their favorites, but is difficult for me to watch because with Stevie it had been a three-handed game.

  “That dog,” Bertie says, shaking her head. “See all those mounds of dirt out there on the lawn? Louie is hot on the trail of a gopher. So far, my money's on the gopher.” She takes a swallow of tea. “So, how is he doing?” She keeps her voice low so Kevin can't hear.

  “Not great. He doesn't cry as much, but he's too quiet. Steven thinks he needs more pre-school.” Yeah, sure. What Steven really thinks is that he needs Larry Cutler back in his life.

  Bertie nods. “That might not be a bad idea,” she says. A big Scandinavian with dishwater blonde hair and lots of freckles, she has about her an air of hearty confidence. I don't think there's anything this woman cannot handle.

  Bertie finishes her drink. “I'm going to have another glass. May I get you one now?”

  “Sure, why not.” I watch Kevin roll Louie around on the grass. Soon he's on his back spread-eagle while Louie licks his face. It is all I can do to stay at the table. I know I'm driving the boy crazy with my hovering, but I can't seem to keep my hands off him.

  Bertie returns with two glasses of tea and sits down.

  “I don't know anything about the accident, Bertie. Do you realize that?” She stares at me. “None of the details. I don't know the details of how it happened. I was so unstrung, I left everything to Steven.”

  “Do you think it's necessary to know every little thing?”

  “Probably not. But I think...I think I owe it to him. To Stevie, I mean.”

  “Delving into exactly how your son died may be a very upsetting thing for you to do.” Those eyes again, impaling me with logic.

  “No doubt.”

  “I understand though, that you need to know more. What does Steven know about it?”

  “Good question.”

  “You haven't asked him?”

  “No. As you say, it's an upsetting topic. And, I haven't talked with Larry Cutler either.”

  As we talk, I watch Kevin and Louie on the grass. Louie is on his back now, and Kevin is leaning over him searching patiently for fleas.

  “Poor-Larry-Cutler,” Bertie says. “I'm so sick of everybody feeling sorry for that bastard!” She smacks a hand down on the table.

  I am amazed at her outburst. And pleased. I love and respect Bertie McQueen, and to have her actually agree with me about Larry...well, it is wonderful. I feel vindicated, as if all the feelings I have toward Larry Cutler are now justified. Suddenly it's all right to hate Larry. Hell, it's practically required!

  “There's something off about him,” Bertie goes on, oblivious to my reaction. “He's too handsome, you know? Not quite real.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I say. I love to talk with Bertie. We can say the most outrageous things to each other. We call it therapeutic venting. “Steven still wants Kevin to spend some time with Larry. He thinks it would help Kevin.” I shake my head in frustration.

  “I hope you set him straight. Something like, 'fat chance Steven my love!”

  I smile, nodding. But I'm losing it. I'm always losing it. “I hate Larry Cutler,” I say, and the tears that are always hovering fill my eyes..

  “Oh, Jeannie-honey,” Bertie cries. She gets up and comes around the table to me. Hearing Bertie, Kevin scrambles to his feet and comes running over to us with Louie at his heels. He's frowning and his lower lip is pushed out, trembling.

  “Mommy?”

  “Oh swell, now I've made Kevin cry,” Bertie says, and takes his hand.

  “It's all right, Sweetie.” I say, drawing him close. “Mommy just...well, sometimes she gets upset.” Kevin's face crumples into tears. I pull him close as the three of us hug each other. I know he's far too fragile these days. Maybe he should see a psychologist. A grief counselor of some sort? Maybe I should see someone as well.

  Louie noses his way into the group and tries to lick Kevin's cheeks.

  “Louie loves you too, Honey--see?” Bertie says, patting Kevin with one hand and Louie with the other.

  A moment or two of tearful togetherness passes, and I gather up a calming Kevin and say my goodbyes to Bertie.

  “We'll play tennis next week,” Bertie states. “Wednesday morning.”

  “Oh Bertie, I don't think--”

  “I guess you didn't hear me, Jeannie-Luv...Wednesday morning--nine o'clock sharp.”

  It is senseless to argue with Bertie McQueen so I say okay. I take Kevin's hand and we jog the block and a half home.

  After dinner I ask Steven to have coffee with me and perhaps a brandy. He accepts so eagerly, I realize how little I've offered him lately. We bathe Kevin and tuck him into his Lion King sleeping bag in his little Lion King tent. Steven agrees to read him a story and lies down hal
f in and half out of the tent, while I make us each a mug of French roast with our new espresso machine.

  Story finished, we sit in the kitchen at the small oak table. The windows near the range are open and there is a nice breeze coming through the room. I pour a little Courvoisier into our coffees.

  “How do you think it went this morning?” I ask. “They seemed to really like the portrait.”

  “Yeah, Alicia's crazy about it. And Joel too, I think.” He takes a sip of the coffee and smiles. “Nice,” he says. “I had a little problem talking Alicia out of the frame she said she wanted.” He starts to laugh. “She wanted one of those gilded jobs, you know? So heavy and ornate.”

  I smile.

  “I convinced her that type of frame would detract from the girls. I told her I thought what would be best for her daughters would be something simple and clean, something light. We're meeting at the framers tomorrow.” I'm silent. He reaches across the table and puts his hand on mine.

  “I was wondering...” I begin, “what do you remember about the accident?”

  He frowns. “I'm trying to forget it.”

  “Please. I need to know.”

  “You know what I was thinking today?” He pulls his hand back and begins to jiggle his foot up and down. I have never seen him do that before. He has always been a calm, controlled man. “God help me,” he mutters.

  “What?”

  He rubs his forehead. I notice that I'm seeing more of his forehead than I used to. How long has it been since I've really looked at this man?

  “I was thinking...how angry I am...at Stevie,” he says.

  I watch his jaw working, clenching, then relaxing, over and over.

  “So senseless. All he had to do was be careful. He just had to watch where he was standing, you know?”