Heart Song (4 page)

Cary knew a great deal about ship building from studying the historical models he had completed. There were Egyptian, Greek, and Roman models, even Chinese junks. He had clipper ships and battle ships, steamships, tankers, and luxury liners, including a replica of the Titanic. His newest model was a nuclear submarine.
"Look," he said drawing me closer. Carefully, like a surgeon operating on a human heart, he snapped off one side of the submarine and showed me the interior. I couldn't believe the details, even down to tiny lights.
"It's beautiful, Cary. All of your work is tremendous. I wish you would let more people see it."
"I don't do it for people. I do it for myself," he said sharply. "It's almost like . . . like why Kenneth painted those portraits of your mother."
The smile left my face and I thought again about Kenneth's proposal for me to become his model. I wondered if I could confide in Cary, or if he would get so upset about it, he would do something to stop me. In my mind I still saw the whole thing as Kenneth's way to reveal his deep secrets and perhaps bring me truly home. I wasn't willing to risk losing that just yet. The other thoughts, of me being like my mother and posing just like a model in a sleazy magazine, I pushed to the back of my mind.
"A real artist like Kenneth doesn't look at someone the same way," I offered, but turned as I spoke so I could gaze out the small window toward the ocean in the distance. The moonlight cut a pathway over the silvery surface. "He sees something else."
"What?" Cary pursued.
"He sees beauty; he sees deep meaning."
"That's hogwash. A man sees one thing when he looks at a naked woman."
"Cary Logan, that's not true!" I snapped, turning sharply on him. "Does a doctor see one thing when he looks at a woman patient?"
"Well no, I guess not," he admitted.
"Then it all depends on his purpose for looking, doesn't it?" I asked sharply, not knowing whom I needed to convince more, Cary or myself.
Cary shook his head.
"I'm sorry, Melody. I can't imagine looking at you with your clothes off and thinking about anything else but you. My hand would shake so much, the paintbrush would go all over the page," he added smiling. The way he looked at me made me blush all over. It was as if I were really naked and standing in front of him.
"That's because you're not an artist," I insisted. "They have more control of themselves."
"I guess so," he said. Then he laughed. "I don't think I'd want to be an artist if that's what happens to them."
I stamped my foot in frustration.
"You're just like any other boy, Cary Logan." I started toward the door, but he reached out and grabbed my wrist.
"Whoa. Set anchor for a minute, will ya. I'm just teasing you a little. I thought you believed we were all too serious in this house. Didn't you tell me that once?"
I hesitated, the smoke I imagined coming out of my ears, disappearing.
"Yes, I did, and I still say it."
"So?"
"That doesn't mean you should tease me like that," I said. "Don't joke about anything when it comes to Kenneth. You of all people know how sensitive I am about it all."
"Okay." He let go of my wrist and raised his hand. "I promise."
I relaxed.
"I better get down to May."
"Okay. But you didn't tell me anything. What happened when he returned?"
"He was all excited," I said. "He had an idea for his block of marble."
"You mean he saw the shape in the stone finally?"
"Yes."
"What's the shape?"
"He calls it Neptune's daughter. I'll know more tomorrow and the day after. He's going to draw it first."
"Artists really are strange," Cary said shaking his head.
"You better stop saying things like that, Cary Logan. You're an artist, too. All this is creative," I said sweeping my hand toward the shelves of models.
"It's just something I do to take up time, but it's really what I'd like to do someday--build ships. I want to build custom sailboats for people. You know I'd rather do that than anything," he admitted.
"Did you do what I said? Did you tell your father?"
"Yeah." He dropped his gaze and turned away.
"He disapproves, of course," I concluded, "but did he see how much you wanted to do it?"
"We've been fishermen forever in this family. He has this religious belief in tradition."
"What you want to do still has to do with the sea, doesn't it?"
"It's not the same thing to him," he said.
"Well, it's not fair. It's not his life, it's yours. You've got to do what you want to do," I asserted.
Cary nodded, but smiled.
"Sure. Only one small thing. It takes money."
"Well, I'm getting a lot of money someday. You remember what Grandma Olivia told me about my inheritance. And when I get it, I'm giving you what you need to start your business."
"You are?"
"Yes," I said firmly. "Uncle Jacob will probably hate me a little more, if that's possible, but I don't care," I said. Cary beamed.
"For someone who has had such a hard time of it, you're the most generous, sweetest person, I know," he said as he stood up from his desk. Because of the size of the room, we were only inches apart. He took my hand in his.
"I'm glad you're not my uncle Chester's daughter, Melody. I'm glad you're only a distant cousin, at most. No one can condemn me for feeling more for you," he confessed. I saw that it took all his courage, but these were words that had been hanging between us for months now. I knew that having feelings for your cousin, even a distant one, was supposed to be wrong, but neither Cary nor I could hold back our hearts.
I didn't speak. Our eyes seemed incapable of moving away from each other's faces. Slowly, almost as slowly as the turning of the earth, our mouths moved toward each other until our lips grazed and then gently pressed together. His left hand moved to my shoulder and his right to my waist. My hands remained at my sides.
I was both surprised and a little frightened by the small bursts of heat I felt coursing through my body. It was as if warm massaging fingers moved under my clothing, tracing down between my breasts, over my stomach. He slipped his lips off mine and kissed my cheek as his right hand began to move up my side, over my ribs. I raised my hand quickly and caught his just as it touched my breast. We stood there, gazing into each other's eyes, neither moving, neither speaking, each feeling as if we had opened some door to a forbidden room. It was the moment when we would decide to go further or softly close the door again between us.
"I can't help myself," he simply admitted. Was I to say the same thing or was I to bear the
responsibility of stopping something that we both knew would bring more problems into this already unstable family? If I lifted my hand from his, I would be pulling him into that room. I wanted to, but I also wanted to be confident that it was right. My heart was thumping so hard, I thought I would lose my breath. His lips had tasted sweet and the warmth that trickled down my spine and through my body was a delightful feeling. Nothing about our kiss was unpleasant to me.
The moonlight reflecting off the ocean lit the world outside the small window. It was as if a giant candle had been lit on a birthday cake to celebrate this birth of love, if it truly was love. What was that special yes that followed the surge of excitement in your body? How did you know when the kiss that tingled was a greater kiss than any other? Where were the bells, the trumpets, the voices of angels that were supposed to sound when true love appeared?
These thoughts zipped through my mind with lightning speed. Meanwhile, Cary's courage grew. His kisses became more intense, firmer, and his other hand moved up to caress my shoulders. I felt my resistance soften as I kissed him back and let him turn my body neatly into his. He started to move me with him toward the sofa. What would happen? What would we do? I wanted to go along almost out of a curiosity about myself, to see what I was capable of wanting, of doing.
But just as we reached the side of the sofa and were about to lower ourselves to it, we heard May's cry at the bottom of the ladder.
Cary moaned his great disappointment and his body tightened with frustration.
May called again for me. She had gone into my room looking for me and then realized I was upstairs. We heard her start up the ladder. Quickly, we parted and I straightened my hair. There was no way I could quickly diminish the flush in my face, but I was sure May wouldn't understand. She poked her head through the attic doorway.
Cary quickly signed his anger. She looked confused, hurt.
"Don't Cary. I promised her I would play with her."
He turned away and took a deep breath. I put my hand on his shoulder and he looked at me.
"She's all alone much of the day, shut up in a soundless world. We're all she really has right now," I said.
He nodded, looking ashamed. Then he shook his head and lifted his eyes to me.
"You're just like Laura. You bring out the good in all of us," he said.
I know he meant it to be a big compliment, but it left me cold. When would he stop comparing me to his dead twin sister? Did he have these feelings for her as well? Did everyone see me as someone else? Was that to be my fate? Kenneth saw me as some mythical goddess, Aunt Sara saw me as her lost daughter, and even May must have seen some of Laura in me to have brought me those drawings earlier. Perhaps I wouldn't be able to be my own person until I found out who my real father was and everyone knew where I had come from and to whom I really belonged.
All the threads of lies I had started to unravel had to lead me to the threads of truth.
Instead of shouting out that I did not want to be like Laura, I kept my anguish inside and signed to May that I would follow her down the ladder. When I looked up as I reached the bottom, I saw Cary gazing down at me. The disappointment that lingered in his eyes made him look as distant and as forbidden as love itself is for one still searching for her own name.
Kenneth's excitement over his new artistic vision hadn't diminished one bit by the time he arrived to pick me up the next morning. Even Ulysses seemed to be affected by the change in Kenneth's mood and demeanor. He was more energetic; his tail wagged like a windshield wiper in a rain storm and he barked as soon as I appeared in the doorway. I laughed and hurried to the jeep. Almost before I closed the door, Kenneth put the vehicle in gear and whipped it around to accelerate and head back to the studio.
"I couldn't sleep last night," he said. He didn't look fatigued or drowsy to me, however. "I got up twice and went into the studio to look at the block. That statue wants to burst out of there. An artist literally frees the art, releases it into the world. It's chained to darkness by the ignorance and blindness of people. The artist comes like someone carrying a candle in the night and peels away the shadows."
He paused and looked at me.
"You think I'm babbling away, don't you?"
"No," I said quickly. Actually, I was afraid he would stop. The exhilaration in his voice was contagious.
He was quiet a moment as he drove. Then he nodded.
"Maybe you can understand."
"My mother wasn't artistic," I said. "Was she?" He smiled at me.
"Well, in her own way, maybe. Haille always liked beautiful things. I used to tease her and say beauty's only skin deep, and she would reply, so who wants to go deeper?" He laughed. "Maybe she was right." He turned onto the dune road.
"Did you spend a lot of time with her?"
"Not a lot. Some," he replied. Then, as if he realized he was telling me things that might lead to more questions, he stiffened. "What would you say to working on Saturday, too?"
"I can't this Saturday. I've been invited to Grandma Olivia's for lunch."
"Oh?" He shook his head. "And no one refuses an invitation from Olivia Logan," he added.
"Why should I refuse?"
"You shouldn't if you want to go. Well, maybe the following Saturday. Just like any other employee anywhere, you'll get time and a half for coming," he said as we came to a stop by his house.
"If I come it's not for the money," I said firmly. I felt my eyelids narrow into slits of anger and he saw it, too. It brought a smile to his face.
"You're more like your mother than you know," he said.
"How come you know so much about her if you only spent some time with her?" I countered.
"It's not how long you're with someone, it's the quality of the time," he replied. "Come on, let's get started."
He reached back for the daily groceries he had purchased before picking me up and I followed him to the house. The kitchen was a mess from breakfast, but he wanted to get started on our project right away. After he put away the groceries we went directly to the studio, where he had an easel set up across from the block of marble and a large artist's pad open on it.
"I want to play around with some lines for a while this morning, sort of experiment with shapes, sizes, relationships. All you have to do is stand there as quietly and as still as you can," he added, pointing to the marble.
"Just stand?"
"Stand. I'll give you instructions as we go along."
Ulysses folded his body at Kenneth's feet as I positioned myself in front of the marble. I felt a little silly just staring back at him as he stared at me. My stomach was nervous, too. It made me self-conscious to have him look at me so intently, and for so long, and we'd only just begun. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other and waited.
"Look off to the left. Good. Now lift your chin just a little. A little more. Good. No, don't fold your arms.
Just try to stand with them down at your sides for a while. Okay," he said and worked his pencil quickly over the page. In no time at all my neck began to feel stiff.
"You're not relaxing," Kenneth said. "If you don't relax, you'll get tired faster and need more breaks. But don't worry," he added quickly. "In time you'll get used to it and you'll ease up."
"Do you work with models often?" I asked. He didn't reply for a while.
"Very rarely," he finally said. "Usually, if I need a face or a figure, I take a mental picture and commit it to memory."
"Then why can't you do the same now?"
"This is different. This is very special, and I told you," he said, not without a note of impatience, "the work requires a sense of transition, movement, change. I'm trying to capture a metamorphosis."
"Have you ever done anything like this before?"
"You'll have to stop asking me questions," he said. "You're breaking my concentration."
I pressed my lips together and closed my eyes.
"Don't close your eyes," he said immediately. I opened them a bit wider than usual and he groaned with impatience. "Relax. Please. Try to relax."