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

He turned toward her and the light created a soft sheen upon his black hair.

“Diana has not sold,” she said. “I often wonder why I remain in this business—a sculptress unloved by the critics, with so few sales to my credit. It’s hardly worth it. My husband and my friend Louisa are great supporters, however.”

“You sculpt because you love it—because you were born to. It’s in your blood.” He faced her, and then, as if he had come too close, strode away.

“Is something wrong?” Emma asked.

He shook his head. “No, but I think we should be going. I was about to say something that perhaps I shouldn’t have.”

Emma came up from behind and placed her hand on his shoulder. His muscles contracted with her touch and a sudden tension filled the space between them.

“I was about to say I could be one of your encouragers as well,” he said. “But that is stupid and forward of me. We’ve only just met.”

Emma joined arms with him and walked toward the door. “I think it’s very nice of you to say so. Yes, we’ve only just met, but we can be . . . friends.”

“I would like that,” Linton said.

When they reached the door, Linton opened it and Emma locked it with the key. Linton shadowed her, his hand upon hers so he could learn how the lock worked.

“By the way,” he said as they descended the stairs, “when Diana sells, you or Alex must give it a good cleaning for the new owner. My fingerprints are all over it. I think it’s a beautiful statue.”

“Thank you,” she said as they reached the landing.

As they stepped out of the dark entrance into the light, Emma added, “I have a favor to ask and I hope you don’t think it’s too forward of me.” She shuddered a bit, knowing she had crossed a threshold.

He touched her hand lightly and smiled.

“I’ve decided to begin work on a new sculpture. You would be the perfect model for it.”

“Really? Nothing that would upset Vreland, I hope?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Alex is right: we shouldn’t care what he thinks anyway. The subject is Narcissus, studying his visage in a pool. I’m trying to portray the vanity of man, the preoccupations that ultimately lead him to his own destruction. It’s a sculpture of its time.”

Linton frowned. “Are you implying I’m vain?”

“Don’t be disingenuous. How many women have told you that you’re handsome?”

“A few.”

“And? Did you believe them?”

Linton slowed, and as he stood before her, his face sagged under some unknown difficulty known only to him. They stood near the triangle at Columbus Avenue where bicyclists rode alongside horse-drawn carts and motorcars sputtering exhaust.

“For all my faults, I’ve never been accused of false modesty,” Linton said. “Yes, a few women have told me I’m handsome, and I keep my body in shape to prove it. I can’t really see how I look, having had this condition for nearly three-quarters of my life, but I take them at their word. I’ll admit I’ve used my face and body to my advantage. People have been kind to me in ways I’m certain they wouldn’t have been, if I had been ugly or in some other way deformed. But despite that, life has not been easy . . . I’ve had to work for everything I’ve gained.”

Emma reasserted her hold on Linton’s arm and continued their stroll. “I assure you I do not consider your eyes a deformity, or your looks . . . but I must admit, I was taken aback when I met you this morning. You reminded me of a man I once knew. Not so much in the physical, but in—how shall I say it?—in the realm of the romantic. He was strong willed and not without his faults.”

“Then we are hardly similar, for I have no faults.” He chuckled. “I take it your relationship ended badly.”

“The timing was wrong for both of us.” Emma stopped on the sidewalk, resisting the temptation to touch his cheek. “But you have a perfection of face he could never attain. That’s why I want you to pose as Narcissus. We could start in Roman dress, if that’s suitable for you. I could retain another model, of course, if you wish to decline.”

“When would you like to begin?” he answered.

“Well . . . we could start as soon as possible. Shall we say in June, after you’ve had a chance to occupy your new studio? Perhaps you can spare a few hours a day to pose, before or after you paint.”

“Perfect,” Linton said.

“I must warn you—I’m not good with faces. That’s why I want to do this statue—to realize the perfect face. I understand the importance of this work, its strength, its power, as surely as I can see it in my mind. After I’m finished, Vreland will beg for more.”

“Please leave him out of this. It will be better for both of us.”

Emma laughed. “Yes, I suppose you’re right.”

When they reached the Public Garden, Linton indicated he could find his way home and said good-bye. At the last moment, she remembered the studio key and took it from her jacket and pressed it into his palm. He grasped her hands firmly and his warm touch lingered on her skin as he walked away, working his way down the path without a stumble or falter.

Emma rubbed her hands together as she approached a bench near the pond and watched children playing near the water’s edge. She imagined Linton looking into the pool, studying his reflection, ignoring the cares of the world, concerned only with his own thoughts. A child threw a pebble into the water and the ripples, as they spread toward the bank, destroyed the vision in her head.

Entry: 20th May, 1917

I’ve had a few days to think about my project with Linton. I find the prospect exciting and at the same time daunting—for a number of reasons. Our meeting was brief, but something about Linton