This Heart of Mine (Chicago Stars #5)(76)
"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.