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5
The sunroom smelled musty. It was a single-story extension of the château, built onto the terrace, the floor made of the same flagstones that led into it. With a southern exposure, it had a wall of windows and several skylights.
“It must be ten degrees warmer than outside,” Malone said. “I imagine you eat breakfast in here on chilly days.”
“No, the room hasn’t been used since I’ve lived here.”
“With a view like this…”
“Derek isn’t fond of the place.”
It was spacious, with a high ceiling. Except for several wooden tables along the left side, it was so empty, their footsteps echoed.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to change my clothes?” Sie
“I don’t want anything except for you to do what you’d normally do.” Malone sat on one of the tables, his legs dangling. “See, my problem is how to do this portrait so it captures you, so someone who knows you will say, ‘Yes, that’s Sie
“Whatever that is.”
Malone chuckled. “There’s nothing like a heavy conversation to put you at ease.”
“You don’t need to entertain me.”
“After all the weeks I spent learning to play the banjo.”
Sie
The next few seconds stretched on and on as Malone studied the curve of her slightly parted lips, the unique combination of brightness and vulnerability in that half smile.
“What are you doing?”
“Doing?”
“The way you’re… Even when I was a model, no one ever stared that hard at me.”
“Sorry.” Malone felt his cheeks turn warm with self-consciousness. “I don’t mean to seem rude. I have to look at you that way. By the time this project is finished, I’ll know your face better than I’ve known anyone else’s in my life. Can I ask you a question?”
She looked unsure.
“I told you how I got mine. How did you get yours?”
“I don’t -”
“Your first name.”
“Oh.” She seemed relieved. “There’s not much to tell. My parents were Italian-Americans. From a little town in Illinois. But their parents had come from Italy, from Siena, and all the old folks ever talked about was how wonderful that part of Italy was, so when my parents went on their honeymoon, that’s the place they chose. They couldn’t think of a more loving first name to give me.”
“Your parents were Italian-Americans?”
“They died when I was twelve.”
“… I’m sorry,” Malone said.
“My mother was killed in a car accident. My father had a heart attack two months later, but I always thought it was literally a broken heart.”
“You loved them.”
“Very much. The way you said that, did you really think I might say no?”
“Everybody’s situation is different.”
“You didn’t get along with your parents?”
Malone was surprised that he’d opened the subject. “I never had any arguments with my father.” He surprised himself further. “It’s hard to fight with somebody you’ve never met.”
A burst of machine-gun fire broke the moment. Malone turned toward the sunroom’s open door. The stuttering blast echoed from behind the Cloister. “Doesn’t that get on your nerves?”
“Actually, the pauses are what bother me,” she said. “It’s like when I lived in Manhattan. I got so used to the noise of traffic, even in the middle of the night, that I felt something was wrong if I was somewhere quiet.”
“Well, this sunroom’s about as quiet as it’s going to get.”
6
Malone brought a chair from a corner and set it in the light. It was wooden, with a slotted back. “This doesn’t look very comfortable. We should bring a cushion from -”
“It’s not a problem.” But when Sie
“Do? Nothing. Just sit there.”
“But how do you want me? Head tilted to the right or left? Eyes up or down?”
“Whatever way you feel natural.” Malone picked up a large sketch pad and a box of charcoal crayons. “This is very preliminary.”
“Do you mind if I stand?”
“So long as you keep your face in my direction.”
The charcoal scratched on the pad.
She looked more uneasy. “Photographers hated it if I stood still. I had to keep moving. Often, there was rock music. When the film in one camera was exposed, they’d quickly hand it to an assistant, then switch to another camera and never miss a shot. They’d have a fan pointed at my hair so when I spun, my hair twirled. They’d tell me to keep fluffing it with my hands.”
Malone’s charcoal crayon stopped scratching.
“What’s the matter?” she asked.
“You’re going to have to keep still for me. Don’t exaggerate. But I do need you a little less animated if I’m going to make a good likeness.”
“Can I talk at least? Photographers also hated it when I talked.”
“Be my guest.” Malone made a few more scratches with the charcoal, then tore the sheet from the pad and set it on a table.
“That one didn’t turn out? Did I move too much?”
“No, it’s fine for what it is.” Malone resumed scratching on the pad. “It’s just a study. I’ll do hundreds before I try anything permanent.”
“Hundreds?”
“To get a feel for your face.”
“The photographers I worked with sometimes took hundreds of exposures in a session.”
“Well, this is going to take longer.”
Sie
The expression was marvelous. “Good.”
7
“Madame, will you be wanting lunch?”
Confused, Malone turned toward an aproned servant standing in the doorway. “So early?”
“It’s almost two, monsieur.”
Malone’s confusion changed to amazement when he looked at the table behind him. A chaos of sketches littered it. “My God,” he told Sie
She was sitting on the chair by now. “A little. But you were so engrossed, I didn’t want to say anything. Besides, it’s been interesting.” She thanked the servant.
“Interesting?” Malone followed Sie
“No, talking with you.”
Malone tried to remember their conversation. He’d been so absorbed in working while glancing surreptitiously outside toward the helicopter area and the Cloister that the things they’d talked about were a blur.
“I haven’t had a long conversation with anybody in quite a while.” Sie
Malone ordered the same. “Yes, your husband’s so busy, you must be alone a lot.”
Sie
“You never met your father?”
The question caught him by surprise. It took him a moment to recall their unfinished topic from when they’d entered the sunroom.
Sie
“No, that’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it. My mother was a drunk.” Malone tried to sound matter-of-fact, but he couldn’t stop bitterness from creeping into his voice. “She had a string of boyfriends I was supposed to call Dad, but I never did.”
“At the stables, you mentioned something about a grandfather.”
“My mother’s father. He took care of me on his farm when my mother wasn’t dragging me from state to state with whatever boyfriend she had at the time. I spent a lot of time by myself. That’s when I started to draw.”
“It just goes to show – sometimes good can come out of bad.” She sounded as if she wanted to believe it.
“Excellent,” Bellasar said, approaching from the sunroom. “You’ve begun.”
Sie
“You saw the sketches?” Malone asked.
“They’re very promising. Any of them could be the basis for a splendid portrait,” Bellasar said.