Read Online An Emergence of Green by Katherine V Forrest - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katherine V Forrest
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tell me a good place to have it framed?”
“I’ll do that—don’t argue. It doesn’t cost much. I always make my own frames. It’s not difficult and I enjoy it. Besides, who better than the artist knows how it should be framed?”
Carolyn asked in resignation, “When can I have it?”
“It’s finished drying but needs to be varnished. Let’s say Monday.”
Val glanced at her watch and was startled. “I haven’t even thought about dinner. And Neal’s due home. I want you to meet Neal. I think you two would like each other.”
Carolyn was pleased, as if she had passed an important test. But she hesitated. How would she explain this to Paul? Any of this? “Of course,” she said. “Soon.”
“How about some evening?”
“Sure.” She wanted to flee, to sort through what she had done before Paul came home. She changed the subject, not wanting Val to pin her down before she had time to think. “I’ll have the painting Monday for sure?”
“I’ll varnish it in the morning when the light’s good. I see no problem…Yes, Monday.”
“Good.” She edged toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow in the pool?”
Val smiled at her. “Monday. Neal and I are going to the beach house, then backpacking in the San Bernardino mountains.”
Chapter 10
Val pulled a sketch pad out of the pile on the coffee table, the same pad she had used for her first penciled impression of Carolyn Blake. The latest drawing was of Carolyn on the white sofa in a silk shirtwaist dress, her feet drawn up under her, her head tilted slightly to the left in what Val knew to be unconscious habit when Carolyn was listening. A hand rested on a knee, and Val spent some time on the tapering fingers and the thumb that was in interesting apposition, a wide angle out from the fingers. She filled in details of the dress, the folds of soft silk, her pencil straying back up to the throat, lightly sculpting and accentuating the curve.
She turned the page, and in a few strokes Carolyn stood with her feet close together, arms crossed, her hands clasping the inside of her arms; as she had stood in this room only a few minutes ago looking at paintings. Several lines completed the shorts Carolyn wore, but Val lingered over the legs, the long curves, the slenderness of them.
Again she turned the page. In close-up she emphasized delicate bone structure, the rounding at the end of the nose and at the center of the chin, the fine breadth of forehead. She feathered in an irregular hairline at the temples, a suggestion of eyelashes not readily apparent because of their blondeness.
She held the sketch at arm’s length, appraising not her work but the subject. Carolyn Blake was by no means conventionally pretty, yet she was exquisite.
With tender strokes she finished the soft lines of the throat. The sketch was now asymmetrical on the page but still her pencil descended. Under her hand slender shoulders and then small breasts took shape, shadowed, suggested by a top piece of the bikini, cleavage clearly visible.
The image of Alix filled Val’s mind, and Val’s pencil stilled.
—Sometimes when a person wants another for so long, the want can go away. And finally the want of you has gone, Val. I’ll always love you but I don’t have to have you anymore. You know it, how I wanted you. And I know you could have loved me. Even with Bette and my other lovers, knowing you could love me kept me hoping, kept me tied to you. You never allowed yourself to love me.
—I do love you, Alix. I never wanted…more.
—You did. The year we lived together we never went to bed but there was everything else. How you touched me, how you looked at me.
—What was real for you was a phase for me. Experimentation.
—I see you better than anyone in your life, Val Hunter. Better than both your husbands, your parents, anyone. I know how you think, I know your self-control. You make something not exist by denying that it does. One day you’ll admit what you
“I’ll do that—don’t argue. It doesn’t cost much. I always make my own frames. It’s not difficult and I enjoy it. Besides, who better than the artist knows how it should be framed?”
Carolyn asked in resignation, “When can I have it?”
“It’s finished drying but needs to be varnished. Let’s say Monday.”
Val glanced at her watch and was startled. “I haven’t even thought about dinner. And Neal’s due home. I want you to meet Neal. I think you two would like each other.”
Carolyn was pleased, as if she had passed an important test. But she hesitated. How would she explain this to Paul? Any of this? “Of course,” she said. “Soon.”
“How about some evening?”
“Sure.” She wanted to flee, to sort through what she had done before Paul came home. She changed the subject, not wanting Val to pin her down before she had time to think. “I’ll have the painting Monday for sure?”
“I’ll varnish it in the morning when the light’s good. I see no problem…Yes, Monday.”
“Good.” She edged toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow in the pool?”
Val smiled at her. “Monday. Neal and I are going to the beach house, then backpacking in the San Bernardino mountains.”
Chapter 10
Val pulled a sketch pad out of the pile on the coffee table, the same pad she had used for her first penciled impression of Carolyn Blake. The latest drawing was of Carolyn on the white sofa in a silk shirtwaist dress, her feet drawn up under her, her head tilted slightly to the left in what Val knew to be unconscious habit when Carolyn was listening. A hand rested on a knee, and Val spent some time on the tapering fingers and the thumb that was in interesting apposition, a wide angle out from the fingers. She filled in details of the dress, the folds of soft silk, her pencil straying back up to the throat, lightly sculpting and accentuating the curve.
She turned the page, and in a few strokes Carolyn stood with her feet close together, arms crossed, her hands clasping the inside of her arms; as she had stood in this room only a few minutes ago looking at paintings. Several lines completed the shorts Carolyn wore, but Val lingered over the legs, the long curves, the slenderness of them.
Again she turned the page. In close-up she emphasized delicate bone structure, the rounding at the end of the nose and at the center of the chin, the fine breadth of forehead. She feathered in an irregular hairline at the temples, a suggestion of eyelashes not readily apparent because of their blondeness.
She held the sketch at arm’s length, appraising not her work but the subject. Carolyn Blake was by no means conventionally pretty, yet she was exquisite.
With tender strokes she finished the soft lines of the throat. The sketch was now asymmetrical on the page but still her pencil descended. Under her hand slender shoulders and then small breasts took shape, shadowed, suggested by a top piece of the bikini, cleavage clearly visible.
The image of Alix filled Val’s mind, and Val’s pencil stilled.
—Sometimes when a person wants another for so long, the want can go away. And finally the want of you has gone, Val. I’ll always love you but I don’t have to have you anymore. You know it, how I wanted you. And I know you could have loved me. Even with Bette and my other lovers, knowing you could love me kept me hoping, kept me tied to you. You never allowed yourself to love me.
—I do love you, Alix. I never wanted…more.
—You did. The year we lived together we never went to bed but there was everything else. How you touched me, how you looked at me.
—What was real for you was a phase for me. Experimentation.
—I see you better than anyone in your life, Val Hunter. Better than both your husbands, your parents, anyone. I know how you think, I know your self-control. You make something not exist by denying that it does. One day you’ll admit what you
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