by Joan Wolf
“How can I hold on to you?” His voice in her ear sounded almost fierce.
“We’ll work something out,” she replied softly. She ran her fingers tenderly through his sweat-streaked golden hair. “I have to move out of the house, but I’m not moving out on you. I won’t go back to New York. Something will turn up, I’m sure of it.”
He raised himself a little so that he was looking directly into her face. His shoulders looming over her looked enormous and his eyes in the light of the bedside lamp were intensely blue. “I don’t give up,” he told her. “I have many failings but once I make up my mind, I don’t give up. And I’ve made up my mind about you.”
“Leo,” she said. “Why?”
He smiled a little crookedly. His breathing had finally begun to slow. “Any other woman who said that would be fishing for a compliment. But not you. You really don’t know, do you?”
“No.”
He rolled over and lay on his back beside her, looking up at the ceiling. “You’re so alive, Isabel. You live your life with more intensity than anyone I have ever known. That’s probably why you’re such a fine artist.”
Isabel turned to look at his profile. “I’ve been trying not to feel anything these past few years,” she protested in bewilderment.
“I know.” A very tender smile curled his lips. “You were so frozen you were absolutely fierce with it.” His blue eyes smiled at her. “You burned with it, honey. You project more concentrated power in your little finger than most women have in their entire bodies. Why do you think the despicable Philip bothered with you? He was a sophisticated thirty-year-old and you were a schoolgirl.”
Isabel had often thought about that. “I don’t know,” she said hesitatingly. “I imagine he spotted me as easy prey.”
“I don’t think that was it at all. For what it’s worth to you, you probably burned him a lot worse than he did you. Imagine having to settle for an empty society wife after you’ve had a taste of Isabel.”
Isabel laughed. “Leo, you’re crazy. But I admit you’ve made me feel a lot better about ‘the despicable Philip.’ Just being able to think of him in those terms is a help.” She snuggled her head into his shoulder. “I swore a vow of eternal celibacy after Philip,” she murmured.
“And you kept it for nine years. That’s what I mean. When you do something, honey, you do it all the way.”
Isabel smiled. She turned her head so that her lips were against the bare skin of his shoulder. “So do you.” She was thinking of his football injuries. “You don’t know when to give up.”
“No.” He sounded serious, almost grim. “I don’t.”
“Leo, maybe you’d better go back to your room tonight. What will your mother think if she sees you coming out of here in the morning?”
“I’ll get up early,” he said.
She didn’t really want him to go. “All right. If you’re sure ...”
“I’m sure,” he said firmly. “Stop worrying and go to sleep.”
Isabel closed her eyes. “Yes, Senator,” she murmured. And she did.
* * * *
She awoke before he did the following morning. Leo’s back was toward her and she leaned closer and laid her cheek on his shoulder. It was still shocking to wake and find him there, a man in the bed next to her. After a minute he stirred.
“Good morning,” he said, and rolled over on his back.
“Good mawnin’.”
She watched him try to wake up. He rubbed his tousled hair and yawned. There was golden stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his blue eyes were heavy with sleep.
Isabel put her hands behind her head. “Your mother,” she said delicately.
“I know, I know,” he grumbled. “I won’t besmirch your reputation.” He sat up and stretched, shoulder and back muscles flexing with the motion. He got out of bed.
“Damn,” he said. “I don’t have a change of clothes in here.”
“Put a towel around your waist. That way, if you run into your mother, you can pretend you’re on your way back from the shower.”
He went into the bathroom and in a minute she heard the shower being turned on. When he came out, he was wrapped as she suggested. “Of course,” he said, “there is a shower in my room, but never mind. I won’t meet Mama at this hour.” He came over to the bed and bent to kiss her. “Go back to sleep, honey. Now that I’m up, I’m going over to the gym. Mama won’t make an appearance until nine, so sleep for a while.”
“Will you be back for breakfast?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “Important conference this morning.” He went to the door, opened it, peered up and down the hall, and then exited, softly closing the door behind him.
Isabel did not go back to sleep but lay, hands behind her head, staring at the door through which he had gone.
She had told Leo she loved him. And she did. How could she not? Leo could not fail of love wherever he touched. She loved him, but she could not marry him.
He had surprised her last night. She had not realized that their relationship was serious for him, that he would go so far as to want to marry her.
It was impossible, of course. There wasn’t room in her life for marriage. She couldn’t afford the loss of freedom marriage would inevitably entail; she couldn’t afford the sheer loss of time and energy. She was an artist and she had always held strong views on the subject of women artists and marriage.
She should have explained all this to Leo, of course. She couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t. By panicking she had only sounded stupid when in fact she had a very sane, sensible, and logical reason for not wishing to marry him.
He had accepted her stammered rejection without question, however. Perhaps he, too, realized, deep down, the impossibility of a formal union between them. He needed a wife whose interest lay in the same direction as his, a wife who would entertain for him and who would hold his flag high in the eminent world of Washington politics and society. For both their sakes it was better to keep their relationship as it was: strictly voluntary, with room for either of them to back out if, for some reason, the going should get rough.
Chapter Twelve
On Friday night the elite of Washington arrived at Leo Sinclair’s home in Georgetown. For the last few days word had circulated that Senator Sinclair’s dinner for Isabel MacCarthy was one of The Events of the year’s social calendar. The chosen few who were invited consequently looked bright with triumph as they arrived; the cold drizzle seemed to affect nobody’s spirits.
Isabel wore a simple ivory sheath dress and looked, as Leo told her, magnificent. Her portrait of him hung in the place of honor in the drawing room above the marble chimneypiece.
Isabel had met nearly everyone present at least once previously, so it was not too difficult to remember who was who. Mrs. Sinclair had filled the drawing room with fresh flowers, and hired maids who assiduously passed canapés and drinks. Most everyone was vociferous in praise of Isabel’s portrait.
“You look older, darling,” Lady Pamela said to Leo as she gazed at it critically. “There are lines around your mouth.”
“Yes. It makes me look quite statesmanlike, I think,” Leo replied.
“It’s marvelous, Leo,” put in Hilda Messenger. “I like it very much.”
“Mama is pleased,” he returned with perfect good humor. “Now she’s got a portrait of her senator son to hang on her walls—like a trophy!”
At nine o’clock Mrs. Sinclair discreetly indicated that dinner was served. Then, led by Leo and Isabel, the guests began to move toward the dining room.
Mrs. Sinclair had outdone herself, Isabel thought. Imposing silver candelabra stood on either end of the long table, and in the center was a lovely arrangement of fresh flowers. Fine silver and china sparkled against white damask in the candlelight.
I could never do this, thought Isabel. She had assisted Leo’s mother this afternoon—in fact, she had arranged the centerpiece, but the initiative had all been Mrs. Sinclair’s.
Din
ner was superb. “I know. They’re the best caterers in town,” Leo told Isabel imperturbably when she commented on the quality of the food. “Everyone uses them.”
As dessert was served, Leo got up to speak. The after-dinner toast, defunct in most of the civilized world, still survived in Washington. Relaxed and informal, he made a toast to Isabel and to art that was both highly complimentary and comfortably humorous.
Isabel felt stiff as she stood up to make the necessary response. She managed a few compliments for Leo as a subject and as a person, and then expressed her gratitude to both Leo and Mrs. Sinclair for assembling such a distinguished group of people to view her effort. She was feeling more comfortable as she finished and sat down amid a general outpouring of smiles.
Shortly after the toast, everyone rose from the table and Mrs. Sinclair led the women back to the drawing room while Leo escorted the men to the library for brandy and cigars. Isabel noticed with interest that Mrs. Messenger was engaged in serious conversation with Mrs. Sinclair. She hoped fervently she would soon receive a commission from the Messengers.
“Did you go to art school in New York, Miss MacCarthy?” said a very cool, very English voice at Isabel’s side. Isabel turned to look into the violet eyes of Lady Pamela Ashley.
“Yes,” said Isabel. “I did.”
“And do you have a studio there now?”
Isabel thought of her crammed bedroom and smiled faintly. “Not really. Not yet, at least. I’ve got half my paintings stored in a former teacher’s studio. I shall really have to get something of my own soon.”
“Ah. Then you are going back to New York?”
Isabel looked dispassionately at the Englishwoman’s lovely face. Two weeks ago she would have frozen up and answered in wary monosyllables. Now she merely raised an eyebrow and said, “Why are my plans of such interest to you, Lady Pamela?”
The British ambassador’s daughter shrugged her slender shoulders. She was wearing a simple black gown and her skin looked dazzling against the midnight satin. She made Isabel feel like a gypsy.
“I’m not the only one who is interested,” she said in her clipped voice. “There’s been some speculation already about you and Leo.” The violet eyes were hard on Isabel’s face. “You cannot continue to stay here. Leo can’t afford it.”
Isabel nodded thoughtfully. “I see. You are concerned for the political consequences?”
“Yes,” snapped Lady Pamela.
Isabel lifted her chin, grave and graceful in her great natural dignity. “Thank you so much for mentioning your concern to me,” she said pleasantly. “I shall bear it in mind.” Left with nothing more to say, Lady Pamela glared. Isabel smiled at her a little absently, murmured an excuse, and went over to where Mrs. Sinclair beckoned her. Isabel had come a long way in the last few weeks.
“Isabel dear,” Leo’s mother said, “Mrs. Messenger has been telling me how much she admires Leo’s portrait.”
“Yes,” Hilda Messenger said. “In fact, I’d like very much for you to do a portrait of my husband, Miss MacCarthy.”
“I see,” said Isabel quietly, hoping that the triumph she felt was not too clearly visible on her face. “When would you like me to do it, Mrs. Messenger?”
“If you could start right away, that would be perfect. Otherwise we’ll have to wait until the fall. We leave for Europe in May.”
“I could do it right away. I don’t have any plans for the next few months.”
“Wonderful,” said Mrs. Messenger briskly. “Now as to your fee ...” and she named a price that was several thousand dollars more than Isabel had gotten for Leo’s portrait.
“Fine,” Isabel said calmly. She felt like jumping up and down and screaming with joy, but she kept her voice even and businesslike.
“As you don’t have your studio in Washington I hope you’ll come stay with us out in McLean until you’ve finished.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Messenger. I would like that.”
“Monday, then? Shall we expect you on Monday?”
“Monday,” repeated Isabel, and smiled. “Certainly.”
There was a murmur of male voices outside the drawing-room door and then the men entered the room. Isabel caught Leo’s eye almost instantly and raised her eyebrows very slightly. He came across the room to her immediately.
“You look like the cat that’s swallowed the canary,” he said with amusement. “What happened?”
“I got the commission from Mrs. Messenger.” With him she could let down her guard. Her thin face blazed with triumph.
“That’s wonderful!” His blue eyes mirrored her expression. “Good for you, honey. You’re on your way.”
“Yes,” she said. “I really think I am. God, I might even be able to get my own studio. At last! A place to work that’s all my own. I won’t know myself.”
A little of the light died out of his eyes. “Where do you work now?” he asked.
“In friends’ studios. At school. In my bedroom. Everywhere and nowhere. My paintings are stored in about eight different places.” She took a deep breath. “Wow.” She grinned at him. “I’m flying.”
“And so you should be.” He looked across the room at Ron Messenger. “Ron is a fine person. You’ll like working with him.”
“He’ll be a good subject,” Isabel said. “He has a good face.” She frowned a little thoughtfully as she thought about how she might do him.
There was a little stir by the piano and then Mrs. Sinclair announced that the wife of the Italian ambassador was going to sing. The Fellinis had been Washington fixtures for years and Mrs. Fellini’s voice was very well-known. The ambassador played the piano as his wife sang a selection of Italian songs in a clear and well-trained soprano. When she finished, she asked if anyone else would like to sing as well. There were no takers, and after another half an hour of the kind of fluent conversation that Washingtonians never seemed to tire of, it was eleven o’clock and people began to go home. By eleven-thirty the house was empty.
Mrs. Sinclair turned to Isabel as they stood in the drawing room and said, “Well?” Her eyes were twinkling.
Isabel hugged her. “I don’t know how I can thank you enough,” she said a little breathlessly. “You have been so wonderfully kind to me.”
“Nonsense, my dear. I’ve done Hilda Messenger a great favor.”
“Ron is delighted too,” said Leo as he came across the room to join them. “He says it’s going to be a very patrician experience, having his portrait done. He already feels like Charles the First.”
“Oh, dear,” said Isabel comically, “I hope he doesn’t expect me to paint him on horseback.”
Everyone laughed and then Mrs. Sinclair yawned delicately. “Well, good night, children. I need my beauty rest.” She kissed them both. “Don’t expect to see me before ten tomorrow,” she murmured, and giving them a vague and lovely smile, she went off to bed.
“She’s a pearl among women, my mama,” Leo said affectionately after she had gone.
Isabel looked a little distressed. “Do you think she knows about us?”
“She doesn’t want to know,” he said simply.
“Oh.”
“As I said, a pearl.” He put his hand on her neck, under the heavy weight of her hair. “The portrait was a smashing success. Jim Lewiston was asking me about the rest of your work. I told him to contact you. He’s rather a serious collector and he sounded as if he might be in a buying mood.”
“Oh, Leo,” she breathed reverently.
“That studio appears to be coming closer and closer,” he commented. His hand was still on her neck.
There was a long pause. “Well,” he said then, “why don’t we emulate my revered parent and go to bed?”
She put her hand on his shoulder and reached up to kiss his jaw. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”
* * * *
Mrs. Sinclair left for Charleston on Saturday, taking with her Leo’s portrait, carefully crated and wrapped. After returning from church on Sunday, Le
o took Isabel golfing once again.
Isabel found it difficult to understand how, under the circumstances, Leo could still go to church. In anyone else she would consider the contradiction hypocritical, but such an explanation didn’t occur to her in his case.
“I like to go,” he had replied simply when she asked him, and that, she decided, was probably the best explanation she was likely to get.
Isabel discovered that she enjoyed golf very much. With Leo’s encouragement she had taken a few lessons during the afternoons, and so she was not as awkward now as she had been previously. She was, of course, nowhere near Leo in proficiency, but one of the pleasures of the game was that you did not have to be the equal of someone to play with them. They played eighteen holes. Leo shot an eighty-four and Isabel a 121, and they both had a splendid time.
“I’ve never gotten into this physical-fitness craze,” Isabel confessed over beers in the clubhouse. “I hate getting all sweaty and untidy. Terribly unfashionable, I know, but there it is. Golfing suits me just fine; its leisurely pace isn’t too strenuous and the scenery is great.”
“It suits me just fine these days as well,” he said. His face was perfectly pleasant, but Isabel detected a note of suppressed bitterness in the soft vowels of his drawl. She felt a sharp stab of pity, which she prudently concealed. The last thing Leo would accept was pity, she understood that perfectly.
“I must say, it has disappointed me in one way, though,” she continued talking with scarcely a pause. “Where are all those wonderful names from P.G. Wodehouse? The mashie, the niblick—you know ...”
He grinned and the indefinable shadow lifted. “Do you know P. G. Wodehouse’s golf stories?”
“I know everything by P. G. Wodehouse. I must confess I like Lord Emsworth and his prize pig best, but I read all the golf stories. His characters are always smashing balls with their mashies. Why don’t we have a mashie?”
“Because, being practical Americans, we simply call the woods and irons by numbers. It’s much duller, I agree.”