The bustle of New York City caught Lynne by surprise, but Eric embraced the crowds and noise, perhaps a reminder of his urban childhood. Now that his foot no longer hindered him, Eric loved walking the streets, keeping his wife close at his side. They were tourists, also anonymous, although Stanford said that after opening night, Eric Snyder would be a well-known name within a wide circle. Eric understood Stanford’s warning, for that’s what it was. The Snyders’ quiet life was about to be up-ended. Eric was ready, also grateful for the tall walls that surrounded their property back home.
The couple enjoyed their privacy at the hotel, but the night before the show, they ate dinner with Stanford, and Lawrence, at Stanford’s Manhattan apartment. Eric had stayed here years before, but this time he could afford a place for him and Lynne to get away, and he didn’t wish to displace Lawrence from his residence. Eric knew full well about the nature of Stanford and Lawrence’s relationship, and he wondered if perhaps Lynne had picked up on it too. He had wanted to ask her, but no time had seemed appropriate. As Stanford and Lawrence shared jovial banter, Eric felt uncomfortable, in that it was heavily insinuated that Lawrence lived in a different Manhattan apartment, but that he had wanted to again see Stanford’s favorite client. And Lawrence teased, he had also wondered if Lynne had somehow managed to bring along a boysenberry pie.
Lawrence said that in a whisper, after Agatha Morris had left the room. She wasn’t only Stanford’s cook, but his confidant. Stanford Taylor didn’t employ a butler, or any other domestic help. Eric took that as another sign toward the two art dealers’ relationship, the men wishing to keep their love as concealed as possible. Eric didn’t miss that aspect, which was conveyed by Stanford’s happy but albeit slightly weary tone, and the way Lawrence’s eyes sparkled. Eric wondered which couple was hiding a bigger falsehood, then he smiled, as Lynne joked that she had considered bringing a pie, but decided against it, assuring Lawrence’s presence the next time Stanford visited the countryside.
“But of course, you’ll need to wait until mid-summer. The house won’t be in any shape for guests until then.” Lynne smiled, then sipped her wine. Then she squeezed Eric’s hand. “And by then we’ll have more than one guest room available, unless Eric goes on another painting spree.”
Stanford gazed at Eric, then smiled widely. “That’s what I want to hear.”
Eric nodded, noticing how Stanford then nearly blushed. Eric then chuckled, setting his napkin over his empty dinner plate. “I think you’ll need to reserve a large space for the autumn show. I really have been busy.”
“Trying to make hay while it’s quiet,” Lawrence grinned. “I usually don’t like to travel, but for a piece of Lynne’s pie, I’d go to Bombay. And for those pork chops too,” he added.
“I’ll be sure to tell Sam. He loves to feed a crowd.” Lynne placed her napkin over her plate as well, then leaned against Eric, who deftly put his arm around her. Then she yawned, and he wondered if it was authentic. She had to know the truth about Stanford and Lawrence, it was just too obvious to miss.
Eric would love to incorporate these men into a painting, but doubted he would ever get the chance. It might be as remote as painting Sam Ahern, although Renee had agreed to pose for Eric while the contractors were busy. Eric had accepted Sam’s dare about capturing Renee’s eyes, but he more ached to include Sam. Perhaps some ideas were best left to an artist’s imagination. Then Eric chuckled, as Lynne squeezed his knee. She yawned again, and that time he knew she was faking it. But dessert waited, and Eric hoped that Lawrence wouldn’t try to leave first. Eric wanted to make their departure long before Stanford and Lawrence had to excuse the latter’s presence.
“Shall I ask Agatha to bring out dessert?” Stanford looked toward the kitchen door.
“Oh please,” Lynne smiled. “Then Eric and I will be on our way. I’ve loved seeing the sights, but tomorrow will be busy and….”
Agatha stepped through, gazing at Stanford. She didn’t even speak, just raising her eyebrows. Stanford smiled, and within minutes chocolate cake was served, custard on the side. The foursome shared hushed giggles once Agatha was gone, but the custard was very good, and the sweets disappeared quickly.
Eric declined decaf coffee, then thanked Stanford for the hospitality, and Lawrence for joining them. Lawrence remarked that he would see them at the show tomorrow night, then all stood, as Stanford retrieved Eric and Lynne’s coats. Spring was flirting with the city, he said, but it was better to be well wrapped than not. Lynne agreed, warmly shaking Stanford’s hand. But Lawrence demanded a hug, and while Eric and his dealer exchanged strong grips, Lynne and Lawrence embraced. Lynne laughed at his whisper in her ear, saying she would do her best, then the couple said their goodbyes. Eric walked Lynne to the elevator, learning that Lawrence promised to see them in summer, with or without Eric’s dealer.
Eric smiled, but said nothing in front of the elevator operator, or in the cab. Once in their hotel room, Eric made small talk about the meal, and Lynne reciprocated, but her tone was stilted. They got into bed, snuggling close. Then Eric kissed her forehead. “Honey, did you notice….”
She nodded, then moved away, staring at him. “Last fall, when I showed Stanford the paintings of me, he slipped and called Lawrence Laurie. He kept on talking, but I could tell something had changed. And tonight, well….”
Eric stroked her face. “When I came here the first time, I could tell then. I felt so bad that Lawrence didn’t stay at the apartment. That’s why I deliberately didn’t extend the evening. And you seemed to….” He smiled. “You yawned at all the right times.”
She grew teary. “I don’t know which of us has the bigger secret.” Then she rolled her eyes. “Well, we do, but not by much.”
“They’re more accepted here, with what they do, but you’re right, I mean, they can live together in New York. But probably nowhere else, well, except for some of Europe’s biggest cities.”
Lynne sighed, then again cuddled against Eric. “Maybe if they come in summer, perhaps they would….”
“They won’t. Stanford wouldn’t allow it.”
“Laurie wouldn’t mind,” Lynne giggled.
Eric laughed quietly. “No, probably not. He looks more like a Laurie than a Lawrence, that’s too formal.”
“They complement each other so well.” Lynne nibbled on Eric’s chest. “It’s unfortunate that they have to live so, well….”
“Like we do, at times. Or maybe it’s not the same at all.”
“Maybe. Stanford was staring at you, at your face. I wonder if he thinks your eyes are still odd.”
“I don’t know. I did catch Laurie gazing at my feet.”
“You better watch yourself,” she smiled. “You call him Laurie in front of Stanford and….”
“And maybe one of us will have to ’fess up.”
“Oh goodness,” Lynne said. “I don’t know which situation would be harder to admit.”
“Neither do I,” Eric smiled. Then he stroked his wife’s hair, which seemed to be growing out rapidly. As he did so, Lynne pressed against him, and within moments, love was being made, that other couple forgotten.
In the morning, Eric and Lynne ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant. They weren’t disturbed until a delivery man approached with a large bouquet. He presented it to Lynne, on behalf of Lawrence Abrams. Eric didn’t have his wallet, but the man smiled, said that a tip had already been arranged. Several diners gazed at the couple, who hurriedly finished their meals, taking the flowers to their room. Within moments a maid knocked, carrying a vase, and Lynne watched as the bouquet was artfully arranged. She wanted to call Stanford, to thank Lawrence, but that would appear too forward. “I’ll thank him this evening,” she said, her voice quaking. Then she wept briefly, embraced by her husband.
They spent that day in their room, making love when Eric wasn’t on the phone with Stanford. He didn’t mention the flowers, but Lynne told Renee all about it, when Renee called at three, to wish the couple well. E
ric and Lynne were having dinner with Stanford and his father, the elder Taylor anxious to meet the artist. Years before Eric hadn’t been introduced to Michael Taylor, but now Eric’s talent was deserving, and the older man wished his own father was still alive, to meet such an esteemed painter.
During the meal, Lynne said little, but she noticed how father and son shared several traits. Their formal bearings were identical, and Lynne smiled inwardly; Stanford would be totally bald by the time he was his father’s age. Lynne and Eric learned that Michael hadn’t necessarily wanted Stanford to follow in his footsteps, but perhaps it had been inevitable, as the family was steeped in New York’s art world. But Lynne felt a small ache, in that this would be the last Taylor so occupied. Stanford’s younger sisters weren’t inclined toward the family business, and Michael noted that his father, for who he had been named, would have wished for the legacy to have continued. Stanford mentioned a nephew as a possible candidate, but Michael said that boy was destined for medical school, taking after his other side of the family. Nieces weren’t broached, as if this occupation was only for men, but Lynne wasn’t offended. Art was a man’s world, and a woman’s place was to act as a muse.
Stanford didn’t represent any female painters, and that didn’t surprise Lynne either. He was cordial to her, but he obviously preferred the company of his own gender, regardless of the situation. Many of the doctors with whom she used to work were much the same, and Lynne didn’t try to break into the conversation. She was happy to sit near her husband, occasionally receiving his warm squeezes on her knee. A few times he inched his hand up her dress, and she had to fight breaking into giggles. Then their eyes would meet, and she had to blink away tears. No matter what was being said, she was Eric’s focus.
After supper, the foursome took a limo to the gallery. Lynne had never ridden in such a sumptuous vehicle, but the trip was short, and soon she was being escorted from the sedan to where a large crowd had gathered. Lynne hadn’t realized the meaning of this night until she encountered popping flashbulbs and reporters’ questions. But Stanford guided the artist and wife, his father right behind them. Michael said that his wife Constance would join them later, once the flurry had subsided. Lynne was glad for another woman’s company, although Eric had told her he didn’t want her to leave his side.
Lynne didn’t want to be anywhere else that evening, unless Lawrence Abrams requested her attention. She was content to flank Eric, Stanford on his other side, and once they entered the gallery, Eric wrapped his arm around her waist. They were offered a drink, but Eric declined on their behalf, which suited Lynne. They would enjoy champagne later, after Stanford made his remarks to the audience, but she wanted a clear head to absorb what would usher in a new life for Eric, and for her. His previous showing had introduced a maturing artist. These paintings would confirm that statement, also laying a deeper foundation. And in autumn…. Then Lynne shivered. What kind of reaction would erupt from the work Eric was currently producing, or the pictures he ached to begin?
He had mentioned that, in passing, right before they left home, as if preparing her. Lynne gazed at mounted canvases, the landscapes first, and she smiled. These were nothing like what waited at their house.
Yet, they were stunning, for the hues and what was depicted. She stared at the horses, which was her favorite, then she recalled that conversation, over a year ago, with Sam about his ideas of what filled the blue barn. Lynne would never forget how innocently Sam described those beasts, then his shock, and subsequent embarrassment. Then how he had departed, abruptly and with some anger. Now that seemed like a lifetime ago, and these paintings were the same, heralding a similar virtue, but with much lingering under the surface.
Eric and Michael wandered through the maze, while Lynne was happy to remain alone, as she reached the next part of the exhibit, her hobbies on show. She considered how nervous she had been, yet relieved for Eric’s presence after such a long, miserable winter. Then she shook her head; that had been merely a taste of what autumn was to bring. She walked past those canvases, enjoying the warm camaraderie evoked by the Ahern and Nolan clans. Those family portraits acted as a transition to the last series, which was of the artist’s wife amid her passions, or those that didn’t concern her husband. Lynne wore a seductive smile. At the time these were painted, she wasn’t at all comfortable as a model, and her poses, while welcoming, didn’t hide her anxiety. Yet, Eric had turned those fears into a formidable beauty; in a matter of weeks, he would be gone, they had both known it. These pastimes would shield her, and they had, until Eric’s agonizing return.
Gentle murmurs wafted through the hall, but Lynne only noticed the pounding of her heart. She didn’t mind that these canvases would be sold, for she had no desire to ever see them again. The man who had created them might not be at her side, but soon Eric would stand next to her, and that night they would revel in all this evening had wrought, as well as feting their devotion to one another. Lynne didn’t assume their love was any more outstanding than, say, Stanford and Laurie’s, but it was singular in the obstacles they had overcome. She sighed, then giggled. The art dealers might be homosexuals, but she highly doubted either turned into a hawk.
The last painting was of her seated at the patio table, blue yarn piled in a heap. Now Lynne wished she had met Eric’s gaze, but perhaps this was the best way to conclude this chapter of his career, for there was a buzz in the air, even if the hall was still quiet. The paintings spoke loudly, warning of the demarcation displayed throughout the gallery. Eric Snyder wasn’t merely another emerging artist; in these canvases, he had arrived, and woe to those who didn’t acknowledge his greatness. Lynne knew not everyone would be so inclined to believe, but in another six months, no one could say they hadn’t been notified. The blue barn might linger in a few minds, but what Eric had fashioned in the last several weeks would push that painting off the map. And, Lynne sighed, then smiled, if she acquiesced to his request, all hell would break loose.
Footsteps approached, and she turned around, finding Eric with Lawrence, the Taylors right behind them. Lynne met them, going into Lawrence’s waiting embrace. Then he kissed her cheek, handing her to Eric, who did the same. Lawrence began speaking, but all Lynne heard was his gushing tone, Stanford and Michael’s alongside. She closed her eyes, relieved to be in Eric’s strong grip, ready for however their lives would change. And this time, Eric wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Lynne enjoyed two glasses of champagne as the compliments flowed. Eric was the toast of New York, and by the evening’s end, all available canvases had been sold. In snatched moments of conversation, Stanford noted that several distinguished families wished for Eric’s time, but Lynne knew not enough money existed to tear her husband from what he next wanted to paint. All she had to do was give the word, but Eric wouldn’t badger her. Yet after all he had produced of her recently, the next step was clear. The artist’s wife was a huge hit that night, both in person and on canvas, and Lynne wondered what percentage of those well-wishers assumed she was already striking other poses for her husband.
If she did agree to Eric’s request, Lynne wouldn’t accompany him to the next exhibit. She might travel to New York, but she would spend her time at the hotel, or maybe at Stanford and Laurie’s apartment. That evening, when Eric had been detained, Lawrence Abrams stood at Lynne’s side, and she learned many tidbits about his life, and a few juicy morsels of those who encircled the artist, his dealer, and Michael Taylor. But Lawrence never betrayed his connection to Stanford, and Lynne didn’t reveal her suppositions, although, as the crowds thinned, and Eric rejoined his wife, Lynne was even more certain as to the nature of Stanford and Laurie’s relationship. It wasn’t hard to think of Laurie with that pet name, for it suited him better than the staid Lawrence. And that Lynne couldn’t get Stanford’s slip from her mind every time she saw the men chatting together. They never stood alone as a couple, always flanked by other dealers or collectors. Sometimes Michael admonished his son and…. Lynne ha
d to look away, for Michael Taylor treated Lawrence Abrams with the same fatherly concern, bordering on tenderness, as he did Stanford.
Lynne hadn’t minded that Michael’s wife Constance hadn’t attended. She suffered from migraines, and one had set in late that afternoon. Neither her husband nor her son had seemed troubled, and Lynne hadn’t asked more than simple questions any nurse would pose. Lynne had been standing beside Laurie at the time, and she’d picked up no anxiety from him. Later Lynne mentioned that she hoped Mrs. Taylor would be feeling better in the morning, and Michael assured her she would improve. And that he hoped the women could meet in October, when Eric’s next exhibit was planned.
Eric had rescued Lynne, mentioning that autumn was a busy time for the boysenberry harvest, which wasn’t quite the truth, but it sufficed for Michael, who had heard of Lynne’s famous pie. Then they walked to where on canvas she tended those vines, displayed in vibrant colors, although her back was to the audience. Lynne blushed, but it wasn’t due to Michael’s praise for either her pie or Eric’s talent. The next showing would solely focus upon her, but not in such mundane settings. Perhaps she would stay at home, making it easier on everyone.
Or maybe she would be the only one so affected. Social mores were changing, and New York wasn’t a provincial township, where she was already the grist for gossips. Imagine their wagging tongues if she posed for Eric as he wished, which wasn’t any differently than how she had posed for him since his return. But Lynne wouldn’t appear as fields or forests or even an ocean. The last picture he had painted depicted her as a vibrant coral reef, which had pleased her immensely. There seemed no end to his vast imagination, but now he was ready to return to a more acceptable manner of illustrating the human body, her body. All she had to do was say yes.
To the happy sounds of an artist and his dealer, Lynne drifted from her husband’s side. She meandered through the gallery, stopping momentarily at the fire which still radiated heat as she admired it. Lynne might never see these pictures again, but she possessed clear memories of when each had been painted. She moved on, finally pausing at the first Ahern canvas, Fran, Sally, and tiny Helene in Sam and Renee’s kitchen. Lynne studied how adult Sally looked, how weary Fran seemed, and the angelic baby in Fran’s arms. Eric had created this painting from a mere sketch, but it had ushered in a series of its own, many of which were displayed nearby.
Lynne hadn’t witnessed any more than the paintings taking shape; Eric had sketched all those families either at their homes, or at Sam and Renee’s. But Lynne had watched Eric bring the two clans to life, and now she shuddered at how many personalities he had depicted. She was surrounded by Sam and Renee’s siblings and their many children, making Lynne ache for the exclusion of the Ahern couple who had brought these people into Eric’s realm. Eric needed to paint Sam and Renee before he started painting Lynne again.
“Honey? Lynne, where are you?”
“Over here,” she called. Then she smiled. “I’m at Ahern central.”
Eric chuckled, approaching her. He pulled her close, and she collapsed against him. “You ready to go?”
“I was ready ages ago.” She smiled, but fatigue edged her voice. “I think this might be my last show.”
He kissed her head, then laughed quietly. “If that means what I think it means, excellent.”
She huffed, tapping his arm. “All it means is that I’m not made for the New York nightlife.” Then she giggled. “Although, that was very nice champagne.”
“Yes it was. Expect more of that Mrs. Snyder.”
She moved away, staring at him. “And what does that mean?”
He caressed her face. “If you want, I can hire a professional gardener this summer, let them clean up the contractor’s mess. You won’t believe it when I tell you the prices….”
She shook her head, not wanting to know before the show, and she had no desire to learn the final total. “That’s between you and Stanford.”
He nodded, but his smile teased. “All right, I’ll keep mum. But we are celebrating when we get home.” Then he lowered his voice. “And after autumn, oh honey.”
She stroked his face, then traced his eyes. Were they different? Not to her, nor would their lives be changed by his talent. “Take me to the hotel. We can start celebrating there.”
“That’s a fabulous idea.” He brought her against him, then kissed her passionately. They only broke apart when Stanford could be detected, both by his step and from a sharp cough.
“I don’t mean to intrude, but if you want to continue the party, there are several places I recommend.” Stanford’s tone was light, then he chuckled. “Otherwise, the limo is waiting.”
“Let’s go,” Lynne smiled. “I’m about ready to fall over.”
Eric gripped her, then nodded to Stanford. “Lead the way, my friend.”
Stanford made a small flourish. “After you Eric, and your lovely wife. You both are the stars of the evening, and for the next several. Although, it will be a sad patron of the arts if they were hoping to buy a canvas past opening night.”
Lynne leaned against her husband, who took slow steps. “Did they actually all sell tonight?”
“They did,” Eric said. “And several would’ve bought the Ahern and Nolan portraits if they could’ve.”
“Not enough Snyder canvases to go round, although some were assuaged that in October, more would be available,” Stanford smiled.
Lynne nodded, as they reached where Lawrence and Michael stood, near the painting of the horses. That canvas had been the desire of many collectors, Stanford said, as a doorman stepped their way. Lawrence held Lynne’s coat, and he helped her into it. Eric thanked Lawrence, who smiled graciously. Then Lawrence turned to Michael, asking if he was ready to leave.
They followed the doorman, but Lynne took one more glance at the horses. Who bought it, she wondered, and would she ever see it again? She didn’t care about the money, somehow that aspect of Eric’s career never intruded, maybe because in the past she had been working. But now people were fighting over his paintings. She grinned, then closed her eyes. “Take me home,” she mumbled to Eric.
“My pleasure.” He led her into a cool New York night, and Lynne opened her eyes. The city pulsed around her in lights, traffic, and voices, but she longed for the quiet comfort of their home, as if she was one of those horses, happy in the meadow. Eric helped her into the limousine, then got in beside her. She nestled against him, sensing the rush of his heartbeat. Some of that was from the show. Most of it, she nodded inwardly, was for her in his arms.
Stanford sat across, between Lawrence and Michael. Yet they were stilled, probably from their own musings, she assumed. Then Lynne was overwhelmed by the realization of where she sat, in a black sedan in the most notable city in the world. Her husband had been the center of that evening’s activities, and Eric Snyder’s art would be the buzz for weeks to come. Yet he was the same man she had waked to that morning, and with whom she would sleep that night. All he wanted was to be with her, in that bed, then at home, in their own space. And he wanted to make one other place that venerated….
“Yes,” she murmured so only Eric would hear her.
“Yes?” he repeated.
She nodded, then snuggled against him.
He stroked her hair, then chuckled softly. Lynne didn’t see the way Stanford gazed at them, or Laurie’s affectionate smile, or how Michael gripped his son’s hand. All she knew was her husband’s love wrapped tightly around her. He had painted her tenderly before, and she trusted him implicitly. However Eric next translated his adoration would be just as beautiful as that coral reef, the field of wildflowers, and as…. Lynne fought, but lost a battle, as her tears erupted, thinking about that mare and her colt, a stallion right behind them.
Chapter 28
The Hawk: Part Two Page 6