This Heart Of Mine

Chapter 16

Lilly hated herself for saying yes, but what art lover could turn down an invitation to visit Liam Jenner's house and see his private collection? Not that the invitation had been issued graciously. Lilly had just come in from a Sunday-morning walk when Amy handed her the telephone.

"If you want to see my paintings, come to my house this afternoon at two," he'd barked. "No earlier. I'm working, and I won't answer the bell."

She'd definitely been in L.A. too long, because she almost found his rudeness refreshing. As she turned off the highway and onto the side road he'd indicated, she realized how accustomed she'd grown to meaningless compliments and empty flattery. She'd nearly forgotten that people still existed who said exactly what was on their minds.

She spotted the weather-beaten turquoise mailbox he'd told her to look for. It perched crookedly on a battered metal pole set in a tractor tire filled with cement. The ditch behind the tire held rusted bedsprings and a twisted sheet of corrugated tin, which made the no trespassing sign at the top of the rutted, overgrown lane seem superfluous.

She turned in and slowed to a crawl. Even so, her car lurched alarmingly in the ruts. She'd just decided to abandon it and walk the rest of the way when the overgrowth disappeared and fresh gravel smoothed the bumpy road surface. Moments later she caught her breath as the house came into view.

It was a sleekly modern structure with white concrete parapets, stone ledges, and glass. Everything about the design bore Liam Jenner's signature. As she got out of the car and made her way toward the niche that held the front door, she wondered where he'd found an architect saintly enough to work with him.

She glanced down at her watch and saw that she was exactly half an hour late for this command performance. Just as she'd intended.

The door swung open. She waited for him to bark at her for not being on time and was disappointed when he merely nodded, then stepped back to let her in.

She caught her breath. The glass wall opposite the entrance had been constructed in irregular sections bisected by a narrow iron catwalk some ten feet from the ground floor. Through the glass she could see the sweeping vista of lake, cliffs, and trees.

"What an amazing house."

"Thanks. Would you like something to drink?"

His request sounded cordial, but she was even more impressed that he'd traded in his paint-stained denim shirt and shorts for a black silk shirt and light gray slacks. Ironically, his civilized clothes only emphasized the Sturm und Drang of that rugged face.

She declined his offer for a drink. "I'd love a tour, though."

"All right."

The house hugged the terrain in two uneven sections, the larger of which held an open living area, kitchen, library, and cantilevered dining room, with several smaller bedrooms tucked into lower levels. The catwalk she'd seen when she'd entered led to a glass-enclosed tower that Liam told her held his studio. She hoped he'd let her see it, but he showed her only the master bedroom below, a space designed with an almost monastic simplicity.

Magnificent works of art were on display everywhere, and Liam talked about them with passion and discernment. An enormous Jasper Johns canvas hung not far from a contemplative composition in blues and beige by Agnes Martin. One of Bruce Nauman's neon sculptures flickered near the library archway. Across from it hung a work by David Hockney, then a portrait of Liam done by Chuck Close. An imposing Helen Frankenthaler canvas occupied one long wall of the living area, and a totemlike stone-and-wood sculpture dominated a hallway. The very best of the world's contemporary artists were represented in this house. All except Liam Jenner.

Lilly waited until the tour was over and they'd returned to the central living area before she asked about it. "Why haven't you hung any of your own paintings?"

"Looking at my work when I'm not in the studio feels too much like a busman's holiday."

"I suppose. But they'd be so joyous in this house."

He stared at her for a long moment. Then the craggy lines of his face softened in a smile. "You really are a fan, aren't you?"

"I'm afraid so. I bid on one of your paintings a few months ago-Composition #3. My business manager forced me to drop out at two hundred and fifty thousand."

"Obscene, isn't it?"

He looked so pleased that she laughed. "You should be ashamed of yourself. It wasn't worth a penny over two hundred thousand. And I'm just beginning to realize how much I hate giving you compliments. You truly are the most overbearing man."

"It makes life easier."

"Keeps the masses at a distance?"

"I value my privacy."

"Which explains why you've built such an extraordinary house in the wilds of northern Michigan instead of Big Sur or Cap d'Antibes."

"Already you know me well."

"You're such a diva. I'm certain I've had my privacy invaded far more than you have, but it hasn't turned me into a hermit. Do you know that I still can't go anywhere without people recognizing me?"

"My nightmare."

"Why is it such a big deal to you?"

"Old baggage."

"Tell me."

"It's an incredibly boring story. You don't want to hear it."

"Believe me, I do." She sat on the couch to encourage him. "I love hearing people's stories."

He gazed at her, then sighed. "The critics discovered me just before my twenty-sixth birthday. Are you sure you want to hear this?"

"Definitely."

He stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered toward the windows. "I became the proverbial overnight sensation-on everybody's guest list, the subject of national magazine articles. I had people throwing money at me."

"I remember what that was like."

The fact that she understood what he'd gone through in ways most people couldn't seemed to relax him. He left the windows to sprawl down across from her, dominating the chair he'd chosen in the same way he dominated every space he occupied. She felt a moment of uneasiness. Craig had been overpowering like that.

"It went to my head," he said, "and I started believing all the hype. Do you remember that, too?"

"I was lucky. My husband kept me grounded in reality." Too grounded, she thought now. Craig never understood that she'd needed his praise more than his criticism.

"I wasn't lucky. I forgot that it was about the work, not about the artist. I partied instead of painted. I drank too much. I developed a taste for nose candy and free sex."

"Except sex never is free, is it?"

"Not when you're married to a woman you love. Ah, but I justified my behavior, you see, because she was my true love and all that other sex was meaningless. I justified it because she was having a tough pregnancy, and the doctor had told me to leave her alone until after the baby was born."

Lilly heard his self-contempt. This was a man who judged himself even more harshly than he judged others.

"My wife found out, of course, and did the right thing by walking out on me. A week later she went into labor, but the baby was born dead."

"Oh, Liam…"

He turned away her sympathy with an arch twist of his mouth. "There's a happy ending. She married a magazine editor and went on to have three healthy, well-adjusted children. As for me… I learned an important lesson about what is important and what isn't."

"And you've lived in lonely isolation ever since?"

He smiled. "Hardly that. I do have friends, Lilly. Genuine ones."

"People you've known for a hundred years," she guessed. "Newcomers need not apply."

"I think all of us get set in our friendships as we grow older. Haven't you?"

"I suppose." She started to ask why he'd invited her here, since she was definitely a newcomer, but a more important question was on her mind. "Am I mistaken, or didn't you leave something important out of the house tour?"

He sank deeper into his chair and looked annoyed. "You want to see my studio."

"I'm sure you don't make a habit of opening it up to everyone, but-"

"No one goes in there but me and an occasional model."

"Perfectly understandable," she said smoothly. "Still, I'd be grateful if I could just have a peek."

A calculating glint appeared in his eyes. "How grateful?"

"What do you mean?"

"Grateful enough to pose for me?"

"You don't give up, do you?"

"It's part of my charm."

If they'd been at the B &B or by the stream in the meadow, she might have been able to refuse, but not here. That mysterious space where he created some of the world's most beautiful art was too near. "I can't imagine why you'd want to sketch a fat, over-the-hill, forty-five-year-old woman, but if that's what it takes to see your studio, then, yes, I'll pose for you."

"Good. Follow me." He vaulted from his chair and headed for a set of stone steps that led to the catwalk. As he reached it, he glanced back at her. "You're not fat. And you're older than forty-five."

"I am not!"

"You've had work done around your eyes, but no plastic surgeon can cut away the life experience behind them. You're closer to fifty."

"I'm forty-seven."

He gazed down at her from the catwalk. "You're making me lose patience."

"Air could make you lose patience," she grumbled.

The corner of his mouth curled. "Do you want to see my studio or not?"

"Oh, I suppose." Frowning, she swept up the steps, then followed him across the narrow, open structure. She glanced uneasily down at the living area below. "I feel as if I'm walking the plank."

"You'll get used to it."

His statement implied she'd be coming back, an impression she immediately corrected. "I'll pose for you today, but that's all."

"Stop irritating me." He'd reached the end of the catwalk, and he turned toward her so he stood silhouetted against the stone arch. She felt a tiny erotic thrill as he watched her approach with his legs braced and his arms crossed over his chest like an ancient warrior.

She gave him her diva's gaze. "Remind me again why I even wanted to see it."

"Because I'm a genius. Just ask me."

"Shut up and get out of my way."

His laugh held a deep, pleasing resonance. He turned away and led her around a curve of wall into his studio.

"Oh, Liam…" She pressed her fingertips to her lips.

The studio sat suspended above the trees in its own private universe. It was oddly shaped with three of its five sides curved. Late-afternoon light glowed through the northern wall, which was constructed entirely of glass. Overhead, the various skylights had shades that could be adjusted according to the time of day. The layers of colorful paint splatters on the rough walls, the furniture, and the limestone floor had turned the studio into a work of modern art all its own. She had the same sensation she experienced when she stood inside the Getty.

Half-finished canvases sat on easels while others leaned against the walls. Several large canvases hung on special frames. Her mind whirled as she tried to take it all in. She might not have had much formal education, but she'd studied art on her own for several decades, and she wasn't a novice. Still, she found his mature work difficult to categorize. All the influences were evident-the teeth-gnashing of the Abstract Expressionists, the studied cool of Pop, the starkness of the Minimalists. But only Liam Jenner had the audacity to superimpose the sentimental over those decidedly unsentimental styles.

Her eyes drank in the monumental, unfinished Madonna and Child that occupied most of one wall. Of all the great contemporary artists, only Liam Jenner could paint a Madonna and Child without using cow dung as his medium, or smearing an obscenity over her forehead, or adding a flashing Coca-Cola sign in place of a star. Only Liam Jenner had the absolute self-confidence to show the cynical deconstructionists who populated the world of contemporary art the meaning of unabashed reverence.

Her heart filled with tears she couldn't let herself shed. Tears of loss for the way she'd let her identity get swallowed up by Craig's expectations, tears of loss for the son she'd given away. Gazing at the painting, she realized how careless she'd been with what she should have held sacred.

His hand curled around her shoulder in a gesture as gentle as the wisps of blue-gold paint softening the Madonna's hair. His touch seemed both natural and necessary, and as she swallowed her tears, she had to resist the urge to curl into his chest.

"My poor Lilly," he said softly. "You've made your life even harder for yourself than I have mine."

She didn't question how he knew, but as she stood before that miraculous, unfinished painting and felt the comforting hand on her shoulder, she understood that all these canvases were reflections of the man-his angry intensity, his intelligence, his severity, and the sentiment he worked so hard to hide. Unlike her, Liam Jenner was one with his work.

"Sit," he murmured. "Just as you are." She let him lead her to a simple wooden chair across the room. He caressed her shoulder, then stepped back and reached for one of the blank canvases near his worktable. If he had been any other man, she would have felt manipulated, but manipulation wouldn't occur to him. He had simply been overcome with the need to create, and for a reason she couldn't fathom, that involved her.

She no longer cared. Instead, she gazed at the Madonna and Child and thought about her life, richly blessed in so many ways but barren in others. Instead of concentrating on her losses-her son, her identity, the husband she'd both loved and resented-she thought of all she'd been granted. She'd been blessed with a good brain and the intellectual curiosity to challenge it. She'd been given a beautiful face and body when she'd needed them most. So what if that beauty had faded? Here beside this lake in northern Michigan, it didn't seem quite so important.

As she gazed at the Madonna, something began to happen. She saw her herb-garden quilt instead of Liam's painting, and she began to understand what had eluded her. The herb garden was a metaphor for the woman who now lived inside her-a more mature woman, one who wanted to heal and nurture instead of seduce, a woman with subtle nuances instead of splashy beauty. She was no longer the person she'd been, but she didn't yet understand the person she'd become. Somehow the quilt held the answer.

Her fingers twitched in her lap as a rush of energy shot through her. She needed her sewing basket and her box of fabrics. She needed them now. If she had them-if she had them right now!-she could find the path that would unlock who she was. She jumped up from the chair. "I have to go."

He'd been completely absorbed in his work, and for a moment he didn't seem to comprehend what she'd said. Then something that almost looked like pain twisted those craggy features. "Oh, God, you can't."

"Please. I'm not being difficult. I have to-I'll come right back. I just need to get something from my car."

He stepped away from the canvas. Left a smudge on his forehead as he shoved a hand through his hair. "I'll get it for you."

"There's a basket in my trunk. No, I need the box that's with it. I need-We'll go together."

They ran across the catwalk, both of them on fire to get this done so they could return to what was essential. Her breath came in little gasps as she raced down the steps. She looked for the purse that held her keys but couldn't find it.

"Why the hell did you lock your car!" he roared. "We're in the middle of godforsaken nowhere!"

"I live in L.A.!" she shouted back.

"Here!" He snatched the purse from beneath one of the tables and began rummaging through it.

"Give it to me!" She grabbed it away and dug herself.

"Hurry up!" He seized her at the elbow, shoved her toward the front door and down the steps. On the way she found the keys. She broke away from him and flicked the remote that opened the trunk.

She nearly sobbed with relief as she grabbed her sewing basket and pushed the box of fabrics at him. He barely glanced at it.

They fled inside again, rushed up the stairs, raced across the catwalk. By the time they got to the studio, they were both struggling to breathe, more from emotion than exertion. She collapsed into the chair. He rushed toward the canvas. They gazed at each other. And both of them smiled.

It was an exquisite moment. One of perfect communication. He hadn't questioned her urgency, hadn't shown the slightest disdain when he'd seen it was only a woman's sewing basket that had made her so frantic. Somehow he understood her need to create, just as she understood his.

Content, she bent to her work.

Gradually it grew dark outside. The studio's interior lights came on, each one exquisitely placed to provide illumination without shadow. Her scissors snipped. Her needle flew in the broad basting stitches that would hold the fabric together until she could get to her sewing machine. Seam met seam. Colors blended. Patterns overlapped.

His fingers brushed her neck. She hadn't realized he'd left his canvas. A streak of scarlet smeared his black silk shirt, and a smear of orange clung to his expensive slacks. His crisp, graying hair was rumpled, and more paint smudged his hairline.

Her skin prickled as he touched the top button on her gauzy, tangerine blouse. Gazing into her eyes, he slipped it free of its buttonhole. Then he opened the next one.

"Please," he said.

She didn't try to stop him, not even when he slipped one side of the blouse down. Not even when his square, paint-smeared fingers brushed the front clasp of her bra. Instead, she bent her head to her sewing and let him unfasten it.

Her breasts spilled free, so much heavier than they'd been when she was younger. She allowed him to arrange the gauzy fabric of her blouse as he wished. He slipped one sleeve down her arm until it caught at the crook. Then the other. Her breasts rested in the nest of fabric like plump hens.

His footsteps tapped the limestone floor as he returned to his canvas.

Bare-breasted, she kept to her sewing.

Earlier she'd believed that her quilt would be about nurture instead of seduction, but now the astonishing fact that she'd allowed him to do this told her the meaning was more complex. She'd thought the sexual part of her had died. Now the hot ache in her body made her understand this wasn't true. The quilt had just unlocked one secret of her new identity.

Without disturbing the drape of fabric at the crook of her arms, she dipped into the box at her side and found a soft piece of old velvet. It was a deep, sensual crimson shaded with darker hues. The color of dark opal basil. The secret color of a woman's body. Her fingers trembled as she rounded the corners. The fabric brushed her nipples as she worked it, making them tighten and bead. She dipped into the box again and found an even deeper hue to serve as the secret heart.

She would add tiny crystals of dew.

A muffled curse made her look up. Liam stared at her, perspiration glistening on the rugged planes of his face. His paint-streaked arms hung slack at his sides, and a brush lay at his feet where he'd dropped it. "I've painted a hundred nudes. This is the first time…" He shook his head, looking momentarily bewildered. "I can't do this."

A rush of shame filled her. Her quilt piece fell to the floor as she leaped up, grabbed her blouse, pulled it closed.

"No." He came toward her. "Oh, no, not that."

The fire in his eyes stunned her. His legs brushed her skirt, and he plunged his hands inside the blouse she'd just drawn closed. Gathering her breasts in his hands, he buried his face in the swells. She clutched his arms as his lips closed around a nipple.

Their explosion of passion should have been reserved for youth, but neither of them was young. She felt his hard, thick length. He reached for the waistband of her skirt. Sanity returned, and she pushed his hands away. She wanted him to see her naked as she'd once been, not as she was now.

"Lilly…" He breathed her name in protest.

"I'm sorry…"

He had no patience for cowardice. He reached beneath her skirt and snagged her panties, then dropped to his knees and drew them off. He pressed his face into her skirt, against her… His warm breath seeped between her legs. It felt so good. She separated them, just a few inches, and let his breath touch her secret heart.

He pulled her down beside him on that hard limestone floor. Cupping her face in his hands, he kissed her. The deep, experienced kiss of a man who knew women well.

Together they fell back. Her skirt tangled at her waist. He ran his hands along her legs and pushed them far apart. Then he buried his face between them.

She drew up her ankles, let her knees fall open, and reveled in his lusty, vigorous feasting. Her orgasm was fierce and strong, taking her by surprise. By the time she'd recovered, he was naked.

His body was powerful and fine. She opened her arms, and he plunged inside her. With her fingers curled into his hair, she took his deepest kiss, wrapped her legs around him. Her spine dug into the hard floor beneath. She winced as he plunged again.

He stopped, stroked more gently, then turned them so his body took the punishment of the floor. "Better?" He reached up to cup her breasts as they swung before him.

"Better," she replied, finding a rhythm that pleased them both.

As they moved, the paints on the canvases seemed to swirl around them, the colors growing brighter, turning liquid. Their bodies worked together, awash in hot sensation. Finally neither of them could bear it any longer, and all the colors of the universe shattered in an explosion of bright, white light.

She came back to herself slowly. She was lying on top of him, her blouse and skirt bunched at her waist. She'd fallen under a spell. The man had cast a spell over her as surely as his paintings had.

He groaned. "I'm too old for floors."

She leaped off him, scrambling awkwardly to cover herself. "I'm sorry. I'm-I'm so heavy. I must have crushed you."

"Not this again." He rolled to his side, winced, and slowly rose to his feet. Unlike her, he didn't seem to be in any hurry to get his clothes back on. She refused to look. Instead, she pushed her crumpled skirt down, noticing at the same time that her panties lay on the floor at his feet. She couldn't manage her bra, so she pulled the front of her blouse together, only to have him catch her hands and still them over the buttons.

"You listen to me, Lilly Sherman. I've worked with hundreds of models over the years, but I've never had to stop painting to seduce one of them."

She started to say that she didn't believe him, but this was Liam Jenner, a man with no patience for niceties. "It's-it was crazy."

His expression grew fierce. "Your body is magnificent. It's lush and extravagant, exactly the way a woman's body should be. Did you see the way the light fell on your skin? On your breasts? They're outrageous, Lilly. Big. Fleshy. Bountiful. I couldn't ever get enough of painting them. Your nipples…" He settled his thumbs over them, rubbed, and his eyes burned with the same passion she'd seen when he painted. "They make me think of showers. Showers of rich, golden milk." She shivered at the intensity she heard in his husky whisper. "Spilling to the ground… turning into rivers… sparkling, golden rivers flowing to nourish continents of parched land."

Such an outlandish, excessive man. She didn't know what to do with a vision so outrageous.

"Your body, Lilly… don't you see? This is the body that gave birth to the human race."

His words ran counter to everything that the world she lived in preached. Diets. Denial. An obsession with female bone instead of female flesh. The culture of youth and thinness.

Of stinginess.

Of disfigurement.

Of fear.

For a fraction of a moment she glimpsed the truth. She saw a world so terrified of Woman's mystical power that nothing would do but to obliterate the very source of that power-the natural shape of her body.

The vision was too foreign to her experience, and it faded. "I-I have to go." Her heart hammered in her chest. She leaned down and grabbed her panties, threw them into her sewing basket, snatched up her quilt pieces. "This was… this was so irresponsible."

He smiled. "Am I likely to get you pregnant?"

"No. But there are other things."

"Neither of us is promiscuous. We've both learned the hard way that sex is too important."

"What do you call that?" She jabbed her hand toward the floor.

"Passion." He nodded toward the quilt pieces spilling from her basket. "Let me see what you're working on."

She couldn't imagine permitting a genius like Liam Jenner to see her simple craft project. Shaking her head, she made her way toward the door, but just before she got there, something made her stop and turn back.

He stood watching her. A smudge of blue paint marked his thigh near his groin. He was naked and magnificent.

"You were right," she said. "I'm fifty!"

His soft reply followed her out of the house and down the road.

"Too old to be such a coward."