The Light House Page 7

  “Why was that necessary?” Connie led him on, intrigued, and felt him opening up to her once more. “Couldn’t you have stayed in your studio and merely re-created the photograph?”

  Blake nodded. “Yes,” he admitted. “But I didn’t ever want to capture the two dimensional image of a photo. I wanted to capture the elements. For me it was important to paint on site.” He laughed suddenly and it was an irresistible sound that sent a delicious shiver down Connie’s spine. “The photos gave me the moment, but being out there,” he cast his arm towards the darkened window, “being on the beach, helped me to appreciate the awe and grandeur.”

  “So your paintings became a kind of composite?”

  Blake arched an eyebrow, a little disconcerted by how readily Connie had seemed to understand so perfectly. He had spent hours explaining his methods to others who had never been able to grasp the abstract of the concept.

  “Yes,” he said and found himself gazing into her eyes through a long searching moment of tingling silence, his dark eyes burning like fire at her soul. “That’s exactly what they were – a composite of what the camera saw and what the elements stirred in my heart.”

  He drew more paintings from the racks, each one a dazzling jewel until Connie felt as if a vast treasure surrounded her. Blake pointed out the problems with each of the works, the areas that had caused him frustration and had forced him to re-evaluate his techniques until at last Connie’s leg throbbed painfully and her face became drawn and pale.

  Outside, the darkness of the night was absolute. The moon had slid across to the sky’s far horizon and taken with it the wind and the rain so that there was only stillness above the lulling rumble of surf on a distant shore.

  “Blake,” she laid a gentle hand on his arm and the touch of her fingers sent an electric shock through his spine. It was the first time she had deliberately touched him, and they were both silently aware of the moment. “You can’t keep these paintings hidden from the world,” she implored him. “They deserve to be shown, not kept here, wrapped and concealed. They’re too beautiful – too magnificent. To hide them like this is… it’s a tragedy.”

  Blake’s cynicism was instinctive. “Shown, or sold?” the question was like a challenge, a test.

  Connie shook her head. “Show them – sell them if you want,” she said earnestly, “but at least let the world see them.”

  Blake let out the breath he had been holding and felt a rush of relief. She was not like the others. This was not a conceited play for a gallery commission.

  He said nothing. Connie was still staring up into his face. “The work you have here must be worth ten or fifteen million,” Connie whispered, awed by the realization of her own words.

  “I have all the money I need,” he said.

  “Then show them – put them on display and let people enjoy what you have made. Blake, paintings are like books, they need an audience to come alive. Let the world be enchanted by these stories, and experience the emotions. Don’t let them die unseen. Don’t let their fate be this,” she swept her arm wide in a gesture that encompassed the dusty studio, as if it were an ancient tomb.

  Blake felt himself instinctively leaning towards her, but he stopped at the last moment. Connie had sensed his movement and swayed towards him in anticipation, her body becoming tense with a craving for his touch. Blake reeled back on his heels and his gaze became clouded.

  “I’ll think about it,” he muttered vacantly. He took a step back and turned away to wrap one of the paintings in its cloth.

  Connie made a little pout with her lips to show she was disappointed, but not surprised. Then she looked on for silent seconds and gave herself over to the pleasure of quietly watching him. His body was lean and toned, the muscles in his forearms well defined, and the ones in his shoulder and across his chest rippling under the cotton of his shirt. His skin was polished and browned by a thousand suns. It was a man’s body – one that had been honed by long hours outdoors and manual work. Yet his hands were the hands of a surgeon, the skin smooth, and the fingers long and tapered. He was a contrast – a man comfortable in the harshness of nature, yet with an exquisite deftness of touch and a creative flair that was genius.

  She thought then about Duncan, and the vast differences between them. Duncan had the frame of a dancer, narrow hipped, but with the flesh beneath his expensive clothes turning soft and pallid from the excesses of his life. He was immaculately groomed, urbane and sophisticated, yet ultimately false and shallow. The façade he presented hid a dark and dangerous devil behind the mask of a handsome face whose features had begun to blur at the edges with plump pouches of indulgence.

  Connie blinked. She had been staring at Blake, but seeing that other man. Now her attention came snapping back and the hint of a smile brushed across her lips. Blake had finished wrapping the painting. She watched him carry it across to the storage rack and slide it onto one of the narrow shelves.

  Connie had never known a man like this; he had her admiration and respect. It was not only the legend that surrounded his rise to the pinnacle of the art world, or the years he had passionately devoted to his craft. It was his presence – the calmness, the sureness that radiated through his demeanor, and yet also, she conceded, there was the feminine attraction for the broken man – the one who had suffered in some tragic way that she wished she could heal. He seemed unaffected with the temperament and precocious arrogance that tarnished so many of the truly gifted, yet utterly shattered by some circumstance that had altered the course of his life.

  She was captivated.

  Connie came alert suddenly. Blake was watching her from across the studio with a curious expression on his face.

  “Sorry..?” she stammered.

  “I asked if you were smiling, or grimacing,” he repeated.

  She blushed. “Smiling… and grimacing,” she fluttered her hands like little birds. “I was just thinking how much I have enjoyed tonight – listening to you, and feeling very privileged to have seen your paintings. But, I must admit, my knee…”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.” Blake suddenly seemed to become aware of the lateness of the hour. The time had passed as if he had been in a trance. “I’ll help you back down the hall. You can sleep in my bed tonight. I will take the sofa.”

  “Oh, no,” Connie looked genuinely aghast. “I couldn’t – ”

  “You have to,” he smiled into her eyes and she felt herself catch her breath. “Because I insist.”

  12.

  When Connie woke the next morning she sat up in the bed with a start. She had the sense that it was late. She could hear the boom of surf on a beach, and the hiss of waves running up across sand. There was a cool breath of breeze, pillowing the net curtain that hung across the bedroom window. She slid her feet off the bed and found to her relief that she could stand without much pain.

  She changed into a t-shirt and faded jeans, then limped along the hall to the living room. The house seemed empty.

  She went out through the screen door and onto the old porch. The colors of sunrise had long ago been smudged into a perfect blue sky. Connie shielded her eyes from the glare of the sun with her hand and stared down past a hedge of low stunted bushes to a crescent of lonely beach between rocky outcrops, like craggy stone watchtowers.

  The beach was just a few hundred yards long – a narrow strip of white sand shaped into a gentle coastline curve. The rocks to the south rose up from the ocean as part of a pine tree covered headland, and in the far distance, hazed along a blurred horizon line, she could see other promontories that marked the southward coast of Maine.

  The breeze across the ocean diced the indigo depths into a million glittering shards of sunlight and ruffled the tops from the waves. They rolled towards the shore lumpen and round-shouldered and then spilled upon the sand so that it shone wet and glistening like gold.

  There was a wandering trail of footprints along the beach, and at the end of the trail stood Blake and Ned, the lonely silhouettes of man
and his loyal dog near the northern headland, where the rocks jutted out into the surf like an ancient break wall. Blake was standing very still, staring out across the endless ocean. Ned was close at his side. The spent foaming wash of the waves lapped around their feet and left behind little twists of seaweed amongst the seashells along the tideline.

  Connie leaned on the porch rail and inhaled the smells of salt and surf, letting the warmth of the sun wash over her. She lifted her face to the sky and closed her eyes as though to be kissed by a lover, and felt her soul drenched with the simple joy of being alive.

  At last she went down the porch steps, the breeze tugging at the tendrils of her hair and flattening her t-shirt against her body. Little swirls of sand kicked up at her feet. She walked towards the low hedge of shrubs, and then suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she saw her car, parked away from the house in the shadow of an old flatbed truck.

  Connie widened her eyes in surprise. She turned towards the car. The front passenger side of the hood was a little dented, and the wheels were crusted in mud. She circled the vehicle, saw another indentation and scratches on the trunk. She opened the driver’s side door and leaned inside. The upholstery was wet, the interior smelled like drying clothes.

  “How did you sleep?”

  She turned with a small start. Blake was standing at the corner of the house. He was wearing blue jeans, rolled up to his knees and a simple white shirt, the top buttons undone. He folded his arms across his chest and Connie saw crisp little whorls of hair curl from within the deep V of the shirt.

  “Wonderfully, thank you,” Connie straightened and swept the hair from her face. “And thank you for salvaging my car,” she smiled helplessly. “When did you do that?”

  Blake shrugged. “Earlier this morning,” he said as though it was no trouble. “She seems fine. I took her for a quick drive back down to the main road. So long as you don’t hit high speed, you should make it back to town in one piece – although you should have a mechanic check the tires and the wheels for balance.”

  Connie nodded guiltily. “I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me last night,” she said shyly. “I’m very grateful…”

  Blake held up his hand. “Don’t mention it,” he said. “I enjoyed having you here – enjoyed your company.”

  They stood in silence for a moment. Connie felt her face flushing with awkward color. She smiled brightly and Blake smiled back.

  “Before I go,” she began at last, “could I ask you one last favor?”

  Blake nodded. He shuffled his feet in the gravel driveway as though he was bracing himself.

  “The two paintings I bought from Warren Ryan…”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re unsigned.”

  The corner of Blake’s mouth twitched into the hint of a knowing smile. “And…?”

  “Would you sign them for me?”

  Blake fixed Connie with steely eyes. “You realize if I sign those paintings, it will double their value?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that why you bought them? Is that the real reason you came here? To somehow compound your investment?” The words as he spoke them sounded callous, yet he had to know. He wanted to believe this woman had been genuine.

  Connie shook her head. “No,” she said and her eyes became wide with a hint of hurt. “I told you last night – I am an art lover, not a lover of money. And those paintings are not for me. One will be sold to pay for my mother’s nursing home care. The other will…” her voice tailed off guiltily.

  “Will what?”

  Connie sighed. She felt a lump rise in her throat and a sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. “I’m in trouble,” she said in a rush. “The second painting will clear my debts, give me a fresh start.”

  Blake watched her eyes, studied her face. Her embarrassment and hurt were genuine. He relented with a breath of relief.

  “Then I will sign them for you,” he said.

  13.

  He carried the two paintings into the studio and cleared a space on a wide counter-top. He laid the paintings out and went to his easel to fetch paint and a fine brush. Connie stood back, not wanting to intrude. Blake hunched over the first canvas and pushed his face close. He squinted his eyes. After a moment he signed the bottom corner of the painting with his trademark flourish and then turned his attention to the larger painting.

  “If I sign these in oil, they’ll take a week or more to dry,” he said over his shoulder. “So I’ve done the signatures in acrylic, okay?”

  Connie nodded. She had her hands clasped in front of her hips and she was gnawing on her lip.

  Blake turned back to the counter-top. He flipped each painting over, mindful of the drying signatures, and wrote an inscription in pencil across the back of each painting. Connie watched, holding her breath. She saw Blake blink in a curious myopic gesture, and then rub at his eyes with his knuckles.

  He waved Connie closer and stood back from the counter.

  “I’ve personalized a message to ‘my good friend Connie’. That should help the value a little, but the dates are from when I made the paintings. Do you understand why?”

  Connie didn’t. She looked up into his eyes with unfeigned innocence.

  “You’re to tell no one where I am, Connie. No one. You are to let me maintain my privacy. If I date these inscriptions for today, people will know you have found me, and I want to be left alone. Do you understand?”

  Connie nodded. “I swear,” she said in a grateful gush, “that I won’t tell anyone where you are, Blake. You have my word.”

  14.

  They stood on the driveway, just a few feet separating them. Connie’s suitcase with the precious paintings was on the back seat. The driver’s door was open, and the engine idling in soft little burbles of sound. She had her purse in her hand. She offered Blake one of her business cards.

  “In case you ever get a phone…” she said with a smile.

  Blake glanced at the card and tucked it inside his shirt pocket. “You will be the first person I call,” he promised.

  Ned came loping down the porch stairs to join them, his big head hanging between his shoulders, and he padded to where Connie stood and leaned against her.

  “He wants a pat,” Blake said. “He knows you’re going, and I get the feeling he’s not too happy about it.”

  Connie scratched behind the Great Dane’s ears affectionately. The dog closed its eyes and stretched its hind legs. His weight was enormous and Connie found herself giggling suddenly. She ran her hand down the dog’s back and his jaws hung slack. Then, quite suddenly, the big dog snatched Connie’s purse from out of her fingers and went scampering away towards the beach.

  Blake looked on in stunned disbelief for a split second. Connie let out a little yelp. They stared at each other – and then went chasing down the sand in pursuit of the Great Dane.

  Ned dashed out of sight at a scurrying run, his long powerful legs carrying him across the dry sand and down to the tideline, the vibrations of his massive weight through the ground as heavy as the drumming hoof beats of a horse. He hit the wet sand, turned with an excited wag of his tail, and then trotted off towards the southern end of the beach, Connie’s purse still clutched lightly in his mouth, his head held high with a prancing pride.

  Connie and Blake ran after him. Blake’s footing went from under him and he rolled, then bounced back up to his feet. Beside him Connie was laughing. Blake dusted himself off, glared after the big dog, and then started to run again. Suddenly he was laughing too, and the sound was such a shock to him that it sounded foreign in his own ears. He pounded across the dry sand, then hit the hard wet sand at last, feeling the strain in his calves ease.

  Connie had sprinted ahead and Blake watched her with covert delight as he chased doggedly; her legs were long and finely shaped, the jaunty roll of her bottom and hips a delicious provocation as they swayed with each stride. She was splashing through the white foaming wash, her hair streaming out behind her.
Blake heard the high tinkle of her laughter and realized he was grinning broadly.

  At the end of the beach, Ned stood waiting. His tail beat against the air and his big chest heaved. He saw Connie slow and then approach with giggling stealth. Ned’s eyes were alight with mischief. He took two steps towards the waves and Connie shrieked. She made a lunge for him. Ned jinked one way, the weight coming onto his shoulders so that he hunched like a compressed spring, and then he ducked beneath the embrace of Connie’s arm and went trotting triumphantly back up the beach. Connie turned, knee deep in the surf – and then a wave swept in from behind her and burst against the back of her legs.

  She squealed with the ice-cold shock of it, held her arms wide as the wave washed around her. The water sprayed up her back and she stood like a sodden scarecrow for long seconds, her mouth agape, gasping.

  Blake stopped running… slowed to a dignified walk. He went towards the edge of the surf and could not conceal his mirth.

  “Oh,” Connie’s voice became a sweet threat. “You think this is funny, mister?”

  Blake put his hands on his hips. He was breathing deep but steadily. With the sun behind her, Connie looked like some beautiful vision that had risen from out of the watery depths.

  She began to wade in towards the beach, her eyes fixed on Blake. Behind them Ned came down from the dry sand and gently set the purse at Blake’s feet, then trotted off again towards where two seagulls were bickering.

  “Do you think this is funny?” Connie asked again. Her voice had become silky smooth and made menacing by the wicked gleam in her eyes. She flashed Blake a dazzling smile, and then bent and splashed him with water.

  Blake flinched, then gasped. The water was a freezing shock. Connie laughed, and then saw Blake lunge at her. She wailed with delicious fright and went splashing away from him, lifting her legs in high steps above the surging water.