Read Online Jane by April Lindner - Free Book Online Page B

they were true.
    “I guess you’ve bonded with Maddy,” he said without a trace of sentimentality in his voice, at least none that I could detect. “I can tell she’s become attached to you.”
    I nodded. It was nearly impossible to reconcile this serious man in front of me with the persona in his songs, music videos, and news clippings.
    “I’ve been watching the two of you. You’ve done her some good. She listens to you, and that wasn’t true of the nanny before you. Or the one before that.”
    “She’s not the easiest or the most difficult child I’ve taken care of.” Then it dawned on me that he had paid me a compliment. I allowed myself a small smile. “But thank you.”
    “For what?” He poured himself another glass. “More?”
    I held my glass out. “Thank you for the praise. It’s always nice to feel… I don’t know… useful. Capable.”
    “Huh.” Mr. Rathburn tossed the empty glass bottle across the room into a waste can. It rang without breaking. “I’ve never seen you smile before. I didn’t know you could.”
    I could feel the smile fade from my lips.
    “No, no. That wasn’t meant as a criticism. I wasn’t laughing at you. It was just… the truth. From what you tell me about your life, it hasn’t been a pleasure cruise.”
    “I guess not.”
    “I’ve got one more question for you, Jane.” He eased his slippered feet back up on the hassock. “I’ve noticed that when you bring Maddy to preschool, you stay out instead of coming back here. Where do you go?”
    I hesitated.
    “You don’t have to tell me. You’re free to go wherever you want. I’m just curious. You’re not off walking on the main road, are you? The way you were when I almost squashed you flat?”
    “Not usually,” I said. “Most days I drive around looking for a subject. I do watercolors when I’m not looking after Maddy.”
    “Watercolors?” He sounded intrigued. “Can I see some of them?”
    I was so startled by the request that my reply came out ruder than I intended. “But why would you want to?”
    Mr. Rathburn raised an eyebrow in reply.
    “They’re not that good,” I said. “I’m just a beginner.”
    “Bring them out anyway,” he said. “You’re too modest.”
    “I’m too
honest,
” I corrected him, but I complied. Back in my room, I quickly rifled through my portfolio, looking for the best of the paintings I’d done at Thornfield Park. I brought them downstairs and spread them on the living room’s wide coffee table while Mr. Rathburn looked on with appraising eyes.
    “These are interesting,” he said finally. “You’ve got a graceful line and a fresh approach to color. Don’t look so surprised, Jane.” Now he sounded annoyed. “You shouldn’t underestimate me. I may not have gone to
Sarah Lawrence
” — he drew the name out mockingly — “but I’ve had a lot of time over the past few years to study the things that interest me. Art interests me.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Rathburn.” I set out the last of my paintings. “I shouldn’t have been surprised.”
    “Or at least you should have hidden it better. Every thought that passes through your mind is written in neon on that face of yours.” Then he picked up my painting of a family picnicking on ayellow blanket near the Sound; I’d worked quickly, hoping to finish it before they noticed me but really hoping they wouldn’t notice me at all. “You’ve captured that woman’s gesture very nicely, the way she leans in toward the man but also keeps herself separate.” He set the painting down and picked up another, of a lighthouse at twilight. “And this one — the colors are a little muddy, but the composition’s really striking. Were you happy while you painted these?”
    This seemed like a strange question. “Yes.”
    “Were you looking for something to paint the day you ran my car off the road?”
    “You were speeding,” I reminded him.
    He picked up another watercolor and scanned it. “These are good,”