Clearly, there were professional people — tradesmen — to whom Hobie might turn, if he could not wield a hammer and nail himself. What did he want? She recalled his caution when they’d been alone together. Maybe he genuinely wanted her opinion? He even liked her, as a person, found her interesting? He’d actually said Interesting. He actually said You are clever.
“That would be lovely,” she said, because she knew her art, didn’t she, she had instinct, and he was going to recommend her for a job at a gallery, a museum, Sotheby’s. Maybe he would even ask to see her art, and he’d become a benefactor, a patron, not necessarily a lover, or perhaps a lover in a sophisticated way, he’d appreciate the arterial quality emerging in her work, and there’d be a year in Paris, an attic studio in Montparnasse where the artists lived, or a light-filled loft near Ida Shultz.
Rosie stood in front of the mirror. Her belly was only slightly convex. Still, she felt a heaviness in her pelvis, like a bad period, and her waist had thickened. She went through her clothes, she didn’t have many, she couldn’t afford them on her student’s stipend and was not one of those women who instinctively understood clothes, who threw this on with that and looked chic, iconic. Sometimes, she caught her reflection in the mirror or a shop window and was crushed by how disordered she appeared. She was slim and long-limbed, but clothes did not flatter her. Even Bennett said she looked better naked.
Blue leggings, she decided at last, Bennett’s blue Brooks Brothers shirt with the French cuffs over a white tank top. The Ralph Lauren espadrilles. Even though one was too small, she had only sneakers otherwise. Hair up in a clip, trace of mascara, no other make-up. She studied herself in the mirror, then pulled a tendril of her hair loose. If someone reached up and undid the sliver clip, such hair would tumble down, cascade into their hands.
Ascending along the line of cedar trees that bordered the gravel track from the boathouse, Rosie then cut through to the gardens that spilled over lawns and terraces. In the hazy summer morning light, these were voluptuous, impressionistic — subtle constraint countered wild abandon. The profusion of flowers and greenery obeyed the unseen gardener who tamed them gently — one of those cowboys who whispered to their horses instead of beating them into submission. She could just make him out, by the shed, fixing one of the mowers.
The veranda door was open, Hobie standing in the door, framed by purple wisteria. “Thank you for coming, Rosie.”
“I wouldn’t miss the opportunity to see that painting again.”
“And the older gentleman who owns it?”
Her armpits prickled, she was suddenly wary. But also flattered. “Is he here?” She gazed around enquiringly. “Can I meet him?”
Hobie laughed. They moved inside. Somewhere, there was the sound of a vacuum cleaner — Rosie doubted Mitzi was at the helm. They reached the main reception area as Selena appeared in her maid’s costume.
“Selena, dear, could you bring us coffee in my study?”
Hobie’s study was on the lower level. In a normal house, this would be the basement. But here it was a kind of Bat Cave replete with pool table, card table, dart board. Nothing so trashy as a wet bar, but a hand-carved, antique mahogany bar along one wall and sofas and chairs covered in a masculine dark hunter-green plaid. The same green covered the ceiling and walls above darkly stained wood paneling, but with the light from the ocean and sky, the room avoided being gloomy. Folders and papers smothered the surface of Hobie’s vast teak desk. No doubt from his bankers, his board members. Books spilled out of the book shelves, stood in piles on the floor.
He swept his hand out. “What do you think?”
She bit her lip. “The light isn’t good in here, though.”
They went back upstairs — almost colliding with Selena and the coffee. “We’ll have it in the drawing room instead,” Hobie told her.
“I can take it,” Rosie made an attempt on the tray.
Selena’s eyes widened and she tightened her grip. “Miss, no —”
“Really, I can —”
There was an awkward tug-of-war. Hobie touched Rosie’s waist, “Selena can carry the tray.”
Triumphant, Selena led the way. She settled the gleaming silver tray on the coffee table and fluffed a few of the cushions before exiting.
“Don’t mess with Selena,” Hobie mock-whispered.
“I just wanted to help.”
“She is the help.”
“Right.”
“We pay her well. Don’t feel guilty.” He poured the coffee. Even the cups were exquisite — green and gold dragons frolicked on a pale orange background. There was a side plate of delicate ginger biscuits. Homemade. The silver tray was covered with a starched white cloth. How did it get so white, so clean, Rosie wondered.
“You’re very wealthy,” she said.
“I am.”
“What’s it like?”
“What do you mean?”
“You can have anything you want.”
“Not true.”
She waited for him to glance at her and say, I can’t have you. Instead he said: “People like me can buy anything without thinking about what we might really want. Let alone need. And then we just end up feeling deeply unsatisfied but with lots of stuff.”
“Why did you buy the painting?”
“I didn’t know. I was just drawn to it. And then you said what you did about the couple being imprisoned, and I understood my attraction.”
“Are you imprisoned?”
Hobie regarded her. “I can’t tell if you’re fearless or naïve. I suppose, being young, you are both.”
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“I have bad manners.”
“Did Bennett tell you that?”
“My grandmother.”
“I’m suspicious of manners,” Hobie went on. “Especially good ones.”
“But you have good manners.”
“Exactly.”
Without warning nausea welled up Rosie’s throat, and she stood, needing immediate escape. She banged the tray with her knee and the coffee clattered and spilled. “I’m so sorry —” The coffee was dripping from her onto the plush cream carpet. She pulled off Bennett’s shirt.
“No, leave it —”
But she kept dabbing at the coffee with the hem of the shirt, apologizing, “Sorry, sorry, sorry, oh —”
“Selena will —”
At last he grabbed her hand. “Leave it!”
Was he going to kiss her? Were they about to become lovers?
But he let her go. Abruptly, he said: “What do you know about Bennett?”
Rosie felt the wet dark stain of the coffee on her thigh. Having charted this course, Hobie was bound to continue, and Rosie sensed this was why he’d brought her here and not because of the painting at all, not because of the job at Sotheby’s.
Hobie sighed as he spoke, “He’s troubled, you know.”
What did that mean? Troubled. Like a boy who hurts cats.
“We help him. Well, Mitzi, really. It’s her sense of loyalty. She’s very loyal.”
The coffee stain seemed to come from inside Rosie, as if she was leaking this dark fluid, staining the sofa. What would Mitzi say when she saw the mess?