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

walked home by the river, the cold west wind slicing over the whitecaps, urging her to walk faster despite the shivers coursing up her legs. Bringing her hands up to her mouth, she gulped down the sobs engulfing her, for all she could picture in her mind were the intimate moments with Kurt Larsen and her appointment with Dr. Henry Morton so many years ago.

* * *

They took their places in the sitting room one rare night when Tom came home early from his practice.

Emma sat in her favorite chair across from the fire, sketching random thoughts that filled her head for new work. Diana was coming along nicely and would soon be done. Across the room, Tom read the newspaper and absentmindedly fingered a pipe that lay in an ashtray on the table next to him. His father had given it to him after his graduation from medical school, but he rarely smoked it.

Lazarus lay on the Moroccan rug in the middle of the room.

She looked up from her sketches to see Tom’s newspaper pages turn, and thought of what she would write in her diary: The picture of contentment—that’s what anyone would think of my surroundings. Me, laboring on the work I love, not yet making any contribution to the household except to act as a maid. Tom, happy with his newspaper, thinking God knows what, because I find it so hard to get into his mind these days. Lazarus stretched out between us like a god of serenity, his fur glinting in the firelight. When the dog “sighs” with satisfaction it seems as if the whole world is at peace.

But it’s not. The war rages on in Europe and Tom talks of it, but I know it occupies him even more than he lets on. In fact, it weighs on all aspects of our life. Our lovemaking has diminished to the point of nonexistence—a friendly hug, a quick good-night kiss, the best we can do. Things can change so quickly in a relationship, even in the early years. I suppose I was naïve to think that all would be rosy after my experiences with Kurt, but when one pushes something far back into the mind, away from the present, one is doomed to repeat mistakes.

I do love him and he loves me, I think, but I would expect our current state of affairs to be more like our golden years when comradeship is the glue that holds the relationship together. I think it’s my own weakness that keeps me from confronting him, asking him if everything is all right, expressing my confusion about having a child, but I don’t want to rock the boat because I’ve had enough of that. Stability is precious—something that never would have occurred with Kurt. Is there a man who can make me feel like I’m alive and fire my passion? Is that asking too much?

As she was looking at him, the newspaper slid down in front of his face, revealing the pinkish-white skin, the reading glasses perched on his nose, the blue eyes brimming with sincerity, the skin around his mouth creased, not a hint of a smile or happiness on his face.

“Louisa dropped by the office today,” he said.

“Oh?”

“Yes, she mentioned something to me that I’ve thought we should do for a while—in fact, I’ve already taken the first step.”

Emma rested her pad next to the chair. She said nothing because Tom had already decided what needed to be done—but more upsetting was his willingness to accept Louisa’s advice without consulting her.

“I’m hiring a maid for the household,” Tom said. “She’s a sweet girl who’s come from Ireland, looking for a better life. Her name is Anne.”

Emma fidgeted with the pencil. “We don’t need a maid, Tom. Housework keeps me busy when I’m not working on my art.”

Tom folded the newspaper, placed it on his lap, and took off his glasses. “Louisa always makes a good argument. I listen to her. She’s always the practical one, despite her money.”

“I don’t care about her money. What about my opinion of the matter?”

Tom leaned forward, bending over to pet Lazarus. “I knew you’d put up a fight. This is for you. A housekeeper will allow you more time for your work. You won’t be chained to the stove or to the dishes.”

“That’s very nice, but perhaps I enjoy doing work around the house.”

“No woman enjoys housework.”

Emma’s limbs grew cold and a frosty resentment churned inside her to the point that she didn’t want to speak.

Tom sensed her anger and lowered himself to the floor next to the dog. “Believe me, it’s for the best.”

“Why is it for the best? Louisa inherited her money!” She trembled in the chair. “We have to work for ours. Can we afford a housekeeper?”

“I’ve saved enough, and we’re doing well now that the practice has grown.” He petted Lazarus and the dog rolled over on his back. “Sit on the floor with me and give him a rub on his tummy. It’ll calm you down.”

“Lazarus is wonderful company, but I’m in no mood to calm down. Frankly, I’m angry that Louisa Markham has an equal footing in this household. You should have talked to me first. She’s like a second wife to you, and sometimes I wonder if she might not be the first.” She hated the words as soon as she said them—belittling her husband and taking shots at her best friend—but Tom’s action upon Louisa’s suggestion rankled her. She wondered if she could ever get over the feeling that Louisa harbored more love for Tom than she did, igniting her own jealousy and confusion.

Tom lifted his hands from the dog, sighed, and leaned against the chair. “That was cruel, Emma. I’m surprised at you, but you’ve always harbored a jealous streak against Louisa. How many times do I have to tell you—she’s been a friend to me for far longer than I’ve known you?”

She shook her head, feeling the ice in her veins thaw a