The Color of Light (40 page)

She put her tongue to it, then her mouth. Sucked lightly.

Unexpectedly, he gasped, shuddered, cried out her name, clasped her to him.

A great swell of emotions welled up, broke over her, penetrating her through and through. With some deeper feminine instinct, she knew. This was not the grasp of a lover, but the clutch of a drowning man.

In one of those moments of perfect clarity that comes along perhaps once or twice in a life, she suddenly understood that she would give herself to him completely; love him, fight for him, cling to him, protect him with her life, if that was what it took.

“I love you,” she breathed in his ear.

He stopped, gripped her face in his hands, stared into her eyes. Immediately, she wished she could take it back. Portia had tried to warn her. This was Raphael Sinclair, wealthy bachelor, man-about-town, notorious cocksman. How many Lucians would there have to be before she learned her lesson?

“Oh, thank God,” he said. “At last. Thank God.”

On the last Thursday afternoon in January, Rafe received a disturbing phone call from Giselle, demanding to know why he had missed the party at the International Center for Photography the previous evening. The truth was, he had blown it off in favor of a nighttime visit to Tessa’s studio.

Giselle went on to mention that April would continue as a painting instructor in the coming semester, and that Turner was about to hire one of her friends to fill an empty drawing instructor slot. When he tried to question her further, she suggested that he try coming to the meetings.

Janina, who couldn’t help but hear the tone of Giselle’s voice as she lay next to him in bed, silently mimed.
Tsk tsk tsk.

That evening, as the sun set in her window, and Tessa put the finishing touches on her dream painting, the curtain was shouldered aside, and David Atwood stood there.

Over the past month, she had forgotten how good-looking he was. He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled casually forward.

“Nice,” he said, looking at the canvas on her easel. “Look at those tones. This is different for you.”

She warmed to him, happy for the praise. She put her brush to the canvas, whittling the edge of a shadow. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be having one last glorious weekend together before Sara goes back upstate.”

“She went back early,” he said. He came closer, stopping just a short distance away from her. Close enough for her to see him breathing, to smell his aftershave, close enough for her to admire the clear china blue of his eyes. “Tess,” he said. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Tessa never heard the conclusion of what was actually the opening volley of a carefully prepared speech, because at that moment, the curtain moved aside again, and Raphael Sinclair stood there.

He looked at her, and she at him, and instantly, David Atwood knew exactly what else Tessa had been up to during Intersession, and his mouth dropped open in shock.

“Excuse me,” said the founder of the school, and vanished through the curtain. It swished soundlessly closed behind him.

She turned to him and smiled, but now every nerve in her body was humming, he could feel the heat, standing a foot away from her in the confines of the studio. He could see it slowly come to her, the meaning of his words, and as the heat around her faded to a faint warm glow, he thought she had never been lovelier or more desirable.

“Oh, no,” he said earnestly. “Not him.”

“What do you mean?” she said, but he could tell she knew exactly what he meant, and she found a reason to break eye contact, putting one final streak of paint to a lock of hair falling over the older daughter’s forehead.

“So…I guess it’s over with Lucian Swain. You don’t still work for him, do you?”

She laughed. “No. Know anybody who needs an assistant?”

“Tess,” he said again, then fell silent. She focused on his hands, nice hands, his skin a deeper shade of ochre, the nails square and neat. Hands capable of creating subtle tones of color richer than in real life. She herself
would never be able to mix color like that, it was a gift, like a photographic memory, or an intrinsic ability with math. She should have met him years ago, she thought, before Lucian. Life was funny like that.

They chatted for a few more moments, about this and that, the news, the weather, the progress of her thesis project, and then, tactfully, he was bowing himself out.

At the curtain, he hesitated, half-turned to her. “I really think we could have something,” he said quietly. “Whatever happens. I want you to know. I’m there for you.”

In the darkened studio next to hers, with the curtains drawn, Rafe listened to the entire conversation. He could find no flaw in Tessa’s responses or in her behavior, yet he felt an underlying unease.

Later that night, as he fed from a barely-conscious club kid of indeterminate gender before heading over to her apartment, he realized what had made him uneasy. David Atwood was a good man and a good painter. And he, Raphael Sinclair, was a blood-sucking vampire.

Alone in his office, Turner cursed. Luckily, it was too late to do anything about April—she had already signed a contract
—
but Raphael Sinclair had just stopped in to chew him out, icily informing him that he would not be rubber-stamping the hire of the new drawing teacher, an emerging artist April had suggested. Her contract sat in front of him now, awaiting only her signature. True, she worked in photo collage, but she had an MFA from SVA, she was equipped to teach Life Drawing 101, for God’s sake. He sat at his desk and fumed. He had been hoping that Rafe would be too busy sneaking around with his hot little art student to notice the hire of a new teacher. He reached for the black office phone, dialed Blesser’s extension.

“Hiring her would be a step in the right direction,” Bernard agreed cautiously. “I hate to be the one to say this, but…is there any way around him?”

Arletta, the front office secretary, swept through, dropped a pile of old-fashioned computer printout paper, the kind that was connected by perforated folds, into his inbox. “Grades are in,” she called back over her shoulder as she hurried out.

Whit lifted the heavy sheaf of paper, set it in front of him. Flipped through the pages. Stopped somewhere in the middle, ran his index finger across the page. Tapped a letter in the third column. Smiled.

Rafe strode up Sixteenth Street towards Tessa’s apartment, letting the anticipation of the evening ahead slowly overtake him. One by one, the muscles in his lower belly tensed or tightened as he thought of certain places on her body; the small dip above her clavicle; the color of her skin, pink and cream, like the edges of rose petals; the valley of her spine where it deepened and disappeared under the waistband of her jeans; the place between the cups of her breasts when she wore a particular black lace bra. The white of her neck when he pushed away her hair.

It was not yet dark. He could have rung her doorbell, but he preferred the familiar intimacy of knocking on her window. In his jacket pocket was a plane ticket, the redeye to Italy. Late in the afternoon, he had received a call that there was an instructor at the Accademia di San Luca who could draw like Da Vinci. He doubted anything would come of it, but he felt duty bound to chase down every lead. He wished he’d had the forethought to buy a ticket for Tessa; he would have liked to show her Rome, the Sistine Chapel, the ruins of the Forum, the Colosseum, the Arch of Titus. Another leap of the muscles in his belly.
Someday.

The sun was not yet down, she buzzed him in. He swept through the doors, ignoring the mirrors in the entryway, made the turn to her apartment.

He could smell her cooking before he reached her door; fresh bread, ginger, olives, saffron, chicken. Oh, the things she could make. A pity he could not taste them, but he could still find pleasure in the way they perfumed the air.

She was on the phone when he came in. She had already showered, he could see; her wet hair hung heavily down her back, staining the orchid jalabiya a darker purple. She turned to face him, and now he was jolted out of his happy reverie. Her eyes were dark and stricken, something was up. Probably the grandfather. The old man must have died. He looked at her sympathetically. After the call, she would run to him, he would hold her.
Whatever this is, we can get through it.

She was nodding, nodding, funny, because the person on the other end of the line couldn’t hear her response. Her eyes fastened on him, wide and wild, as if she wanted to remember him this way forever. Finally she said her goodbyes, put down the phone, and then she was his. He waited expectantly.

The phone call came at six, as she was toweling off after her shower. Frowning, she pulled on her robe and ran to answer it, wondering who would be calling her this late on a Friday, so close to Shabbos.

Usher’s voice on the other end of the line sounded tight. There was an unfamiliar note to it, suppressed rage. She braced herself for what would surely be bad news.

“It’s Zaydie,” he said.

“Is he…” she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.

“He’s fine,” Usher said shortly. “He was really shaken by the heart attack. Apparently, he and Bubbie have been talking it over, that’s what he said, anyway, and they decided to give their jewelry away to their children. They don’t want to wait until after they’re gone. They want to see the family enjoy their gifts.”

“Very big of Zaydie to give away Bubbie’s jewelry.”

“Let me finish. Eva gets Bubbie’s diamond engagement ring. Bernie gets a gold watch. Auntie Barbara gets Bubbie’s diamond wedding ring. Allen gets the other gold watch. Cilla gets a pearl necklace. Suri gets a diamond broach. Rifkie gets emerald earrings. And
Dad,
gets
nothing.”

Tessa was stunned. “Nothing?”

“Nada.”

“What did he say?”

“You know Dad. He’d never say anything that might upset his beloved Pa. A week goes by, maybe two. He invites Zaydie over for a Shabbos lunch. Finally, he comes around to asking him why. And you know what he says?”

At that moment, there was a rap at the window. Rafe, in all likelihood. She buzzed him in.

“He says,
‘Because of your Tessa.’”

She put her hands flat on the table to steady herself. Her head was swimming, she found she couldn’t breathe. There was a small click at the door as Rafe let himself in.

Rapidly, Usher sketched out the rest of the story. Zaydie had a sister, he never talked about her. She was trouble. An
artiste!
There was a
shonda,
she had drawn her friends, children in the village, her own brother, without their clothes on.
Naked.
Disgusting! No one in all of Poland would have her for a wife. Just before the war, the family sent her to Paris, maybe there she would find someone more modern. She went wild there, running around with some
shaygetz.

“‘It was a disease, a sickness! And I can see your Tessa is traveling down the exact same road! I’m giving you one warning, Sender. Stop her! Or you’re not my son anymore. You’ll be a stranger to me.’”

Numb with shock, Tessa didn’t really hear what Usher said after that. Somehow she got through the rest of the conversation, wished her brother a good Shabbos, and hung up the phone.

She turned to look at Rafe. He was standing near the kitchen, and the left side of his face was cast in warm yellow light. As she stood there, with her grandfather’s harsh words singing in her ears, he smiled reassuringly.

“What is it?” he said.

She slipped her arms inside his coat, buried her face in his chest. His arms went around her, and he rested his head on her hair.

“Tell me,” he whispered into her ear. He waited for the tears, the guilt, the recriminations. He thought of all the comforting things he would say to her. Thought of other, softer, fleshier ways he would comfort her.

Angry tears flooded up, surprising her, scalding her cheeks. She swiped at them with her fingers. “Zaydie had a sister. An artist. She drew her friends, children in the village, her own brother, naked. He says it was a
disease,
a
sickness.
And I’m just like her.”

Rafe blinked at her, staggered back a step, as if she had shot him.

Suddenly the walls were closing in on him, history was closing in on him, he had to get out of there. Easing away from her, he groped blindly for the doorknob. He tried not to look at her small hurt figure as the door slammed shut behind him.

That night, she slept poorly. She leapt out of bed at every sound, thinking it was Rafe, knocking on the window. But she was mistaken. He was gone.

On Saturday afternoon, feeling like she was trespassing, she walked to Gramercy Park and knocked on the intimidating oak door of his townhouse. Of course, no one answered. A well-dressed little boy being guarded by a uniformed nanny with a face like a bulldog stared at her through the sharp rungs of the park fence. It was cold. She wrapped her coat tighter around herself and walked back home.

Sunday morning dawned a clear, cold gray. She awoke to a stuffy nose and achy limbs. Still, tomorrow was the first day of the new term, and she had promised the founder of the school that she would begin building her canvases.
Rafe.
A throb in her heart. She turned over and went back to sleep.

After lunch, she pulled on leggings and an old sweater, headed off to school. The studio floor was empty and cold. People were still away, returning to the city later today, or tonight. She put on the news. More hand-wringing over the Bill Clinton and Gennifer Flowers affair. Some dumb story about a Hillary Clinton/Barbara Bush cookie bake-off. Background noise.

At work in her studio, she felt better. She went through her paints and threw away tubes that were dried up or empty. She took inventory of her supplies and noted what she would need for the upcoming semester. Took down the three thesis sketches and worked out the measurements. Kicked herself for not trying harder to find a job. For the first time in a month, she wondered what Lucian was doing.

At dinnertime, footsteps echoed down the corridor. The footsteps headed up towards the sculptors’ grotto, bypassing her, stopping at Graham’s studio. Tessa heard Turner’s voice, Graham’s voice, Turner’s voice again. The back and forth of a meeting with an adviser. After twenty minutes or so, it was over. The footsteps headed back up the corridor, stopped outside her studio.