Queen of the Owls Read online

  Harold looked amused. “Does the venue really matter?”

  “It does. It means the art world didn’t take them seriously.”

  “They were paintings of flowers and plants.” He gave a loose shrug. “It’s not so far-fetched to exhibit them at a garden. Besides, I seem to remember that the show was a success.”

  Of course they were paintings of plants, but they were plants seen through O’Keeffe’s eyes. Harold knew that.

  Elizabeth thought of the Hawaiian flora she had seen online. The garish stripes of the croton and cordyline leaves, magenta and crimson and chartreuse—splattered, surely, across Georgia’s vision. So much color, gaudy and chaotic, everywhere on the islands, yet not in the paintings. Georgia’s limited palette seemed strange. Carefully orchestrated pink and white and bright red, not the wild juxtaposition of color and abundance she must have encountered in the real landscape.

  Georgia had been watchful, selective. A step at a time, she had cleared space for what she wanted to convey. Maybe she’d understood that there was only so far she could travel in nine weeks. The rest of her journey had to take place somewhere else, after she left.

  Elizabeth edged closer, determined to make Harold see. “I understand that the Hawaii paintings weren’t her best work, Dr. Lindstrom. But they mattered. They were a passage.”

  “To?”

  Again, she hesitated. Then she said, “To emptiness.”

  “That’s a bold proposition. You’re sure you can support it?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Well then.” His face creased in a smile. “Looks like you’re on your way.”

  Elizabeth sat back, letting the relief sweep over her. She had taken a risk, and it had worked. Her career was about to launch, the fulfillment of everything she’d been working toward, ever since the day she took the advanced placement test instead of dressing up as a mermaid. She could already see it, the academic robe and cap she would wear at graduation. Her own office, her name on a brass plate.

  To be safe—to assure Harold that she hadn’t forgotten her place as his student—she added, “Do you have any other suggestions?”

  She meant about the dissertation, but Harold answered a broader question. “Stay close to Marion. That’s my best advice. The dissertation’s your currency, but Marion’s in charge of an important turnstile. Don’t underestimate her influence.”

  Elizabeth got the message. The job possibility was real.

  The light glinted on Harold’s glasses. “Play by the rules,” he said, “but don’t let them box you in. Knowledge comes in surprising ways.”

  His words startled her, as if he had known about Richard after all.

  “Mama stay, Mama stay.” Katie kept repeating the three syllables. She latched onto Elizabeth’s leg as tears ran down her cheeks.

  Elizabeth turned to Lucy. “I don’t know what’s gotten into her. I’m so sorry.”

  “No worries,” Lucy said. “I’m sure she’ll be fine once you leave.”

  This sort of thing was happening more and more often with Katie—fierce and independent, pushing Elizabeth away when she tried to pick her up, then pathetic and clinging.

  “Well, you may have to put up with her misery the whole time I’m gone.” Elizabeth chose her next words with care. “Unless it’s a real emergency, please don’t call me. I think it’s better for everyone.” She knelt and gently pried Katie’s hands from her leg. She held them between her own. “I have to go, pumpkin, but I’ll be back later.”

  Katie whipped her head from side to side. “No, Mama, no.”

  “I know you’re sad,” Elizabeth said, “but I’m giving you my solemn promise that I’ll be back exactly when I said I would. Lucy will show you on the clock.”

  Katie turned her face away, refusing the promise. Elizabeth told herself that even if she hadn’t been going to Richard’s studio, she would still have had to stand her ground. It was bad practice to let a two-year-old manipulate you. Her destination was irrelevant. For all Lucy knew, she had a shift in her teaching schedule or a special meeting. She hadn’t told Lucy why she needed childcare on an offday. After all, Phoebe didn’t explain.

  She gave Katie a squeeze, then stood and put her palm on her heart. “My solemn promise,” she repeated. “Because I never, ever break my promises.”

  She kissed the top of Katie’s head, even though Katie squirmed away. Then she called, “Bye, Daniel. See you later.”

  Daniel glanced up from a mound of Legos. “Okay. Bye.”

  Elizabeth waved to Lucy. She closed the door behind her and hurried down the path to her car.

  The drive to Richard’s studio took less time than she had expected. Ten minutes, and there she was. The studio was on the second floor of a cedar-shingled building, above a store that sold candles, crystals, and handmade jewelry. On the right was a Peruvian restaurant; the left side of the building opened onto an alley. Lots of windows, with the light he had said was important. There was a sign in the front window. Richard Ferris, photography.

  Amazingly, there was a parking space right in front. Elizabeth slid into the spot and shut off the engine. Her eyes flew to the rearview mirror, checking her mascara. Not that it mattered, of course. It was for her dissertation.

  She grabbed her purse and pushed open the car door. There was a buzzer outside the entrance to the consignment store, with Ferris in small black letters on a white rectangle. Elizabeth pressed the button, and he buzzed back right away. The door clicked open.

  She could see him waiting for her at the top of the stairs. The steps were made of a dark wood, worn in the center. Elizabeth felt her mass shift as she found the next tread, and the next—as if her body was changing shape, growing lighter as she ascended.

  “You came.” He sounded happy.

  “I did.”

  He put out his hand to guide her inside, fingers grazing her elbow, the same way he had guided Mr. Wu to the elevator. Elizabeth felt a twinge of disappointment. What had she expected? A hug? Applause?

  “My studio.” He pulled the door shut.

  She could see lights, a stool next to a tripod, a chair in front of a white screen. Dark shades were rolled up at the tops of the tall windows. She turned in a slow circle. “There’s nothing on the walls. None of your photos.”

  “It’s a studio, not a gallery.”

  “You’d rather not see what you did before, when you’re shooting something new?”

  A smile lit his face. “You’ve very perceptive. That’ll help us work together.”

  Elizabeth met his eyes. Then she crossed the room and touched the screen. “An empty backdrop. Nothing to distract from the subject, the person in the portrait.”

  He came to stand next to her. “It depends.” He crossed his arms, tilting his head as he regarded the blank surface. “When Stieglitz photographed O’Keeffe, he tended to use a dark backdrop. Or else a very specific background, like a curtain to show her body against the light, or one of her paintings. Sometimes there wasn’t any background at all, since the whole picture was a close-up. He liked to crop his portraits of her, as if she kept going beyond the frame.”

  Elizabeth turned to face him. “You’ve studied Stieglitz.”

  “Mostly in the last few weeks, since you decided to re-enact his photos.”

  “I only decided that a few days ago.”

  He arched an eyebrow.

  Elizabeth flushed. “You think I decided earlier.”

  “I know you did. Your mind just had to catch up.” Then he opened his hands. We have nothing to hide, you and me. “And here you are.”

  Here I am.

  She walked to the window. “Why do you have those dark shades?”

  Again, Richard followed her. He reached up and pulled the cord. The shade snapped down, covering the window. “Sometimes the natural light’s too harsh. Or I want to play with artificial lighting and can’t let the sunlight interfere.”

  Elizabeth went to the next window. She wanted to cover it too, b
lock out everything except the two of them in the bare room. The intimacy, or the possibility of intimacy, was so close she could taste it. She touched the cord. If she pulled it, it would be a signal.

  Richard’s voice startled her. “I have a client at noon,” he said, “so we should probably get started. Try a few angles, see what might be a good sequence.”

  She whirled around. He was pointing at the chair in front of the screen. “We could start with some close-ups of your hands, or maybe your neck. Just to see how it feels.”

  She stared at him. What had she thought would happen? She didn’t really know. But she would show herself. That, at least.

  As if he’d seen her disappointment, his face changed. “There’s no hurry,” he said. “It’s like Tai Chi.”

  Elizabeth shuddered. It was the gentleness, right on the heels of the business-like reminder that someone else—another woman?—would be taking her place at noon. The way he stood, arms at his side, relaxed.

  Shame sliced into her like a scythe. She’d paid a babysitter—for what? A fantasy that she hadn’t even admitted she was constructing, counting on?

  Then she tensed, struck by a new concern. She pictured the line of people—clients, models, whatever he called them—who would follow after she left. “Each of your sessions is private, right? No overlap, no one else sees what you’ve done?”

  “Of course,” he answered. “This is our project, yours and mine.” He gestured at the bare walls: See? I’m discreet. I guard my work. “Let’s try this, to begin with. Let me get to know your face.”

  “My face?”

  “Your face. It’s a good way to start.” He indicated the chair again. “You have such a lovely face, Elizabeth. Surely you know that.”

  Shame splashed over her again, then a spark of danger. Lovely face. Oh, he was smooth.

  She sat down. “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Nothing. Not till I tell you.” He went to the tripod and loosened the camera. Holding it in front of him, he circled her seated form. She could hear the soft clicks as he moved closer, then further away. “That’s good. You look very stern, just like Georgia.”

  “Stern,” she echoed. “It’s better than telling me to say cheese.”

  He crouched in front of her, shooting up into her neck and jaw. “If you look at the portraits he did of O’Keeffe, she never smiled. She was very confident and deliberate. Head high, strong, distinctive, even when she was naked.”

  The word naked made Elizabeth jump. He’d said it on purpose, she was certain. To see how she would react.

  Richard kept talking. “The more I think about it, I don’t think those photos would have had the same power without her collaboration, the way she used them to construct the identity she wanted to present to the world.”

  “It’s not clear that she meant for the world to see the photos. She posed for him. Stieglitz.”

  “Because he was her lover.”

  “Not in the beginning, when he first started taking pictures of her.”

  “It depends on how you define lover.” He lowered the camera. “I want to shoot your collarbones. Unbutton your shirt.”

  Elizabeth froze.

  “There’s a wonderful closeup of O’Keeffe’s neck and collarbones. I want to try it.”

  She swallowed. “All right.” She undid the top two buttons. The shirt dropped, baring her shoulders.

  “Perfect.” He moved in closer. “Ah, yes. I had the feeling your collarbones would be beautiful.” Before she could react, he touched the center of her sternum. “From there, Elizabeth.” She could scarcely breathe, pinned by his touch. “Let yourself open, right from here.”

  Elizabeth filled her lungs, trying to do what he said. “Yes. Good.” He undid one more button. “Another inch. Like a hint, an invitation to the viewer.” He took a step to the right, angling his camera. She heard the click of the shutter. Another click.

  Richard circled her again, his steps light, defining her by his gaze. If he looked at her shoulder, the shoulder existed. Midas of the flesh, beckoning her into sensation.

  Was this what she wanted? What he wanted? With a hoarse cry, she grabbed her shirt, pulling it tight. “I can’t.” Her voice caught, terror mixing with apology and regret.

  “You can,” he said quietly. “But not yet.” He let the camera drop to his side. “It’s all right. We’ll try again.”

  The word flew out of her mouth. “When?”

  “Whenever you’re ready.” His face was grave. “It’s up to you, Elizabeth.”

  She could hear Mr. Wu’s words, before her very first Tai Chi class, when she wanted to excuse herself in advance for her slowness, her clumsiness, her lack of experience. You try, he had told her. You try, and you can.

  “Whatever you want,” Richard repeated.

  “And if I don’t know what that is?”

  He smiled. “You will.”

  Twelve

  Elizabeth had just settled Daniel and Katie in front of a rerun of Curious George, promising herself that she wouldn’t use TV to keep them occupied for at least another week, when she heard a determined rapping on the front door.

  She needed a half-hour to finish grading her students’ papers— that was the point of Curious George—so she gave herself permission to ignore whoever was knocking. Someone with a menu for Chinese takeout or an earnest neighbor collecting signatures for a petition. She settled onto the couch, tapped the stack of papers against the coffee table, and gave Daniel and Katie a quick glance. An occasional TV show, like an occasional burger-and-fries, wouldn’t really hurt them. Besides, it was a lovable monkey, teaching them about friendship and forgiveness.

  Instead of stopping, the rapping got louder. Growing annoyed, Elizabeth dropped the papers onto the couch. She crossed the living room and yanked open the front door. Andrea stood in the hallway, extending a bag of overalls and tee shirts as if it were a bouquet. “Maybe Katie can use these?”

  Elizabeth took the bag from her sister’s outstretched hand. They didn’t show up at each other’s homes like this; visits were negotiated, planned. Puzzled, she stepped aside so Andrea could enter.

  “Hardly worn,” Andrea explained. “Stephanie wouldn’t be caught dead in anything but a frilly dress—a frilly pink dress—when she was that age. Maybe Katie can get some use out of them.”

  Elizabeth peered into the canvas bag. “She might, if she thought it would make her look like her brother. She yearns to catch up with him—except when she’s yearning to climb back into the womb.” She lifted a blue-and-white striped tee shirt from the stack of neatly-folded garments. “When I potty-trained her, she insisted on standing up to pee because, of course, that’s what Daniel does.”

  Andrea laughed, and Elizabeth dared to hope that, errand accomplished, Andrea would leave. She still had twenty-six minutes to get the essays read and reviewed. Then she heard the brittleness in her sister’s laugh and knew something was wrong. There was another reason for the surprise visit.

  She set the bag on the floor. “What is it, Andie?” Andrea bit her lip, and Elizabeth saw that it was quivering. “Come,” she said, leading her to the couch. She scooped up the student essays and tossed them onto the floor.

  Andrea sank into the cushions. “Today’s lesson. Be careful what you joke about. It might not be funny.”

  Elizabeth sat down next to her. “What do you mean?”

  “Michael.”

  She started to ask what about Michael, but suddenly she knew. She remembered Andrea’s quip about new little tricks in bed, picked up somewhere. Her confidence that an affair, if Michael ever had one, was a challenge she could handle by turning up the heat at home. “Shit.”

  “In a word.”

  Elizabeth thought of the way Michael had looked at Andrea when they had pizza. “It’s not possible.”

  “Except that it is.”

  “You really think he’s playing around? Cheating on you?”

  “I know he is.”

  “Oh
sweetie.” Elizabeth wanted to gather her sister into her arms, but Andrea’s proud icy glare sent a clear warning. Don’t you dare feel sorry for me. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Everything.” Andrea looked irritated now, as if she shouldn’t have to list her reasons. “The usual. Working late, quote unquote. Little things that someone else might not notice, but I do.”

  Elizabeth’s mind was reeling. She never seen her sister like this, acting hard yet clearly vulnerable, and in the very area that had always been her domain. Every possible response felt stupider than the next. You poor thing. It will be all right. He’s a prick anyway. Michael had punched a hole in her sister’s world. Words couldn’t knit it back together.

  She glanced at Daniel and Katie again, hoping they weren’t listening. They didn’t seem to be. Their attention was fixed on the TV at the other end of the room.

  Get curious (curious) and that’s marvelous (marvelous)

  And that’s your reward, you’ll never be bored

  Was that really what she’d chosen for her children to watch this morning? Go ahead, leap before you look. It’s all too marvelous to resist, so don’t.

  Less than twenty-four hours ago she was unbuttoning her shirt in Richard’s studio. Curious Georgia. Wanting to be marvelous, but afraid to take the next step. Michael, apparently, hadn’t been.

  As if on cue, Katie gave a gleeful laugh. “Curie,” she chirped, pointing at the screen.

  “Curie-us,” Daniel said smugly. “He’s like a person, only he doesn’t wear any clothes.”

  Elizabeth closed her eyes. Who was writing their dialogue?

  Then she blinked, returning her focus to her sister. Andrea, who had done the unimaginable by appearing in her doorway with wet eyes and trembling lips.

  Andrea was twisting her hair into a tight coil. Her mouth was twisted too. Again, Elizabeth wanted to pull her into an embrace, and this time she did. Andrea’s back was stiff, her arms unyielding, and after a moment she broke away.

  “Don’t baby me. I needed to vent, that’s all.”

  More words crowded into Elizabeth’s mind. Whatever you need. I’m here for you. More useless phrases, because something huge and unthinkable was happening—as if gravity had reversed itself and tables, chairs, cars, were flying off into space. As if things had lost their names.