Lia held up her hand to stop his explanation. “Just tell me one thing: is the story accurate?”
Gus hesitated. “Accurate yes…but not complete.”
“Oh, I think it served its purpose, at least the purpose your Ms. Lindemann wanted it to serve.” Lia wrapped her arms around herself; the cold infused her from within.
Gus ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “I figured as much myself. She’s been seeing that editor; apparently he was useful in more ways than one.”
Lia walked back through the house to the French doors overlooking the garden. How did it all look so lovely and green when her life had just withered to nothing? She finally looked back at Gus. “It doesn’t matter, really. It would have come out sooner or later. I would have wanted more of a commitment, and you would have had to tell me at some point.” She paused. “You would have told me, wouldn’t you?”
Gus started to reach for her but she stayed his hand. “Dammit, of course I would have!” he cried. “But please listen to me. It’s true that I’m not divorced and free to marry you. And the reason is simple: I don’t know where the hell my wife and daughter are!”
She looked so vulnerable, so magnificent at that moment that Gus nearly howled with the injustice of it all. This beautiful, warm, talented woman could have anyone, anyone, and yet she was hurt because she couldn’t have him—a man who came from nothing, who’d still be nothing if it weren’t for the life she breathed into him every single day. He couldn’t lose her. He wouldn’t lose her.
“What do you mean?” She looked at him like he was plumb loco. “How on earth did you lose your wife and daughter?”
“It’s not as crazy as it sounds, believe me.” He explained what had happened, down to details like the message he’d tried to have delivered and the fact that his wife had thought he died. “Mattie never made contact with her friend again; leastwise, that’s what her friend told me.” Gus began to pace the room. “For the past several years I’ve had Pinkerton detectives on alert to follow up on any reports of a Mattie Wolff, anywhere. They know to track down missing person reports and any news of a…a death of a woman and her child. I can’t tell you how many wild goose chases and dead ends I’ve been down over that time.”
“You must miss her and your daughter so very much,” Lia said in a small voice.
Gus was ready to punch the wall, he was so agitated. How could he explain without sounding like a cold-hearted bastard? “Listen, Lia. I miss my daughter every day of my life. But Mattie…well, the truth is, she and I weren’t going to make it. She was way too young, I was way too lonely, and Annabelle came along way too soon. We both knew it, we just hadn’t said it out loud to each other. If you want the truth, I don’t think Mattie wants to be found. I think she must have hankered after the man she met up with in San Francisco, whoever he was, way before she took up with me. Maybe she just saw an opportunity and took it. That’s the only thing I can figure. So you’re half right. I miss my daughter very much and dammit, I want to know she’s safe. But I also want to find Mattie so I can be legally free of her. Free to be with you. Lock, stock, and barrel.”
“If you haven’t had success in the last seven years, I doubt you’re going to find her,” Lia said with a touch of resignation in her voice. “And that leaves us nowhere.”
“Please don’t say that,” Gus pleaded. He could hear the near panic in his voice but he didn’t care. If he had to get on his knees and beg, he’d do it in a heartbeat. Whatever it took. “I love you, Lia. I’ve wanted you from the first time I saw you, and that feeling has only grown stronger, the more I know what kind of woman you are. I want to make a life with you, have children with you—”
He was taken aback by the glare Lia threw him. “How can you talk like that?” she ground out. “You have no idea what it’s like to be caught in the midst of a public scandal, even if it’s one of your own making. People are ruthless. They skin you alive with words, with rejection, with all manner of cruelty because you don’t conform. The only way, the only way I could stand up to it was knowing, in my heart, that I was innocent of the charges. I wouldn’t have that refuge if we were to defy convention and be open about our affair.”
“Do you really care so much about what others think?”
Lia paused before answering. “Yes, when it comes right down to it, I suppose I am old-fashioned that way. I want all of you, August. I want your name. I want to give you a child. I want that child to hold his or her head high knowing that their parents love each other and are committed to one another in the eyes of God and the law. The way things are now, a child with you would be called a bastard. You and I have both suffered in our own way, but we’ve never had that millstone around our necks. I think it’s too great a burden to put on anyone, especially someone we choose to bring into the world.”
“Well…maybe we don’t have children, then. You would be enough for me.”
Lia didn’t respond with words, but the tears that welled up in her eyes said more than words ever could. Lia was at heart a loving woman, traditional in many ways, who’d been forced out of the mainstream because of a situation she was powerless to change. And now he was asking her to limit her life even more, to give up children, and say goodbye to respectability in the eyes of society. For what? Just to make him happy because he screwed up? No. As selfish as he was, he just couldn’t do that to her. She deserved better. Way better.
“Lia…I’m so sorry,” he finally said.
She nodded, wiped her tears. Smiled through them. At him. “I am too,” she said softly. She wrapped her arms around her middle. “I think you better go now.”
A feeling of panic began to seep into his pores. What was he going to do without her in his life? How could he fix this? How could he make it any less painful? He mentally scrambled for anything to keep her from cutting him off entirely. “What about the mural?” he asked.
“It’s finished,” she said. “I think…at least I hope you’ll like it. I’ll have Sandy stop by to pick up my supplies.”
He reached for her. “Lia—”
“No,” she said firmly, keeping him at bay. “You need to go now.”
He could tell she was near tears again—tears that he’d caused. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this bad. He nodded and turned to leave. At the doorway he turned around. “You are a magnificent woman. If you ever need anything, anything…”
Lia smiled again, that sad smile, and closed the door gently in his face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
For five days Gus refused to go near the mural. Sandy had picked up Lia’s supplies and said only that she was “doing all right.” Gus had handed him a bank draft for her work, twice what they had agreed upon, and Sandy had simply looked at him with disappointment. The thought kept rolling around Gus’s whiskey-soaked brain that once he uncovered the painting, his and Lia’s story would be well and truly over, so of course he’d avoided it like the plague.
After a few days, Will had stopped by to check on him. Apparently Sandy had told Will about the break-up and assured him that Lia was coping as well as she could. Gus had offered Will a drink, and when he declined (it was eight in the morning), Gus had drunk enough for both of them.
“Enjoy your pity party while you can,” Will told him with a touch of disgust in his voice. “Because sooner or later you’re going to have to go back to work.”
Gus had waved him off, asking him what the fuck he knew about such things, and had he ever really loved anybody but himself?
But reality had a way of seeping in, winding its way through the fog of alcohol. Life, even a damn stupid life, had to be lived. Gus began to notice, and eat, the food that Mrs. Coats worriedly tempted him with every day. He even resumed helping Mr. Chou, taking the jobs that broke the most sweat and strained the most muscles. A numbness set in. A sense that none of it mattered anyway. Not without her.
So it was that one night he decided, finally, to see what Lia had created. He grimaced at the diff
erence between this unveiling and the one that had originally brought them together. Only about two hundred people, give or take. He walked into the dining room and contemplated the large cloth covering for several minutes. Maybe it would be just another woodland scene. Maybe she didn’t understand him at all. He’d just about convinced himself of that and on impulse pulled the cord that lowered the covering…
… and caught his breath.
She’d understood him.
Perfectly.
The scene didn’t merely reproduce the drama of the setting. Not the crashing waves or the beauty of the Redwoods. No. It expressed the feeling Gus had when he stood there, in that place. A sense of power. A sense of rightness. And possibility.
She’d painted from the perspective of one looking up, as if the trees were a cathedral without a ceiling. The viewer felt the majesty, yes, but also the potential of a world without limits. It was exactly what he’d hoped she’d see.
Tears came to his eyes and he let them fall. He took in all that he had gained from her, and all that he had lost, and it nearly overwhelmed him with sorrow. Because for all the planning, all the finagling, all the deal-making he’d done his entire life, he didn’t know how to make the situation with Lia better. He wasn’t used to feeling powerless. And he hated it.
Lia tried to lose herself in work. Scandal in the press hadn’t discouraged patrons from hiring her; in fact her notoriety increased her appeal, at least among male art collectors. She finished up the last commission she’d been working on, and took on another—the only one offered by a woman. From early morning to late in the evening she designed, sketched, prepped, painted—anything to keep her mind off what she’d lost. She allowed herself only one weakness: scanning the Call to see if there were any photographs or mention of Gus.
Sandy, as usual, was a pillar of support, always there with a smile, a funny story, a mini adventure to distract her. Yet he’d become so much more than a light-hearted sidekick. Through him, she began to see the world from a broader perspective.
Like Lia, Sandy was a child of privilege, but his sexual orientation often led him to society’s fringe. As an art student he’d begun, like so many others, in a traditional vein, but over time had shifted to more controversial subjects. Back in New York it had been the children of Mulberry Street; in San Francisco he was drawn to the plight of Chinese immigrants. Brushing off rumors of plague-ridden neighborhoods, he often spent time in Chinatown sketching its inhabitants: the fishmongers and dock workers, storekeepers and opium peddlers. From little children to wizened old timers, he captured a world that San Francisco’s “polite society” derided at worst and at best, ignored.
A few days after the scandal broke, Sandy took Lia to Chinatown to distract her. Because the immigrants were used to Sandy, they readily accepted her. She drew dozens of scenes, seeking the best way to understand and illustrate the emotional truth about the people she encountered.
“Thank you for opening my eyes, Sandy,” Lia told him afterward over a dim sum meal on Grant Street. “These people add so much to our culture, and yet we treat them so shabbily.”
“They do get the short end of the stick more often than not,” he agreed. “And there’s been quite a bit of panic over the incidents of plague, although honestly, I think it’s much ado about nothing.” Sandy leaned forward, his eyes shining. “The beauty of the Chinese people is only surpassed by their intelligence and work ethic. Mark my words: someday they’ll be a force to be reckoned with, and those who understand that, like your Mr. Wolff and Will Firestone, are going to reap the benefits down the line.”
At the mention of Gus’s name, Lia froze. “He’s no longer ‘my’ Mr. Wolff,” she reminded him.
Sandy rested his hand on hers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to rub salt, but I can’t help admiring them. Do you know, while all the other shipping companies are inflating their prices for local Chinese who want to return to their homeland or bring family members over, Pacific Global is offering fares that immigrants can actually afford? They’re ahead of the curve.”
“They’re good men,” Lia said, her eyes unexpectedly welling up.
“Yes, they are…but Lia? That still doesn’t excuse what Gus did to you.”
Lia shrugged her shoulders. “What did he do to me, Sandy? I mean really? He never promised me anything, never lied to me, never forced me…”
“No, but he could have been up front with you from the beginning.”
“That’s true, and then I would have said goodbye and missed out on some of the best times of my life.” Her smile was sad. “So, I’m a big girl and now it’s time to move on, right?”
“No, you’re a little girl,” he teased, “and what do you mean, ‘time to move on’?”
Lia looked around the little restaurant. “I don’t know. Discover more, I guess. See what’s out there for me.”
“Or maybe who?” He raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t think so,” she said. She shook her head to clear it. “Oh, the Keiths have invited me for dinner tomorrow evening. I’m sure there’s room for one more. Join me?”
“Darling, I would if I could, but Roger and I are attending the opera.” He held up a hand as if to ward Lia off. “And if you think I’m going to spy on Angel Lindemann to see who’s escorting her…you’re absolutely right.” Sandy chuckled as he paid the bill. “Come, my sweet. Let’s head back.”
“We miss you,” Mary Keith told Lia the following evening. She heaved a mock sigh. “But I suppose being the most sought-after painter in the city wouldn’t leave much time to stretch canvas and clean paint brushes for old friends, now would it?” They all laughed and Lia was reminded once again of how much she adored these two lovely people. They had helped her when she needed a job, and now stuck by her despite the unsavory publicity she’d gotten. She was incredibly lucky to have friends like Sandy and the Keiths.
Gus wasn’t mentioned, nor was her recent notoriety, but the subject of Chinatown and Asia did come up.
“I happen to know Professor Zhang Yong of the Hong Kong Institute of Art,” William remarked over an after-dinner glass of wine. “We worked together on a show in Zurich. Good man. Very talented. Very open-minded. You could learn a lot about the Asian style from him.”
“Maybe he could use an assistant,” Lia suggested in jest.
“As a matter of fact, he did tell me he’d be interested in hiring visiting professors upon my recommendation. I could send a cable to him if you like.”
Lia looked at her mentor, not sure if he was joking or not. Then she turned to Mary, who nodded.
“You might want to consider it,” Mary said. “It would be a nice…change of scenery.”
“I’ll think about it,” Lia said.
“Excellent.” William finished his glass of wine. “Now, let me show you some sketches I’ve been working on. One in particular I call After the Storm. See what you think.”
They spent the rest of the evening discussing art in general and technique in particular. Normally Lia would have been enthralled, but all she could think about was the Keiths’ suggestion that she travel to the East. Could she do it? She’d be on her own, of course; Sandy wouldn’t want to leave Roger. But if she had a position waiting for her…
It was nearing midnight and Lia called a cab to take her home. She hugged Mary and William, thanking them not just for the meal, but for always being there when she needed them. “You don’t know how much your friendship means to me,” she said.
“It’s more than friendship, dear one. You’re like a little sister to me…and a daughter to William.” Mary grinned, making light of the age gap between herself and her husband.
Lia impulsively hugged each of them again. “Thank you.” The taxi driver honked his horn and she hurriedly donned her coat. She was halfway to the taxi when it dawned on her what she should do. Turning back, she said, “William? I’d appreciate it if you’d send that cable.”
“Consider it done,” he said. “I should hear so
mething back in a week or so.” He and Mary waved goodbye and Lia returned home, accompanied only by her churning thoughts.
Back at her bungalow, Lia lay in bed mulling over the decision she’d made. Just when she was establishing herself in this glorious city, just when the commissions were starting to come in, she was taking off. Was it running away? Maybe. But spending day after day wanting someone she couldn’t have was a physical ache that no pill or therapy could rid her of. And being in the same city, waiting for the next photograph, the next mistress…well, it was unbearable. Now that Sandy had introduced her to a different view of the world, a trip to the Orient would broaden her perspective all the more. And once she returned—if she returned—she’d look for someplace else to call home. Los Angeles, perhaps, or Chicago. A flutter of panic went through her as she contemplated life without Sandy nearby. But he had his own life to live; he’d sacrificed enough for her already.
No, a trip to Hong Kong, and maybe points beyond, needed to happen. She would begin to iron out the details tomorrow.
Sitting in his cold, darkened dining room, Gus had almost convinced himself that someone had done something malicious to all the clocks. Broken them or something. Made them slow as molasses. Because time crawled.
Oh, he’d gone back to work. After a fashion. He’d shown up for meetings, read the reports, brokered the deals, signed the contracts. But none of it meant anything until he was back home, thinking. And waiting. But for what? Some insight to come to him? Some absence of feeling that would let him go out and find another woman? Problem was, he didn’t want another woman, and a little voice in the back of his head taunted him with the idea that he’d never want a woman again. And even that didn’t bother him, which was when he knew he was in trouble.
He’d dragged his favorite easy chair into the room and set it up with a table next to it where he could set his glass of Jack and contemplate Lia’s mural. By now he needn’t have bothered looking at it because it was seared into his brain. In fact, more than once he’d considered covering it up again. The logical part of him knew he was obsessing about losing Lia, but the illogical part of him didn’t give a damn. As he had for the past several nights, Gus lay back with his feet up, hoping eventually to get some shut eye that didn’t contain dreams of a beautiful dark-haired woman who was just out of reach.
The Art of Love: Origins of Sinner's Grove Page 22