The Sculptress by V.S. Alexander (ereader for comics txt) 📗

travels. The unrelenting war sealed the coffin—the war and Vreland.” He stood by the desk, lit a cigarette, and poured liquor into a tumbler. “As hard as I tried, I could never get him to understand my artists or the purpose of my gallery. The only ploy I didn’t try was sleeping with him.”

“Every critic has his price.”

“Not Vreland. If I remember correctly, he wrote that your statue had the ‘soul of an icicle.’ That criticism alone laid bare his foul soul.” Alex sipped the scotch, then tilted the glass toward Emma. “But, what do I care now. I survived the war without a scratch. I can thank my mother for giving birth to me when she did—making me just old enough not to be drafted.” His mouth puckered as if he had said something distasteful. “I’m seeing a wonderful man and we’re moving to New York. . . .” He set his drink amid the books and papers on his desk and fidgeted with his cigarette, acting as if he had revealed too much.

Emma nodded, signaling him that she understood his concern. “I’m truly sorry about the gallery, but I’m happy that the Fountain exhibited my work, and equally pleased that you sold my Diana. But that’s not why I ventured out tonight. I came to ask you a question.”

Alex leaned against the desk. “I’m sure I know the question and the answer—I haven’t seen Linton for months. I don’t even know where he lives. I think he moved to a smaller apartment somewhere—because he couldn’t afford . . .”

Emma sat silently, uncertain what to say.

Alex reached for his glass. “We had a falling out . . . to put it politely.” He poured another shot of scotch and gulped it. “Shortly after I made my decision to close, Linton left the gallery in a rage. I held out for my artists as long as I could, but I couldn’t keep pouring money into it forever. Sales had slowed, including Linton’s work. I didn’t know the war would be over so quickly after reaching my conclusion. The war wasn’t the only reason, however. You were a cause as well. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?”

Emma shook her head.

“We argued about you,” Alex continued. “Linton said he was in love with you and could never be in love with me . . . or a man at all. I held on to the fantasy of a life with him for a time, even after Louisa told me about the two of you in his studio.”

Pain swirled in his eyes.

“But, I finally said enough was enough. Every fixation . . . obsession, if you will . . . has a precipice where one falls into madness. I think you might understand what I mean . . .”

Emma nodded.

“Fortunately, I recognized our personal relationship was over and stepped back—our business dealings as well—because the gallery was dead. Linton stormed out after I told him, more hurt and frustrated than angry, I think, and that was that. I shipped his paintings to his studio the next day along with the money I owed him. A few weeks later, I saw him on the street, looking haggard and depressed, like he’d lost his last friend. It nearly broke my heart. I didn’t want to see him—don’t want to see him, until I can bear the pain of my . . . ‘unrequited’ love. I suppose that’s selfish, but it’s how I protect myself.”

“You don’t know whether he’s well or not?” Emma asked.

A flush spread across his face. “No. I’m sorry. I love—rather loved—him too much. I hope you understand—it’s not healthy for me to see him.”

She understood all too well.

Alex jumped at the electric buzz that filled the room. “That’ll be . . . at the door. Oh, you could give a damn.”

“I do, but I must get home.” Emma got up from the chair. “Does Linton still have his studio?”

Alex grimaced. “Not unless he found someone to bankroll him, but that would be a happy ending to a sad story. Let’s go down. I’m sorry to cut our visit short, but my friend is here . . . I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I wanted it to be a surprise.”

“It certainly was,” Alex said as they descended the stairs. He opened the door and a handsome young man doffed his hat, brushed past Emma without a word, and headed up to the apartment.

“Ah, the manners of youth,” Alex said. “At the very least, he’s discreet.”

“Good-bye, Alex,” Emma said and kissed him on the cheek. “I hope life works out well for you in New York . . . I hope life works out well for both of us.”

“We shall see. Perhaps New York will be kinder to me than Boston. Good-bye, Emma.” He closed the door, leaving her on the cold landing.

* * *

Anne’s footsteps padded on the stairs, preparing Emma for the knock on her studio door.

Gray light filtered through the window. She closed the cover on a sketch pad she hadn’t touched in more than two years. In it were some of the first drawings of The Narcissus. The flowing lines brought back memories of her time with Linton, but the sketch depicting the face was off—too formal, too stilted, with little regard for human feeling.

Why does everything revolve around the face?

“Emma,” her housekeeper said awkwardly, still uncomfortable with addressing her by her first name, “it’s Miss Markham to see you.”

“Really?” Emma asked, surprised that Louisa would call.

“Yes, I told her you weren’t to be disturbed, but she insisted on discussing ‘a matter of importance.’”

“Well, the topic must be important for Louisa to come here. Send her up, please.”

In a few moments, Emma heard the click of her guest’s heels on the stairs. She glanced away from her desk when Louisa arrived, but the flash of color was too much to ignore. Attired in a scarlet coat, matching dress, and black sash, Louisa entered like an exotic bird, her