Queen of the Owls Page 26

  “Elizabeth.” He put his hand on her waist.

  The gesture was shocking, intimate. She wanted to fling off his hand, and she wanted him to move it down the length of her hip. Oh, she hated him, hated him for exciting her like that.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  He didn’t move his hand. “Of course.”

  She had assumed they would go to the café but there was no reason, really, not to say what she had to right there in the street.

  He was waiting for her to speak, letting her decide. Elizabeth was acutely, achingly, aware of his hand on her waist. She knew he wouldn’t remove it. Not unless she told him to.

  Then she straightened her shoulders. “I don’t care what story you’re telling yourself,” she said, keeping her eyes on his, “about how I consented to your little exhibit, just because I didn’t say: ‘Oh, by the way, in case you were thinking of displaying my body at some art gallery, please don’t.’”

  His fingers burned through the fabric, all the way to her skin. She could hear Georgia’s words, like a distant call: I’ve been absolutely terrified every moment of my life, and I’ve never let it keep me from doing a single thing that I wanted to do.

  “Obviously I didn’t say no,” she went on, “because you never bothered to ask. You assumed.”

  “I didn’t have to ask. They’re my photos.”

  “They’re photos of me.”

  “You were the subject. The subject doesn’t own the art.”

  A cold, cold thing to say. As if she were a vase or an pear in a still-life. Not a woman.

  He dropped his hand. Elizabeth felt its absence, as if someone had snatched a child out of her arms.

  She wouldn’t let him turn her defiance back into longing. “You might own the photos,” she said, her voice sharpening, “but you don’t own the person in them. Not my hopes, my sensations. Not any part of me.” She felt her spine stretch, pulling her upward, the way it had during the Tai Chi class. “You act like you do. Like you had the right to play with me.” She took a step closer. “Why? Why did you do that?”

  The street was quiet, only the whoosh of a passing car, the grinding of brakes. The streetlamp threw a circle of orange onto the pavement.

  Then he shrugged, an ironic oh well—and Elizabeth understood that he had known exactly how she was responding when she posed. It hadn’t been innocent flirting. It couldn’t be innocent, because he’d seen what it was doing to her and he’d let it continue.

  “It was a collaboration,” he said. “Like Stieglitz and O’Keeffe. That was what you wanted, right?”

  Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and didn’t answer.

  “We were partners,” Richard went on. “I saw how you were letting yourself open, savoring your own sexuality, enjoying your desire. It was beautiful to see, and it was good for you. You know that, Elizabeth.”

  She waited, daring him to put the rest of it into words. “And yes,” he admitted, “it was good for my photos. It made them quite extraordinary. My best work yet.”

  She wanted to slap him then. His best work yet. Achieved by using her, stealing from her, humiliating her in a way that even exposing her body hadn’t done.

  Richard tilted his head, studying her with those smoldering grey eyes. “You did go to see them, didn’t you? You saw for yourself?”

  Elizabeth couldn’t believe his obtuseness. “No, I did not. And I don’t intend to.”

  “Are you afraid of them?”

  “I’m angry about them.”

  “Don’t be,” he said. “It was a good experience, for both of us.”

  “Don’t speak for me.”

  “Then speak for yourself. Say what you really feel.”

  “How about what you really feel?” She took another step, closing the distance between them. “Do you like objectifying women? Does it make you feel big and powerful?”

  “I didn’t objectify you. I showed you to yourself.”

  “And to everyone else.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “It matters to me.”

  “Then you might try letting it matter in a positive way,” he said. “Being proud of what you did, of who you are.”

  Oh, for god’s sakes. Was the man living on another planet?

  Why had she let herself get pulled into this? It was Andrea’s fault. Go for it, she had urged. If men can do it, so can we. And Phoebe’s fault, for flaunting what she had. Or Georgia’s, because she’d done it first. Ben’s fault. Someone’s.

  No. No one else’s choice. She’d wanted it. That was what she had told her students, and it was true. She had wanted to pose, to be seen and known. By Richard. By someone. But she hadn’t wanted him to put her body on a gallery wall. They were two different things.

  She drew herself upward again. “Your turn to be honest, Richard. During that good experience—the one I should be so proud of, the one you captured in your extraordinary photographs—what was going on in you?” She lifted her chin. “Did you want to have sex with me?”

  “I want to have sex with every woman I see naked.” Another smile, innocent and disarming.

  Then he held up his palm, halting whatever she was about to say. “I don’t mean to be flippant. It’s just a fact. It doesn’t mean I do have sex with them. In general, I don’t.”

  “How noble of you.”

  “It’s not personal, Elizabeth. I’ve just learned not to complicate things when it comes to my art.”

  How could it not be personal? She was a person, and that made it personal. She wasn’t part of some vague them that he wanted to fuck, but didn’t.

  And yet. There was a new awareness, opening slowly. It spread through her like water.

  If it really wasn’t personal—his seductive behavior, as well as his ultimate restraint—it meant there was nothing lacking in her, specifically, that made him hold back. She was just as foxy and alluring as the unnamed them who were too complicated to sleep with.

  You were as foxy as you let yourself be. Georgia knew that. She had told the world: You get whatever accomplishment you’re willing to declare.

  Richard was watching her. She could feel the keenness of his interest, as tangible as a touch. Her skin tingled from where his palm had been. That hand on her waist had been deliberate. It hadn’t been intended to uncomplicate things.

  “Of course, we’re not making art anymore.” His words were soft, languid, belying the shock of their meaning.

  A black car glided past, silent as an eel. The silence seemed to spread, filling the street, as Elizabeth felt something gather inside her. A sensation of her own existence, her mass, spacious and full. This very body, the container of herself.

  She could feel her desire, pushing through her limbs. And her desirability. That was why he was looking at her like that.

  The sensation was lovely, delicious. But that wasn’t what was making her feel so extraordinary. It was a new understanding, blooming for the first time, like one of Georgia’s flowers.

  She was desirable whether he saw her that way or not. Richard’s gaze didn’t determine her desirability, nor did Ben’s. They had nothing to do with this quality that was hers, part of her.

  I claim this.

  The car’s tail lights threw a red shimmer across Richard’s elegant form. Elizabeth released her breath. “You’re not going to remove those photos, are you?”

  Of course not. She had known that from the moment she faced him in the street.

  She looked at him, taking in everything. “Nothing more to talk about, then.”

  With a nod, almost a bow, she brushed past him, the way Marion had brushed past her, and walked away.

  Twenty-Four

  As soon as Elizabeth opened the door to the apartment, she knew something was wrong. It was the quiet. Ben was in his usual spot on the couch but the TV was off, not even the rustling of a newspaper or the rattling of ice in a glass to break the stillness. He wasn’t doing anything except waiting for her.

  Cautiously, she
circled the couch and sat down across from him. “Kids asleep?”

  “Of course they’re asleep.” Elizabeth could hear his irritation. It was long past their bedtime. Did she think he’d forgotten to put them to bed?

  She smoothed the edge of the upholstery, her discomfort growing. Maybe he had figured out that there was something fishy about her stalled-delivery-van story and was angry at her for missing the play. Being Ben, maybe he had gone on some traffic accident website, googled the date and location, and caught her in a lie. Or maybe her ridiculous explanation about the coat drive had nagged at him until he brought it up with Michael, who confirmed his suspicion that she had something to hide. Ben hated people who tried to cover up what they had done. That was why this whole Wyckoff-Solano business had gotten to him.

  Ben’s next sentence sliced through the air like a scythe. “For fuck’s sake, Elizabeth, what were you thinking?”

  She scrambled to catch up. Her mind was still on the play, the times she’d been late coming home from Tai Chi, the landlord-tenant case—

  “Your little modeling career,” Ben snapped. “It’s not much of a secret. Except from me, of course.”

  The photos. Harold and Marion finding out—it made sense, because of that damn Naomi and the student Facebook page. But she’d never imagined it would get back to Ben. How in the world had Ben learned about Naomi’s post?

  “Your dear friend Phoebe,” he said, answering the question that must be written across her face. “She left quite an interesting message.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes flew to the phone, upright in its perch on the end table. Ben clamped a hand over the receiver—a harsh, possessive movement that shocked her almost as much as his words. “I’m sure it didn’t occur to her that I’d listen to the message before you did. It was supposed to be a bit of girl-to-girl chatter. Made me feel like calling her back and spoiling her fun.”

  “Why are you being so nasty? It’s not like you.”

  “Really? You’re sure you know what’s like me? Apparently I don’t know what’s like you.”

  Elizabeth tried to calm her racing pulse. This strange, aggressive Ben frightened her. “You talked to her? Phoebe?”

  “I couldn’t get to the phone. I was too busy putting our children to bed.”

  Oh, fuck you.

  “Just tell me what she said.”

  Ben’s face was dark. “Phoebe called with an idea about what we could do on Saturday. For fun.” He pressed the button for messages and folded his arms. Phoebe’s cheerful, bell-like tones invaded the room.

  “We do a monthly maintenance check on our clients’ websites— you know, to monitor usage, see if someone’s been trying to hack in? Well, one of our clients has this fabulous art gallery. He does the updates himself, but we do the security stuff.”

  Elizabeth’s skin turned cold. She knew what was coming.

  “So I noticed he had a couple of new exhibits. One of them was photography, and I remembered the photographer’s name from when you told me about him, that guy from Tai Chi? Mr. Ferris Wheel. Seems his show has something to do with Georgia O’Keeffe, so I figured, wow, that’s right up your alley. There’s a link to Ferris’s website but I didn’t have time to check it out. Sounds cool, though. We could get a glass of wine, do the art thing? Anyway, see what you think—the gallery’s called On View—and let me know.”

  End of message. To listen again—

  Ben clicked the button, and the recording stopped.

  “So you did,” Elizabeth said. “You checked it out.”

  “Oh yes.”

  She braced herself for the rest.

  “It was the reference to Tai Chi that piqued my curiosity,” he said, “and the whole furtive way you’ve been acting lately. And then the Ferris Wheel. I remembered Daniel talking about a Ferris Wheel man who took pictures. I figured he must have overheard something. So I looked up On View, and I found Mr. Ferris.” He curled his lip. “And you.”

  There was no point in protesting that the model wasn’t identified. Ben knew what her body looked like.

  “I’ll repeat my question, Elizabeth. What the fuck were you thinking?”

  She wanted to laugh. That was the irony. She hadn’t been thinking. For once, she had been responding from pure embodied longing, not from thought.

  “You think it’s funny? A big joke? My clients aren’t going to think so.” His eyes blazed with anger. “I don’t suppose it ever occurred to you—how this insanity of yours would affect me, my credibility, my whole reputation. People seeing my wife on display like some kind of sleazy centerfold.”

  Elizabeth drew back, stunned. With everything that had happened, how could you do this to me was the last response she’d expected. “Really? That’s your biggest worry? Your image?”

  “My ability to argue my cases.”

  “You mean: what people will think.”

  “What people will think affects you too. Our friends, our families.”

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What about you, Ben? Not other people. You.” She could see anger and humiliation contort his features. Good. At least she’d made him feel something.

  “What the hell am I supposed to think,” he spat, “when my wife acts so flat-out adolescent and inconsiderate?”

  Elizabeth struggled to put herself in his shoes. Shocked, embarrassed, confused—those reactions made sense. Hurt that she hadn’t told him what she was doing. As if she could have. But this nastiness, the way he was judging her as if she were his enemy—she’d never dreamed that would be the first emotion she would make him feel, after ten years of polite coexistence.

  “Look,” she began. “I’m sorry if I blindsided you.”

  “If? What kind of bullshit is if?”

  She flinched, and Ben threw her a look of disgust. “You might have talked to me before you decided to ridicule me in front of the whole community.”

  Elizabeth told herself that none of this was his fault, he’d done nothing to deserve it—until her empathy gave way to exasperation. Why did he keep sounding this one petulant and self-righteous note, making it all about him? Surely, he felt something besides rage. A glimmer of curiosity about how and why the cerebral wife he knew could have done such a thing?

  Ben had asked what she was thinking, when she posed. What the fuck were you thinking was more of an accusation than a question, and yet—what if she told him, tried to make him understand? It was an astonishing idea, but it filled her with hope.

  His next words cut through that hope. “Did you sleep with him?”

  Elizabeth didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It was a question any husband would ask. And Ben, like any husband, probably assumed that she had. After all, the photos she’d imitated were a testimony to Stieglitz’s passion for the woman who was his lover. The woman in the photos knew that. Proud, unapologetic, she proclaimed her sexual power, just as Stieglitz, behind the camera, proclaimed his.

  That was why the photos had drawn her. Richard had seen that. But unlike Stieglitz, he hadn’t entered the portraits himself.

  No, she hadn’t slept with Richard. Had it been up to her, all those weeks, she would have. If that was Ben’s real question, then the answer was yes. Yes, everything in her that mattered had been unfaithful. She yearned to say yes, to have the right to say yes.

  If she lied and said she had, it would confirm what Ben already believed. She could own what she had longed for.

  On the other hand, if she told the truth, no I didn’t, he would think she was lying. He saw her as a liar now. He wasn’t wrong; she had lied.

  There was no good response. Finally she sighed. “Does it matter?”

  It was the question Richard had asked when she protested that others had seen her, without her agreement. She had told him, “It matters to me.”

  She thought Ben would say the same thing. Yes, it matters to me if another man touched my wife. Saw her. Entered her.

  To her surprise, he didn’t. “What matters,” he said,
“is dealing with the mess you’ve created.”

  He must have seen the shock on her face because he glared back. “I’m being practical, even if you won’t be. We need to contain the damage. If Phoebe knew about the exhibit, others will too.”

  This calculating stranger unnerved her. He was acting like a crusader, not like a husband—moving right past his concern that she might have slept with another man, straight to damage control. A man who loved her would never have been able to do that.

  Elizabeth stared at him, incredulous and beseeching. Don’t you love me at all? Doesn’t it hurt to think of someone else seeing me?

  Something flickered across Ben’s face—a stab of pain, as if he’d heard her unvoiced question. Because yes, it did hurt, and he couldn’t bear it? Or no, it didn’t, not really, and that realization was just as terrible?

  His expression shifted again, too swiftly for Elizabeth to know which it was. Then he thinned his lips. “It never crossed my mind that you could do something so irresponsible. In all the years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen a hint of that kind of careless exhibitionism.”

  You’ve never known me.

  He gave a humorless sniff. “I’d be curious to know how he got you to step out of character like that. It must have been the O’Keeffe business, though I wouldn’t have expected you to fall for something so derivative.”

  Derivative. A spiteful way to put it. Well, no one wanted to be the betrayed spouse.

  Elizabeth understood. Another man might have struck a wife who had humiliated him, or thrown a lamp, or stormed out of the house. But Ben was using words as his weapon because words were how they related to each other.

  Sorrow wrapped itself around her like a cloak. “Ben,” she began. He knew she wasn’t an exhibitionist. Surely, that fragment of truth could be salvaged from their conversation. “I never meant for those photographs to be on public display. No one wants them taken down more than I do.” It was what she had told Harold.