From the dense shadows between canvases she watched Wylles move toward the easel. He made no sign that he had seen her. Suddenly his face was lit, not by a spell-light but by a flashlight. Its yellow circle moved toward the paintings hanging on the wall above her.
The light paused at each painting as Wylles moved slowly down the room, looking. Then he moved to the easel; she saw too late the glint of a knife.
She heard the canvas rip as she leaped. She landed on his back raking her claws into his flesh. He threw himself against the wall to crush her.
She jumped from his shoulders and changed to girl. She hit him and grabbed his arms. The studio lights flared on.
Braden stood half awake, half asleep, wearing a pair of cutoffs, looking at the slashed painting, at her, and at the paint-smeared blade in Wylles’ hand. Looking at the painting where her face was slashed, with a hole in it where a flap of canvas hung down. It began to rain, pattering against the glass.
Braden took the paint-smeared knife from Wylles’ hand. He examined the paint on Wylles’ fingers.
Then, not speaking, he clamped a hand on Wylles’ shoulder and propelled him out the door. Melissa watched him guide Wylles up the dim garden, watched them mount the stairs to the white house, watched Braden push Wylles against the wall like a limp doll. She could see that Braden was talking to Wylles. Wylles didn’t move. At last Braden opened the door and shoved Wylles inside the house.
He came back down the garden and pushed past her, not speaking. Was he angry with her? She heard the coffeepot start. She stood looking at the ruined canvas. If she had not come in, Wylles would have destroyed all Braden’s paintings of her.
She went into the bedroom and slipped back into bed to wait for Braden to cool down.
At last he brought his coffee and her tea to bed. She touched his face. “Did you wake Tom’s mother? Did you tell her?”
“No. My business was with Tom.” His dark eyes burned with anger, but not at her.
“What did you say to him?”
“I explained how I would feel if anything else of mine was touched. I told him I had killed men in the war. I told him killing meant nothing to me.” For the first time, he grinned. “I demonstrated with his butcher knife a diversity of things I could think of to do to him.”
“Would you?”
He smiled.
She buried her face against his bare shoulder. “I loved that painting.”
“I’ll do it over.”
“He’ll come back, Braden. No matter what you told him. Is—is there somewhere we could take the paintings?”
“He won’t come back.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her, frowning. “How could you know that? Is there something you’re not telling me?”
“No, but—did you see his face? I just feel that he could come back.”
“Was it Tom who hit you yesterday? The blow on your head…?”
“I fell. Why would Tom hit me?”
“Why would he slash my painting?”
“Could you take the paintings to the gallery now? The show is only three weeks away. We—we could go down to Carmel. You said last night it would be nice to paint in Carmel.”
He looked at her silently, trying to see more than she was telling him. “He’s only a child, Melissa. Why would I run away from a little boy?”
She touched his face, tracing the line of his jaw, turning her own face so the wound on her forehead and the bruise on her cheek caught the light.
He stared at her then drew her close, kissing her, holding her. At last he said, “So why not? We could get some good work in Carmel, the light is wonderful, the sea…But I don’t think I want to dump the whole show on Rye so early, fill up his storage space.”
She busied herself with her tea.
He touched under her chin, tipping her face up. “There’s more to this than you’re telling me.”
“He slashed one painting. He will destroy the rest.” She looked back at him steadily.
He sighed, took her cup from her, and kissed her. “I suppose I could take them to the gallery. But some aren’t dry. They’re a bother to handle.”
She watched him.
“All right. Rye can order frames. And he can have frames ready for the paintings we do in Carmel.” Then he laughed. “This kind of last minute thing drives him crazy.”
He touched the tip of her nose with his finger. “You don’t need to say much to get your own way, do you? With that green-eyed stare, you’re as hardheaded as the damn cat.” He gathered her close, burying his face against her, kissing her, making slow, easy love to her.
When they lay spent, his mouth resting against her throat, he said, muffled against her, “Just before I woke this morning I was dreaming of a green world. Green cliffs, green sky, green caves.” He raised up, looking at her, his eyes filled with pleasure from the dream. “I could see in the rock formations how water had cut through, and how the earth had twisted and warped. The green light seemed to seep out of every stone.”
