The Portrait (32 page)

"Look at me, Genie. Look at who I am. Surely you know you can't stay here."
Not because she wasn't good enough for him. Not because he was tired of her. But because he was afraid of himself. Because he was afraid. God, how simple it was.

And yet the worst thing was that she had misunderstood and so had done what everyone did. She'd left him. Because she had undervalued herself, she had given her life away a second time, was once again surrendering what she wanted without a fight. She was giving up happiness. She was giving up love.

Thomas's words came trembling back to her.
"You're not a little girl anymore. You're a grown woman. Perhaps it's time you thought about what you want for your life, instead of what your father wants."

What you want. . . .

Imogene opened her eyes, staring out again at the golden glow cast by the gaslights onto the snowy streets. She heard the muffled clatter of carriage wheels, saw a hired carriage pull up in front of the house. The door opened, and Thomas and her father came stumbling out. Samuel was hunched into his cloak, and though he shook his head when Thomas tried to help him down, he did not shrug off the steadying hand her godfather placed on his arm. She watched as the two of them climbed the stairs, watched until she heard the unlatching of the front door, until they disappeared inside and she heard them in the foyer, stumbling and talking as they went down the hall.

She let the curtain fall and stepped back from the window, then slowly she walked out her bedroom door and down the stairs. She heard their murmurs in Thomas's study. Without hesitating, she went to stand in the entry.

Her father was slumped in a chair, his head resting in his hand. At the other end of the room, Thomas was pouring brandy. He looked up and saw her. Slowly he set the brandy aside and restoppered it. He picked up two half-full glasses and walked to Samuel.

"If you don't mind," he said, handing her father a glass, "I think I'll take mine upstairs. It's getting late."

"Not that late," Samuel protested. He turned in his chair as Thomas started to the door. "For God's sake, man, I—" He caught sight of her and stopped. "Imogene. Good God, girl, why aren't you in bed?" He waved her away irritably. "Leave us be."

Thomas paused as he passed her. He smiled reassuringly. "Good night, my dear," he said softly.

She caught his gaze. "Good-bye."

She saw the flicker of surprise in his eyes, surprise that turned to sudden comprehension. His smile grew; she felt his joy in his quick squeezing of her arm. "Be happy," he whispered.

"I will be."

He nodded, and then he turned away, saying loudly, to Samuel. "Good night."

Imogene heard her father grumbling as Thomas left the room. She waited until she could no longer hear her godfather's footsteps, and then she walked over to where her father sat, staring into the fire. She stepped in front of him, blocking his view of the flames.

"I'm leaving," she said softly. "I just wanted you to know."

He looked up at her, frowning. The motion made the swelling of his cheek seem worse, accentuated the cut on his chin. "Of course we're leaving," he said, obviously annoyed. "We're catching the early train tomorrow, so be ready. I only hope
Nashville
hasn't already caught wind of all the trouble you've caused."

She shook her head. "I'm not going back to
Nashville
."

"What the hell—" He stopped short, his expression clearing, his confusion replaced by disbelief and contempt. "Ah, I see where it lies now," he said slowly. "You'd best get that thought out of your mind, girl. You think you can just run back to Whitaker, eh? Well, you can't. He won't take you back. He's got what he wanted."

Imogene shrugged. "Maybe that's true. I won't know until I ask him."

"He's a madman. He'll end up in jail one day, you mark my words."

"Then I'll be there to bail him out."

He laughed shortly. "No doubt you think you love him. That's it, isn't it? Good God, girl, you're so naive. I'd lay odds ten to one he doesn't love you."

Imogene said nothing.

Her father fingered his glass. He sat up a little straighter, his dark eyes narrowing, his lips thinning in a straight line. "You'll be sorry," he said. "The scandal will destroy you, and don't think you can come running to me for help. Even though you've shamed both me and your mother, I'm willing to take you home tomorrow. We'll do what we can to help this thing blow over. But if you go to him, you can forget about your family. If you defy me again, I won't lift another finger to help you as long as I live."

Imogene looked at him thoughtfully. "I understand," she said. "And I'm sorry."

He stared at her as if she had turned into a stranger before his very eyes. "I'm not joking," he said harshly. "I'm warning you, Imogene. If you do this, I'll never forgive you. Your mother will never forgive you."

She nodded, wondering why his words didn't hurt. Wondering why she didn't feel anything at all. "I'm sorry for that too."

He watched her steadily. She saw the anger in his eyes fade. She saw his disappointment. And suddenly she felt the sadness she'd been waiting for. This was the man whose love she had wanted so badly she changed her life to please him. The man she'd always thought of as strong and vibrant, as charismatic and refined. But his love came at too high a price, she knew, and now when she looked at him she only saw a weak, angry old man. A man who could not forget the daughter he loved, and because of it was losing his other one.

She felt sorry for him suddenly, felt sorry for herself. In a way, she would have preferred to remember him without his weaknesses, would have preferred to remember him as the man who had entertained artists and philosophers, the man who held
Nashville
in his hands. He had shown her a world of sophistication and brilliance, but that was not the same thing as being a father. He had never been a father, not to her, and she wished he had been, even one time, because that was the memory she wanted. It was a memory she would have never given away.

"Your sister would never have done such a thing," he said, fixing her with his gaze.

Imogene didn't look away. "I'm sorry, Papa," she said. "I'm sorry I'm not the daughter you want me to be. But I want my own life. Not Chloe's. Not yours. I hope you can understand that. I pray that you can."

Her father closed his eyes. He took a deep breath.

When he looked at her again, there was pain in his expression, something that looked like regret— whether for himself or for her, she didn't know. And she didn't care. He had abandoned her long ago. He no longer deserved her sacrifices. He never had.

"You'll regret this, daughter," he said dully. "You'll be knocking on my door in a month, I know you will."

She shook her head and smiled and leaned over him, kissing his forehead, feeling his dry skin beneath her lips. He didn't move. He didn't try to kiss her back. When she straightened, he was looking at the fire.

"Give my regards to Mama," she said softly, and then she turned away, leaving him with his brandy and his pride. Leaving him to stare into the fire—forever, if he wanted to.

In the hallway, the grandfather clock chimed three.

The night was slipping away. It was time to go.

Chapter 28

      
H
e could not sleep. He didn't want to. This would be his last night of freedom, and he

had intended to make the most of it, had thought to walk the streets until dawn, to take great deep breaths of this city he loved, to smell its salt smell and the clean freshness of snow, to breathe Broadway's scents of manure and smoke and riches.

But in the end those things meant nothing to him. In the end, nothing mattered at all, and nothing was precious. The streets, the docks, the studio . . . they were all as meaningless as the stone walls of the asylum. He had lost his vision. He had lost his passion.

He had lost her.

And so he had come back to the studio. There was a sketch of her on the table, one of the many studies he'd done before he painted her portrait, and he propped it onto the windowsill where he could see it without moving and stood there, feeling the cold and staring out into the dim yellow glow of the street, waiting for the night to pass.

He waited a long time. So long, he didn't know what time it was when he heard the creaking on the stairs. The sound encroached upon the silence—soft, hesitant, unsure. So quiet he thought it was his imagination at first, but then it grew louder, turned into footsteps, and he heard them coming down the hall and waited for them to pause. At Byron Sawyer's door, at Paul Ellston's, at Rico's. But they didn't halt at any of those rooms. They kept coming.

And then, at his door, they stopped.

There was quiet. For minutes, it seemed. Long enough that he was convinced he'd imagined the steps after all. Then the door to his studio opened. Slowly, hesitantly. The hinges screeched in protest.

With one part of his mind Jonas thought it must be morning already, that the men from the asylum were here. The thought brought a surge of pure panic. But then he remembered they weren't coming for him. He was going there. And it was still dark. Still so damned dark.

"Jonas."

He knew then that he was hallucinating. It sounded like her voice, soft and lilting, but it couldn't be her. Goddammit, it couldn't be her. She had left the exhibition and gone home. She was safe in bed. It was too damned late. Dawn was still hours away.

"Jonas."

The door closed. He heard her breathing. An illusion, he told himself, but even knowing that, he couldn't resist. Even knowing that, he welcomed it. Slowly, afraid it would vanish if he moved too quickly, he turned around. The studio was dark, but he saw her form against the door, saw the dim light from the streets glance across her face, whisper against her hair. She was holding something large and bulky, a bag of some kind, and when he turned to look at her she let it fall to the floor with a thud and moved toward him— so quickly, so gracefully, he was sure it was an illusion. It seemed her feet didn't even touch the floor.

Suddenly it was more than he could take. He backed against the wall, covering his eyes with his hand. His heart was racing. "Christ," he breathed. "Ah, Christ, don't torture me. Not this way. Please ... not this way."

It was quiet. He let his hand drop, expecting her to be gone, expecting to face the empty nothingness of his studio, afraid that he would. He looked up.

She was standing there, in front of him. A mere foot away.

She was no illusion.

He closed his eyes, feeling a surge of pain so raw and desperate it took his breath, and then opened them because not looking at her was more painful. He wanted to savor the sight of her, to burn this memory onto his brain, to not wonder why she was here or remember that he had to send her away. He just wanted to look at her, at the shadows of her eyes and the litheness of her body, at the strength in her face. And she let him look. Her breathing was her only movement, and he felt it pulsing in the air between them. Giving him life where he had none. Making him weak. Giving him strength.

He swallowed, forcing out words—God, such inadequate words. "You shouldn't be here."

"No?" She smiled, a tiny motion in the darkness. "Where should I be then?"

"Genie—"

She came toward him. The very surprise of her movement stopped his words in his throat. She stopped only an inch away, perhaps two. He felt the press of her warmth, caught her scent.

"I love you," she said.

The ache stabbed through him. He looked away. "Go home," he said, and his voice was harsh and raw. "I want you to go home."

She paused, an infinitesimal hesitation. Then, "This is my home."

The words sank into him—a promise, a curse. "No," he said, his voice hoarse, his heart hurting so badly he could barely breathe. "Genie, you don't understand. You can't understand. I . . . I don't know what's happening to me. I don't ... I don't know why. I've spent my life—Christ, my whole life—wondering if this . . . madness . . . will ever go away. And now . . ." He took a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts, trying to harness the pain growing, spreading like a disease within him. "Ah, God, now I don't think it will. I don't think it ever will."

He heard her voice, a soft whisper in the darkness. "I don't care."

"But I care," he said. "I care. I would hurt you, Genie. You think I won't, but I will. Over and over again. I can't ask that of you. Don't make me ask it."

"Don't make you ask it," she murmured, repeating his words thoughtfully. "Does that mean you want to?"

The question speared him. He looked at her helplessly. "Genie—"

She stepped forward—a half step was all it took— and slid her arms around his waist, holding him captive, a sweet prison. Her body was cradled perfectly to his; he smelled the warm, sweet perfume of her hair. He tried to keep from touching her, but he could not. He wanted to touch her, he ached to. He laid his hand tentatively against her hair, felt its satiny softness, closed his eyes and breathed deeply of her, as deeply as he could, and for the first time in days he felt connected, he felt . . . alive. Since she'd gone, he had not felt this way. Not since she'd gone.

But still he fought it. Still, he tried to push her away, forced himself to say the words hovering in his mind. "You can't save me," he whispered. "No one can save me."

She pulled back only enough to look up at him. "Jonas," she said softly. "Jonas, I don't care about any of that. I don't care. I've spent my life making sacrifices for other people. I've spent my life hiding in corners. I don't want to do that anymore. Oh, Lord, I ... I never felt alive until I met you. I never felt . . . anything. Please don't ask me to give that up. I can't. I won't. I want to stay here . . . with you." She reached out, touching his face, cupping his cheek in her palm. "You made me beautiful," she whispered. "Now let me do something for you. Let me keep you safe."

"Let me keep you safe."

The words sank inside him, a benediction, a prayer, a wish, and it struck him suddenly that if anyone could do that, if anyone could keep him safe, it was Genie. Christ, she already had. She kept away the darkness, she made him feel whole the way he'd never felt before.
"Let me keep you safe,"
and he realized it was what he wanted more than anything in the world. To be safe, yes. To be loved. She had seen him at his worst, and she had stayed. She had looked into his eyes and seen his hell and she had touched him and smiled at him. She had loved him. Despite everything, she had loved him.

Had he ever been loved like that before? Had he ever thought he could be?

He felt her touch against his cheek and it warmed him. Clear into his soul, it warmed him. The cold in his heart eased, dissolved, and through the bleak darkness inside him, he felt a light—the hope she'd given him. The hope he thought he'd lost forever. It shone before him, weak at first, then growing stronger and stronger. A lone star in the night, a beacon he turned to, one he needed. Because he knew suddenly that without her he would disappear. Without her, he would give in to the darkness forever. And he was so afraid of it. Christ, he was so afraid.

He was trembling, and he grabbed her wrist, holding her hand tightly to his face, afraid she would stop touching him, that she would back away. He thought he would die if she did. "Ah, Genie," he murmured. "You don't know what you're getting into."

"Don't I?" she asked in a whisper. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't save you. But I can love you. I can love you, Jonas. Isn't that enough?"

The words were haunting, so soft and tender they took his fear and his pain—and brought him something else instead. Something he'd always wanted, something he never thought to have.

A future.

It shivered tremulously before him, weak and wavering, but it was a future nonetheless. A future where before he'd never had one, where before there had been nothing but . . . nothing.

Jonas swallowed. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her more tightly to him, burying his face in her hair, needing to feel her solidness and her strength, wanting to hold her so tightly that everything she was became part of him. He wanted her compassion and hope and tranquility. Her beauty and her strength. Her love.

God, he wanted her love most of all.

And it was that, finally, that he surrendered to. There was no denying it, not anymore. He loved her. He wanted her. Forever, if she would have him. He wanted to feel her beside him all through the night, wanted her calming presence during the day. She'd said he made her feel alive, but the truth was just the opposite. The truth was that without her he had no life at all. Without her, there was no peace and no future and no happiness. Only loneliness and pain. Only that.

He tightened his hold, clutching her with desperate strength. "I love you," he whispered against her hair. "Christ, Genie, I love you so much. Don't ever believe anything else. Please, no matter what happens, believe that one thing. Believe I love you, and—please—don't ever stop loving me."

She looked up at him.

"I won't stop," she said. "I love you."

"1 hope it's enough," he said quietly.

She smiled then—that soft, wonderful smile—and pulled him closer, and he saw the conviction burning fiercely, beautifully, in her eyes. "It will be," she promised. "It will be."

And for the first—the only—time in his life, he believed maybe it would.