Chapter One
Love at First Sight
“Mr. Stone?”
“Paul,” I said. “Paul Stone.”
“I called about your paintings.”
“Sure. Come in.”
On the phone, she’d said her name was Zena da Silva. Pretty? She was much more than that: she was beautiful. Curves in all the right places. Big, brown eyes. She stepped into the room and looked around, and I fell in love with her. Sure, why not? I think it was the eyes, mainly.
Now those eyes widened and she smiled. “So you really are a painter, Mr. Stone.”
“What were you expecting?” I said. “Isn’t that why you came?” I laughed. I was laughing at myself. Was I really falling in love?
“I meant that you’re an artist, that painting is your life.”
“Well, I don’t paint houses.”
Yes, I was an artist. Poor. Struggling. Not quite starving. Painting was my life, but sometimes making a living was hard. My studio was the top floor of an old warehouse. I paid almost no rent, but the water only worked if you knew exactly how to bang on the pipes.
Once, I think, my studio must have been used to store spices. After a heavy rain, the air always smelled of cinnamon and cloves. But it was a great home for a painter. High ceilings. A huge window that filled the room with light. My beautiful visitor had a great view of the paintings I’d leaned against the wall.
I watched Zena as she bent down for a closer look at my work. That was a pleasure, watching her bend down. But don’t get the wrong idea. I fell in love because of her eyes. Turning up to me now, they were touched by sadness. And they made an appeal. A call. Please forgive me ,they said. She was pretending. Faking. Acting a part. I’m not a bad person underneath , those big eyes were telling me.
“I like these,” she said
She did, too. I could see that. But I could see something else. “You’re not going to buy one,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I truly would like to.” She paused. “I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed. You see, I really didn’t know you were an artist. A true artist, I mean.”
“But you came to buy a painting?”
“What I had in mind was a little different. I’m going back to Portugal soon. I am very close to my aunt and uncle there. They live in Lisbon, and my uncle paints as a hobby. I thought I would bring them paintings, pictures of my life in Canada. I have photographs. Could you paint a picture from a photograph?”
“Sure.”
Zena glanced down and opened her purse. I think she was glad to look away. She brought out three photographs and handed them to me.
One of the photos was a portrait of Zena, a nice shot showing her head and shoulders.The second was the shore of a lake—pine trees, birch trees, huge rocks. The third showed three boys playing catch in a park, one wearing a bright red windbreaker. “I took that picture near where I live,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
You understand, I didn’t believe any of this. I didn’t believe her photographs, I didn’t believe in her aunt and uncle in Lisbon. But I believed her . Not who she was pretending to be but the person she truly was. The person I could see in her eyes. After a moment, I said, “All right. How soon would you want them?”
“In a week. Is that too soon? I want real paintings, oil paintings. One other thing... I already have the frames. I’m sure that is terrible, asking you to paint a picture to fit a frame—” She broke of and looked at me.
“Sure it’s terrible. But some people ask me to paint a picture to go with the wallpaper. You have the sizes?”
She went back to her purse. Again, I think she was glad to look away. She had the sizeswritten on a slip of paper: 60×73 centimetres, 60.3×72.1 centimetres, 51.3×56.5 centimetres .
“They’re not too big?” she asked.
“No, that’s fine,” I answered.
“Now, you must tell me what they will cost.”
“How much do you think would be fair?” I said.
She blushed. “No, no. You must say.”
“All
Love at First Sight
“Mr. Stone?”
“Paul,” I said. “Paul Stone.”
“I called about your paintings.”
“Sure. Come in.”
On the phone, she’d said her name was Zena da Silva. Pretty? She was much more than that: she was beautiful. Curves in all the right places. Big, brown eyes. She stepped into the room and looked around, and I fell in love with her. Sure, why not? I think it was the eyes, mainly.
Now those eyes widened and she smiled. “So you really are a painter, Mr. Stone.”
“What were you expecting?” I said. “Isn’t that why you came?” I laughed. I was laughing at myself. Was I really falling in love?
“I meant that you’re an artist, that painting is your life.”
“Well, I don’t paint houses.”
Yes, I was an artist. Poor. Struggling. Not quite starving. Painting was my life, but sometimes making a living was hard. My studio was the top floor of an old warehouse. I paid almost no rent, but the water only worked if you knew exactly how to bang on the pipes.
Once, I think, my studio must have been used to store spices. After a heavy rain, the air always smelled of cinnamon and cloves. But it was a great home for a painter. High ceilings. A huge window that filled the room with light. My beautiful visitor had a great view of the paintings I’d leaned against the wall.
I watched Zena as she bent down for a closer look at my work. That was a pleasure, watching her bend down. But don’t get the wrong idea. I fell in love because of her eyes. Turning up to me now, they were touched by sadness. And they made an appeal. A call. Please forgive me ,they said. She was pretending. Faking. Acting a part. I’m not a bad person underneath , those big eyes were telling me.
“I like these,” she said
She did, too. I could see that. But I could see something else. “You’re not going to buy one,” I said.
“I’m sorry. I truly would like to.” She paused. “I don’t know what to say. I’m embarrassed. You see, I really didn’t know you were an artist. A true artist, I mean.”
“But you came to buy a painting?”
“What I had in mind was a little different. I’m going back to Portugal soon. I am very close to my aunt and uncle there. They live in Lisbon, and my uncle paints as a hobby. I thought I would bring them paintings, pictures of my life in Canada. I have photographs. Could you paint a picture from a photograph?”
“Sure.”
Zena glanced down and opened her purse. I think she was glad to look away. She brought out three photographs and handed them to me.
One of the photos was a portrait of Zena, a nice shot showing her head and shoulders.The second was the shore of a lake—pine trees, birch trees, huge rocks. The third showed three boys playing catch in a park, one wearing a bright red windbreaker. “I took that picture near where I live,” she said.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
You understand, I didn’t believe any of this. I didn’t believe her photographs, I didn’t believe in her aunt and uncle in Lisbon. But I believed her . Not who she was pretending to be but the person she truly was. The person I could see in her eyes. After a moment, I said, “All right. How soon would you want them?”
“In a week. Is that too soon? I want real paintings, oil paintings. One other thing... I already have the frames. I’m sure that is terrible, asking you to paint a picture to fit a frame—” She broke of and looked at me.
“Sure it’s terrible. But some people ask me to paint a picture to go with the wallpaper. You have the sizes?”
She went back to her purse. Again, I think she was glad to look away. She had the sizeswritten on a slip of paper: 60×73 centimetres, 60.3×72.1 centimetres, 51.3×56.5 centimetres .
“They’re not too big?” she asked.
“No, that’s fine,” I answered.
“Now, you must tell me what they will cost.”
“How much do you think would be fair?” I said.
She blushed. “No, no. You must say.”
“All
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