No Art Without Sin

By D K Smith

This is a novel of the art world: equal parts love, ambition, and betrayal. Weland Tilyard used to say he had given the gift of sex to the heartland: paintings whose erotic charge was subdued to such beauty and warmth that it became a kind of innocence. It made him famous. But when he cranked into motion the whole elaborate machinery of public a

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cedar Point Press
• Release date: Apr 2, 2024
• ISBN: 9798985194128

D K Smith

David K. Smith, University of Exeter, UK

Book preview

Prologue

He would have invented the aunt if he’d had to he tells her, and she laughs.

This is four hours into the drive and they are just entering the Adirondacks, heading north. The landscape is so harshly beautiful, so starkly uninhabited, there is clearly no turning back. He would have stolen the car, he says. He would have made up the whole trip on the spot. And she says with a widening smile, Well, I’m glad you didn’t have to.

She had been standing in front of the Ride Board dressed in overalls and a flannel shirt, as if debating between a day in the fields or floating down a river on a raft. In that first glimpse she looks like an adventure already underway. Her dark hair is curly and cut too short, turning her jaw stubborn and her nose into a dainty thumb. She is looking for her destination. Northeast. Far northeast. The map doesn’t really go that far; it stops with New York State. So she lets the label hover over the blank wastes of Ontario, and the boy says, Oh. I wouldn’t go up there alone. It’s a wilderness.

Half-turning she smiles. This is all part of that moment in her life when everything is on the verge. I’m not planning to go alone. I’m planning to find a ride.

Well, he says. This could be your lucky day.

He doesn’t tell her he has only just arrived on campus. That he’s never done anything like this before. He has come halfway across the country to spend his junior year in upstate New York, not just for a new town but a new life. And here he is, suddenly, a completely different person.

How far are you going? she asks.

All the way. I’m visiting my aunt. She lives beyond All Expectations.

And now she eyes him appraisingly. She sounds like a remarkable woman.

It’s a town, he says. Up there. And he lays a finger on the blank space north of the border, not so very far from hers.

Isn’t that something, she says. And if there isn’t actually a smile on her lips, that certainly doesn’t detract from them.

"And what is your destination?" he asks with a new touch of formality.

I’m heading beyond my wildest dreams. Do you think you can drive that far?

I think maybe I can.

It’s near a town called Pont-de-Galliard, Ontario. Ever hear of it?

And surely he can be forgiven for thinking he is simply putting himself in the hands of fate. The very place, he says. I’ll introduce you to my aunt.

He has borrowed his landlords’ car, an ancient red Saab. He met them the week before—a brother and sister—and the town being empty, they have become friendly. How long will you need it? the sister asks.

Not long. A day or two.

They drive for seventeen hours through light and then darkness. They talk easily from the beginning, lapsing comfortably into silence. As the fatigue and caffeine kick in they grow punchy, laughing over nothing, and periodically they get out and stretch, walking among the trees and picnic tables as if they have never seen anything so primly beautiful. He never wants to stop. He’d have driven on forever, if he could; put everything but this behind him.

They come to the border, and that, too, is a kind of omen—rising out of the darkness like a roadblock and then opening like a gate. The last stretch is down a gravel road winding through cedars and spruce. They follow little flashes of color painted on the tree trunks: a number 4 in a shade of blue made famous years before at the Venice Biennale with a painting called Blue Spruce Sunset—a graceful, self-absorbed woman climbing into a claw-footed tub while, through the wide window, a distant scrub tree catches the last of the light.

Four what? he asks.

The Gang of Four. Don’t you know anything? She speaks gaily, nervously, because they are coming to the end and because she, too, thinks her life is about to change.

The edge of a lake. The headlights die away. Water shines pale as mercury through the black trees. Climbing out they stand vibrating from the road, the blank surface endless in all directions but one. In the middle distance the rounded hillside of an island lies perhaps a hundred yards off shore.

There are no phones on the island. No electricity. No reception. She is glancing around. There’s supposed to be a bell.

There.

With a smile she reaches up and lifts a large copper cowbell from a broken branch. The night seems much too silent for such a thing. The breeze makes him aware of his skin, and then of hers—a sharp peppery scent after hours in the car. Almost without thought he steps behind her and gently slips his arms around her waist. Over the warm flannel shirt, beneath the loose bib of the overalls.

So that’s how it is, she murmurs. What are you going to do? Are you going to fuck me right here?

And, of course, he is undone, suddenly reduced to himself. All bluff and dry throat. I would, he says, but you’re holding a cow bell.

I could put it down.

It’s a joke, of course. Of course it is. Though the further he gets from that moment the more he wonders. The years will go by and he will imagine himself back there, again and again, replaying that moment. A different person with an entirely different life to follow.

But now, with an instant’s hesitation that places all the burden of disappointment squarely on his timid, pounding heart, she laughs. And turning, she slips out from under his hands and rings the clanging, clamorous bell as if determined to wake an entire town.

From across the pale expanse comes the thump and rattle of a boat. And like a snake on the water a length of rope cuts the surface, pulling taut against the trunk of a tree. They are still waiting for the sound of rowing when the boat appears. There is a small cloaked figure in the bow, a woman, drawing herself forward hand over hand as if gathering all that motion out of the air. Is that you, Beatrice? We were expecting just the one of you.

This is my friend Ash. He gave me a ride. He’s on his way to his aunt’s.

Is he? Well, isn’t that lucky.

The boat shifts on the water. The boy steps up. Should I do anything?

Just the bags, and then yourselves. I’m Professor Chalmers. Once we get to the island you can call me Margery.

He steadies it while Bea climbs in. Then he tries to shove off as he steps inside, but the rope snags against the tree and he stumbles.

Is this your first time in a boat? asks the woman.

No.

First time on an island?

If you don’t count North America.

Well, hold onto something. No, not like that. We’re facing this way, now. Do be careful! I’ve never yet met a man who could move with any grace.

Sorry.

Take the rope. Gently, she warns. Have you ever milked a cow?

No.

Good. She would have hated it.

There is one main house and two out-buildings, all masked amid the trees and night. The stove and fridge are propane, the lanterns are kerosene. During the day it looks like an ancient encampment, smoke-stained and low. At night it glows like a dream.

Margery opens the door, pouring out its lamplight, and steps inside. She removes her cloak. She wears a loosely flowing dress of silver and rose as if she’s come from a garden party a hundred years ago, though the fingers of her right hand are smudged black and she holds them away from her dress with unconscious care. Come in. Sit down. Leave your bags on the porch. No talking now. It’s the sketching hour.

It is a vast room of fire light and ancient pine walls, with a stone hearth like a monument at one end. There are five easels arranged in a wide circle. Margery takes possession of one. At the others, four men—no, three men and a woman—in evening dress: black pants, black dinner jackets, white shirts. Two are short, one is tall, and one is in the middle. They lean forward over their sketch pads while, in the center of the circle, a naked woman stands frowning into the distance. Her hip is cocked, one knee bent, one hand reaching up to the opposite shoulder. Her thighs are lean, her hips square, her skin pale as marble in the golden light.

All right. One more minute. And there is a little flurry of finishing.

I think classical this time, says the woman in the tuxedo.

All right. This is the man who is neither short nor tall. Classical please, Joan. And now. Change.

Pages turn. The model stretches like a runner before a heat, bringing each knee up to her chest then bending low, straight-legged and hugging her knees to her breasts. The artists watch impatiently. When she straightens up she steps into the pose of a striding athlete, caught mid-motion like one of Degas’ dancers.

Margery clears her throat. Classical please, Joan.

Sorry.

The model reaches down and peels off what turns out to be a little merkin of dark pubic hair, leaving her body smooth as a statue. For a moment she stands uncertainly as it clings to her fingers, wispy and dark. Then she holds it out to Bea. Careful, she says with a smile. It’s delicate.

Bea is transported. How could she not be? The firelight. The soft sounds of water in the distance. She is eager for her life to change, and, of course, it does. It already has. Though not in the way she hopes. Each time she remembers this night it will mean something different.

PART ONE

The Birth of Harold

1.

Like any great work of art the Taft Hotel Bar in Ashdown, New York was more fantasy than real and more ego than either. An ostentatiously large room of wood-paneling and gilt, it had once been part of the great New York hotel—temporary home to presidents and kings since 1891. But over the years the Taft had come down in the world, and then abruptly it was just coming down.

Francis Buckton Bennett, whose father, also Francis, had been the Baking Powder King of Milwaukee, was having one last lunch. He was dining with Garry Wilson, chair of the Ashdown College Art Department, and an up-and-coming painter Garry was trotting out for potential donors. Weland Tilyard (just one 'e' and it rhymes with zeal) had won a prize at the Venice Biennale, though that made no impression on Francis. He was facing unresolved tax issues and thought the time had come to complete his father’s proposed bequest to his alma mater. He wanted the result to be impressive, but not overly so. His feelings for his father were as unresolved as the taxes.

You should give us this place, Weland suggested without so much as a blush.

What would you do with a hotel? Paint it?

Not the hotel. And he gestured around at the elegant bar. This would make a splash.

In the years afterward no one knew whether he’d expected to be taken seriously. Certainly the Ashdown Development Office turned collectively pale at the prospect of a $20 million donation going to such a thing. But by that time the idea had taken hold.

They took the restaurant apart like a baroque cathedral, transporting it to the wilds of Southern New York and reassembling it among the trees and dairy farms. The bequest made the front page of the Times and then—over the course of its installation—every Arts Section in the country. The building was a trick of the mind. A simple stone box, in the dim light of an overcast afternoon you’d be forgiven for thinking it was a modern eyesore amid the brick and clapboard quaintness of the town. But it became more magical the closer you drew.

A two-story cube of honey-colored granite inset with marble panels translucent as mother of pearl—in the daylight you wanted to walk up and touch it. But, oh, at night. The interior lights glowed through the eggshell walls, turning the whole stone box into a lantern. Step inside the big bronze doors, and you were back in the Gilded Age.

It won three major prizes the year it opened; fifteen less lofty awards from all around the world. And though no one remembers the architect, it nestled the little town of Ashdown into the gently curving hands of the world’s awareness and made Weland the object of hushed reverence among foundations, philanthropists, and students of beauty up and down the country. It didn’t move the college any closer to the city. But it shifted its gravitational center toward the heart of the art world and carried Weland right along with it.

Though that was a long time ago.

Now, it was 4:55 on a Thursday afternoon, and the bar was nearly empty. Two men sat in the midst of all that grandeur, too far apart for conversation. One had arrived five minutes before, the other had been drinking for hours, though you wouldn’t want to guess which one. The older man was beautifully tailored in a grey silk suit and somber bowtie. His hair was carefully cut, greying to an almost perfect match for the suit. His mustache had been grown to make him look older, back when it was necessary, and now he didn’t want to change the brand.

The second man might have been sleeping outside the bar until it opened, though in fact he had only just arrived in town. He was dressed in black—pants, vest, jacket—all grown a little shabby with time. His hair was lank, his face desperately unshaven. He sat reading a book to distract himself from the glass of beer standing perfect and untasted before him.

Across the room Weland—for of course it was Weland—took another sip of his martini and, like a man unaccustomed to quiet, said, It’s not going to drink itself.

The stranger didn’t bother to look up. Three more minutes and it won’t have to.

I haven’t seen you in here before.

First time.

Beautiful place, isn’t it?

Beautiful.

It took me a long time to get it just right.

The man considered that for a moment. And with the final tick of the clock above the bar he picked up his beer and drained it as if pouring it on a fire.

Weland considered the desperate face, the shabby clothes, the faint scent of smoke clinging to him like the memory of some disaster. On the bar beside the empty glass stood an old cardboard shoebox. Weland loved a telling detail. What’s in the box?

What box?

"You look like a Degas. The Absinthe Drinker. All the world’s dreariness made flesh. Or even Manet. Such a tight-ass, but what a line. Don’t tell me. You’re a traveling salesman, but you’ve fallen on hard times."

The man looked up at the clock and signaled for another beer.

Weland leaned forward. No, wait. An out-of-work actor. No, an undertaker.

Close enough.

And what a nice surprise in this day and age. A reader.

The man tilted the book in his hand as if he’d forgotten. A modest battered volume with a cover the texture of a brown paper bag and a title that might have been typed across. The Wide Bed by Childe Harold. I picked it up at the Inn.

How do you like it? The book, that is. Not the inn.

Too early to say. Why?

Weland smiled. I’m just surprised you haven’t read it before. It made such a splash… what? Ten years ago? Twelve? People could not stop talking about it.

The man regarded the cover as if trying to locate the source of such tidal enthusiasm. I suppose you wrote it.

Oh, no. Well. In a manner of speaking. I think it’s a book almost anyone could write.

And you’re going to tell me why, aren’t you? He picked up the second beer and drained it, then held out the empty glass. Would you mind? I have a schedule to keep.

"Childe Harold is, of course, a nom de plume."

Two martinis had arrived, and the man considered his for a long moment as if comparing it in size to what had come before. Weland thought he might drain it like the beer, but instead he took a maidenly sip and set it down. Then he straightened himself for the task at hand. The hell you say.

Don’t get me wrong. Some parts are hot. But in the end, it’s just another story about sex.

The stranger eyed the unremarkable cover. You’d think they might mention that.

Eventually they did. In later editions there was a beautiful cover that told you everything you needed to know. But at first I think they were trying to give it a little cachet. Plain brown wrapper. Type face. You’ve got to admire them: trying to make sex dirty again. But there’s nothing much to it. A man and a woman. They fall in love. They have a frantic summer of passion. Then they break up.

Don’t give it away, the man said mildly.

"Don’t be silly. That’s every story since The Odyssey."

So it’s not worth reading?

Weland took a complacent sip. "It was when I got through with it. That’s the thing about a book. There’s almost nothing to it. Words on a page. But by the time I was finished, it was the hottest thing in America. Cover of Time, Art Forum, Entertainment Weekly."

I’m not a big reader, said the man, but I don’t remember your face.

My painting. You’d remember that, I guarantee it. The most famous image in the world that year. Well, he said modestly. The most famous art image. Posters, cards, magazines. And the cover of the book for its second printing. And third and fourth and fifth. I forget how many.

So you’re some kind of illustrator.

Oh, said Weland. So much more. I discovered it. And as soon as I read it I knew: this could be great. I was looking for something to make our mark. To bring us together.

Us?

The Gang of Four. You’ve heard of us.

I’m assuming you’re not a band.

"We were the biggest thing since Warhol. The next great voice in representational art. I can’t remember who said that. They all did, in the end. And I was the one who brought them together. Made them what they were. Though they won’t thank you for telling them so. If you can find them, that is. If they haven’t disappeared off the face of the earth."

And he seemed to consider that for a moment, as if enjoying the image.

I’ve always been ambitious. I’m not ashamed to say so. But this was more than even I could have imagined. And built on what?

You’re going to tell me ‘talent’, aren’t you?

Oh, said Weland brushing it aside. Talent, vision, drive, charisma. All that goes without saying. The Gang of Four? They’d still be painting their terrible landscapes if it weren’t for me. Well, not Jonathan, of course. But the rest of them. They needed me. But what did I need?

You cannot imagine, said the man, how desperate I am to hear. He held up his empty glass to the bartender.

A chance, said Weland. "That’s all. A fluke. A twist of fate. And I got it. Hell, I made it. I picked up that ridiculous book and made it great. It was nothing when I found it. A cult hit. A bit of elegant porn the literati could enjoy with a clear conscience. Even the author was embarrassed by it, hiding behind that ridiculous pseudonym. As if even the ghost of Lord Byron could save it. But I saved it. And I sure as hell didn’t hide behind anyone else’s name."

I believe you.

"I read it and I thought, this is my Elegy to the Spanish Republic. My Campbell’s Soup can. I knew it just like that. Just like that. And every step after. My God. It was like a flower that just kept opening and opening. People could not get enough. We were the light in their eyes, the word on their lips. When Joe from Peoria thought about art, this is what he thought. And then, just like that, it was over."

He sat frowning as if, even after all this time, the ending still caught him by surprise. How is that fair? That you only get one chance? How can that even be possible? Sometimes I think I’d give anything, a leg, an arm. Not my right arm, of course.

Your soul?

Of course my soul. If the devil walked up to me right now and said, Weland. You can have it all again—.

Weland, you can have it all again.

He blinked. How did you know my name?

Don’t be silly. You just told me.

Did I? And turning, he took in the unexpectedly steady gaze, the funereal suit, the lingering smell of smoke. Even a man less drunk than Weland might be forgiven for the thoughts that came to mind. But he didn’t take it back. Do you know what it’s like to be part of something so important? To be at the head of a wave sweeping the country? To know that everyone in the world is thinking of you?

It sounds exhausting.

It’s magnificent. It’s like you’re filled with light. When was the last time you were filled with light?

It’s been a while, the man conceded.

You think I wouldn’t sell my soul to have all that again?

I think you should be careful what you say. Nothing goes unheard. But wearily, reluctantly, as if he knew he was going to regret it: I suppose you have a picture.

All they had to do was walk down the bar. It was up there on the wall, a little smaller than expected and even more beautiful: a nude woman, golden and sunlit, reclining across a storm-tossed bed. A blue robe hanging over a chair provided the only color that didn’t seem drawn from the warmth of her hair and skin. She was tumbled into sleep, as if she had given herself up to all that must have just occurred. You could feel the rumpled dampness of the sheets, the heat of her skin, the wide pervading tenderness of a long summer afternoon.

The stranger stood, his glass forgotten, looking even shabbier and more bereft in the dawning light of wonder.

You’d read a book with her on the cover, wouldn’t you? said Weland.

I think I might.

You can see how she might change your life?

Maybe so.

Weland was smiling now. How would you like to meet her?

2.

They walked unsteadily through the uncertain night until a high white house glowed in the darkness beside a driveway roofed with trees. The back door was unlocked. Out of a cool evening smelling of pine needles and mown grass they stepped into the bright, fragrant world of breakfast.

The kitchen, old fashioned as a parlor, seemed to have made its journey unfaded from a world before television and frozen food. A long scuffed table, grandmotherly chairs—an ancient sofa, for heaven’s sake—all hemmed in by cupboards and appliances. And as if rebelling against all the antique comfort, a woman stood by the stove at the grumpy center of all that needed to be done.

She was grey-smocked beneath an elaborate white-ribboned cap and apron—a refugee housekeeper from some Orwellian past where work was freedom. But despite the weight of servitude, her face was shiningly composed: cheeks foundation-smooth, lips bright red, eyelids roundly shaded with an iridescent pink as glamorous as a tropical fish. She stood at the counter between a low basket of rumpled laundry and a wide frying pan, breaking egg-whites into a bowl.

Be warned, Weland murmured. It’s a house of women. And stepping forward with a widening smile, Good evening, Miss Isabel. How are you today?

She glanced up peevishly. Oh, no, Wheedle. Ar’ you here fo’ dinner? I’m gonna need mor’ eggs.

The voice was sharp but softly unfinished, as if the words couldn’t hold their edge under the force of all her scorn. But Weland was untroubled. Not to worry. We don’t eat much. Where is everybody? It’s the shank of the evening.

Mrs. Holliman is still asl’ep, she said, as if that were the last straw.

And, uh, Ms. Cooper?

Up in th’ studio.

Thank God, he breathed. I told you this was our lucky day. And making his way to the liquor cupboard he said, Now what do we have that’s open?

His companion was less at ease. Cowed by the brightness of the room he hovered in the doorway like a mouse caught suddenly in the open. Isabel frowned. Sooner or later people always made her impatient. Ar’ you coming in or not?

He looked startled to be addressed, but drunk as he was, his hands made a little swoop of movement, palms brushing together, two fingers bumping. Nice to meet you, he said.

Her glare turned cold, and one hand rose to adjust her cap over the little crescent shell of the hearing aid. Don’ do tha’!

What?

It’s impoli’.

What?

I’m no’ deaf!

She turned huffily back to her eggs, though out of the corner of her eye she followed him as, hunched and cautious, he moved toward the table. She felt a pang at her response—he looked so woeful. Was he hurt? Crippled? Something wrong with his back? Though as he sat down she realized it was only that he carried a shoebox hugged against his chest. He set it on the table.

After a moment she relented, her enunciation growing momentarily taut under the weight of good manners. I like your suit.

Thank you.

It looks old fashioned.

It belonged to someone before me. And maybe before him. I’m not sure.

Have you had it a long time?

Long time.

Thos’ are nice buttons.

Are you a fan of buttons?

She shrugged, but she considered the idea. They were small, fabric-covered, crowded a little fussily along the placket of the vest. And she saw that if you buttoned them all the way up, the vest formed its own little collar: a low black rim with a gap in the front. Ar’ you a priest?

Weland choked on his wine, his eyes bright. A priest? Oh, please tell me it’s true.

The man looked pained. I’ve never liked that term. It’s always sounded so harsh and unbending. His hands spelled the words in the air.

You don’ have to do that, Isabel said, more gently this time.

I don’t mind. I like it.

Unbending, she showed him two fists straining to be straight.

This is so much better than I could have hoped, said Weland. I don’t think I’ve ever met a priest up close.

I prefer the term parson.

I like that, too, Isabel agreed. It sounds cozy.

And I’m not anymore.

A defrocked priest, murmured Weland.

Unfrocked, maybe. All but frocked.

Did they fire you? asked Isabel.

In the end I think they did.

You must have done something really bad.

Oh, yes.

She weighed this for a moment. What’s in the box?

He gazed down at it, nestled between his curled hands. It’s my conscience.

You carry your conscience around?

Of course.

Can I see?

Reluctantly he raised the lid and slowly upended the box as if prepared to surprise even himself. An enormous spider, black-furred and huge, slid plumply onto the table top and sprang to its feet.

Jesus Christ! Weland splashed his cabernet like a trail of blood as he jerked away. What the hell?

Wheedle! I jus’ mopped that floor!

Don’t tell me. Tell him!

And to be fair, it was appalling.

Dark legs drawn up big as a fist, the spider crouched for a moment as the whole cozy kitchen adjusted to the sight. Then it leapt into motion, legs churning, racing to get away from such a bright expanse of space.

Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ! Weland was almost gleeful with terror. But the man sat helpless and undone. He started to reach out clumsily with the lid to corral the frantic creature, but Isabel slapped his hand away.

Don’t! You’ll hurt her.

For God’s sake! cried Weland. It’s going to bite you!

But Isabel was unmoved. She reached for the box and set it upright on the table. Then slowly, like a delicate grappling hook, she lowered her fingers and picked up the spider—eight legs slipping free of the table like an ice-skater swooping into a fall. With nothing beneath, it scrabbled against the air.

The man flinched, but he was ready with the lid, and as she set it down within the box he hurried the cover into place.

Oh, lord. He leaned back, pale and drained. Thank you.

But Isabel was outraged. That was so stupid!

I’m sorry.

You can’t just let her run aroun’ like that!

I didn’t mean to.

She’s terrified. If she fell off the table she could hurt herself.

I’m sorry. I didn’t know. But her anger seemed to steady him. How do you know it’s a she?

"The females are always bigger. And braver. Like in Charlotte’s Web."

And how do you know that?

Miss Isabel works in a pet store. Weland had, by this time, stepped around the red puddle on the floor and was refilling his glass. How many jobs do you have now?

She frowned at him. Not that many.

The thing is, said the stranger, I thought I might have just imagined her.

Gently Isabel raised the lid. The spider hunched forlornly in the corner, pressing as close as she could to the featureless walls. What have you fed her? she asked.

And to her horror the stranger began to weep. Hunched and sagging into his tears he said, Nothing. I haven’t fed her anything. God help me. I didn’t know what to do.

3.

A sound carried to them—the sudden impatient creak of footsteps on the stairs—and Isabel glanced angrily at the clock. Nuts!

What is it? What’s happening?

We’re in for it now, said Weland and he topped up his wine.

Hurrying to the stove, Isabel turned up the heat under the frying pan. She gave the eggs a final frothing stir and dumped them into the pan just as a nearly naked woman came stalking through the door. She had short blonde hair, peroxide bright, and her skin was tanning-booth gold. She wore (and Izzie was grateful for the chill in the air) a short silk robe that left her long legs bare and hung like parted curtains from her thighs to her chin. Is that my dinner?

Two minut’s.

I’m getting off schedule!

Almos’ ready.

I’m right in the middle! I’m going to lose it!

Startled into silence the man’s first thought was of the painting in the bar: the golden woman on the golden bed. He waited distantly for the first squawk of embarrassment—eyes going wide, hands clutching the robe closed. But the woman just scowled at them like a stripper between sets. You again, Weland?

Always me, he said cheerfully. And look. I’ve brought company. I wanted to introduce him to the famous household.

But her attention had wandered back to the stove. How are we doing there? It’s after eight.

Isabel didn’t bother to reply. The egg whites were scrambled dry and pale as wax. Tilting the heavy pan she scraped them onto a plate. Salt and pepper, a dusting of turmeric for antibodies, fresh ginger for energy and vascular health. Then she banged a fork down beside them. Done.

Is that six eggs?

Yes.

No yolks?

Jus’ the whites.

I don’t like cumin.

It’s tu’meric.

She accepted the plate. Then, leaning forward, unmindful of the robe, she pressed a quick kiss on Isabel’s cheek, Thanks, doll. And she turned and padded up the stairs.

Weland stood with the bottle in one hand and his empty glass raised high as if he had saved them both from shipwreck. He was smiling benignly. Isn’t she something? I knew you’d enjoy that. Who’s ready for another drink?

But the stranger sat motionless, as if he had expected almost anything else. Isabel gave him a sympathetic frown. She was jus’ hungry. She gets a little grumpy when she’s cutting weight.

I’m sure. But then more hesitantly, She looks taller in the painting.

And Weland started to laugh. Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Good lord!

What do you mean?

Absolutely not! Don’t even think of such a thing. Different woman entirely.

But the man seemed unreassured. He was peering uneasily around, as if the kitchen itself might transform before his eyes, until Izzie caught his attention and traced a complex knot on the air with her fingers.

Use your voice, said Weland testily.

But the stranger relaxed into  a smile. "What do you want for dinner."

Brw’avo.

I think those are the nicest words in the English language. But aren’t you tired of cooking?

I’ve got to make breakfast now.

Wasn’t that breakfast?

That was dinner. Mrs. Holliman works nights at the bakery. She usually gets up around now.

And what about you?

Henry and I will have something.

Good. He considered the woman—the studied drabness of her uniform, but eyes like an Egyptian queen. I think maybe I should give you a hand.

He seemed to grow steadier with an apron round his waist. Oatmeal first, she instructed. Then eggs and bacon and toast.

Your boss is a big eater.

She works hard.

And for you?

Hot dog. Mac and cheese. It’s what Henry and I usually have.

And is Henry coming down, too?

She’s just waking up.

She turned to the laundry basket just as the pile of rumpled orange flannel raised its head with the expression of one who has seen this program before but is just too tired to change the channel.

That is one big cat, he said.

Izzie smoothed a hand over the broad head, and the sleepy eyes closed. She might just have the hotdog tonight.

Hot dog it is. He turned to their audience of one. Mac and cheese, Weland?

Absolutely not. I’ve got to keep my girlish figure. I could manage an egg or two.

Izzie’s hands said something impatient over the egg carton.

Sorry, he said. All spoken for. It’s hot dogs or nothing.

From upstairs came the rush of water in the pipes and once again the sound of footsteps on the stairs, sleepy this time and slow.

With an impresario’s smile Weland raised his glass. "Now this is our gal."

The woman was taller than the first, and much more ordinary. She wore a terrycloth robe over the rumpled comfort of pink pajamas, and in her hands she carried a little bundle of eyeglasses like the clumsy remnants of something fallen to pieces. She had glasses for distance, for reading, computer, highway (though that was a joke these days), studio, eating, and sex (a different joke). Each in turn offered its temporary relief—a momentary glimpse of clarity. Other than that, she was a fish swimming through murky seas.

It was something called bird-shot uveitis—both random and rare. Little white dots that spread over the retinas and warped them out of alignment. No one knew what caused it; some sort of autoimmune response—the eye attacking itself. And that, Bea knew, made its own perfect sense. If the eyes were the windows of the soul, then her soul was getting exactly what it deserved.

Ah, dearest, said Weland. Aren’t you looking lovely this evening.

Not now. Please. I haven’t even had my coffee.

We have it right here. And he gestured to Isabel, who handed her the mug with an ostentatious curtsy.

Bea sighed. This is not a good time.

Nonsense. We’re on the verge of a great adventure.

Of course you are. But you have to be quiet. Joan’s working.

We just saw her.

Oh no.

Don’t worry. We were gentle as mice. She’s back in the studio, and all’s right with the world. He raised the bottle. Now join us for a drink, why don’t you. We have much to celebrate.

She frowned and sipped her coffee.

She was an old hand at the business of Weland; she’d grown adept over the years. Tonight she put him in the four-martini range, and the first flush of annoyance was so familiar it was almost a comfort. She should just throw him out. Long gone were the days when she would simply bend herself to whatever he could imagine. And she pictured it now: shoving him out the door, slamming it behind. It had a kind of cartoon drama. But like most of her satisfactions these days it was entirely hypothetical.

I’ve got to get to work.

Not yet. There’s plenty of time. Come on, dearest. Just a little one. Look, we’re making breakfast. You’ve got to eat.

So it’s going to be that kind of a night, she thought.

Though truth be told, there was part of her that didn’t mind. She had been on the straight and narrow for a long time now. Joan didn’t drink, and they rarely saw anyone else. After all the disasters of the fall, their circle had shrunk to nothing. And though the cupboards were filled with wine—theirs had always been the departmental party house, even before they had lived here—she worked hard to ignore it. One more test, masking itself as an invitation.

Besides, said Weland. I want to introduce you.

Only then did she notice the figure by the stove, a blurred vision in rumpled black, hunched in an air of unsteadiness. I’m sorry. I didn’t see you.

Probably for the best, he said.

Weland smiled. We’ve just been talking about our long ago success. Our collaboration in the pursuit of beauty. And I know I speak for all of us when I say: it has made me think. Because here, in this moment, we have an unexpected opportunity. Tonight we have the chance to welcome a man returning to the heart of his life.

The man glanced up at him hollow-eyed. What? What did you say?

But Weland had found his rhythm now. A man who is all but broken by circumstance, but who raises himself for one more attempt.

Stop it. You need to be quiet. You don’t know anything about me.

Nonsense. Do you think I can’t recognize the depths of human suffering? You think I can’t see it in your face?

Just shut up!

We are two of a kind.

For God's sake! We are nothing alike. But he seemed somehow exhausted by the thought.

Of course we are. A pair of anguished souls who would give anything to get our lives back. Tell me you don’t know what it’s like to have your heart broken. Tell me you haven’t lost everything that’s made your life worth living. Go ahead. Tell me you wouldn’t give anything in the world to have it back.

Please stop.

"And now tell me you don’t think we