against the pads of her fingers, in the ink that spelled out her name and the studio’s address.
Slowly she worked a finger under the flap, tore the envelope open and pulled out a single sheet of thick paper the color of old parchment. Unfolding it, she read: Isabelle,
I hope this finds you well and productive. I will be returning to my studio in Newford on February 17th. You are, of course, welcome to stay on and share the space with me, but I will understand your reluctance to do so should you choose to seek other arrangements.
In any event, no matter what you decide, I hope you will still allow us the opportunity at some point to exchange a few words and catch up on each other’s news.
Yours, in anticipation, Vincent
Izzy read the letter through twice before laying it down on the table beside the easel that held her paints and palette. She tried to think of what the date was, but her mind was a blank. She went downstairs, planning to call Kathy to ask her, when her gaze fell upon the Perry’s Diner calendar that she’d tacked up there in December. Her finger tracked across the dates to settle on the sixteenth.
Rushkin would be here tomorrow.
Her earlier panic returned. This time she did call Alan and arranged to have him come by at midafternoon to help her transport her work back to the Waterhouse Street apartment. The rest of the morning she spent taking her paintings down from the walls and stacking them by the door, bundling up her sketches and value studies into manageable packages, dusting, sweeping, scrubbing the floor—especially around her easel—and generally acting and feeling like a teenager who’d had a huge open house while her parents were out of town for the weekend and was still madly trying to clean up while their ETA drew ever closer.
She was standing at the worktable with a cardboard box, trying to decide what brushes, paints and other art supplies she could honestly consider her own, when she heard Alan knock at the door.
Sweeping her arm across the top of the table, she dumped everything she hadn’t been able to make her mind up about into the box on top of what she had decided was hers and hurried to let Alan in.
One of the things Izzy liked best about Alan was how he never seemed to feel obliged to question the inherent chaos that represented the lives of so many of his friends. Instead of trying to make sense of what often even they couldn’t rationalize, he simply went with the flow, listened when they wanted him to, or could, explain, and was generally there for them when they needed him, absent when they needed to be alone.
“This is a lot of stuff;” he said as he surveyed everything Izzy felt she had to bring with her. “I think it’s going to take a couple of trips.”
“That’s okay. Just so long as we can get it all away this afternoon. Rushkin’s back, you see, or at least he will be here by tomorrow, so it’s all got to go.”
Alan regarded her for a moment. “I thought he was letting you use the studio.”
“He is. He was. I still could, it’s just that—oh, it’s too complicated to explain, Alan.”
Alan smiled. “So what do you want to take first?”
The move took three trips all told, because only so many canvases could fit in the back of the car at a time, but they were finished well before six. Once everything was safely stowed away in her bedroom, Izzy fetched them both a beer from the fridge.
“I love this piece,” Alan said, picking up a small oil pastel portrait. “She sort of reminds me of Kathy.”
“It’s the red hair,” Izzy said.
Alan laughed. “Izzy, almost all the women you paint have red hair.”
“This is true. And I have no idea why.”
“Maybe it’s because Kathy has red hair,” Alan said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Alan told her. “It’s just that a lot of artists tend to use their own features, or those of their friends, because they know them so well. I thought you were doing the same.”
Put like that, Izzy thought, there might well be something to what Alan was saying. She certainly knew Kathy’s features better than those of anyone else in her life—better even than her own.
“But it’s not just the hair that reminds me of Kathy with this one,” Alan went on. “It’s more just a—oh, I don’t know. A Kathyish expression, I suppose.”
“I call it
“After Anais Nin?”
“Who?”
Alan smiled. “She’s a writer. You’d probably like her work.”
“I’ve never heard of her before. ‘Annie Nin’ just popped into my head the day I finished it.”
“Well, it’s beautiful. You know I like all your work, but I really love the movement of your brush strokes on this one—they’re so free and loose.”
“Actually, I did that with oil pastels. What you’re admiring is the marks of the pastel stick on the board.”
“Whatever. I still really like it.”
As he start to put it down, Izzy pushed it toward him. “Take it,” she said. “I’d like to see her go someplace where she’ll be appreciated.”
And besides, she thought, Alan’s apartment was the closest thing to a library without actually being one that Izzy could think of Annie would love it there. “I couldn’t just take it,” Alan said. “It must be worth a fortune.”
“Oh right. Like you haven’t seen what my work goes for in the gallery.”
“Not nearly what it’s worth,” Alan told her.
Izzy smiled, relaxing for the first time since the mail had arrived at the coach-house studio that morning.
“You’re being sweet,” she said, and then refused to accept no for an answer from him. It didn’t take much more convincing, and by the time they’d finished their beers and he was leaving, the painting was tucked in under his arm and went with him.
Later, Izzy had cause to be grateful for that moment of generosity, for that was how
Izzy was determined to ignore Rushkin’s presence in the city, but in the end she couldn’t stay away.
Because her numena were still unharmed and the awful dreams she used to have about them being hurt hadn’t returned, she let the old arguments convince her again that he meant neither her nor her numena any harm.
She thought of the helpful letters he’d sent, critiquing her shows. Of all she’d learned from him. Of all the good times they’d had, talking about art and all the strange and wonderful places he’d been. Of how he’d provided her with art supplies when she had nothing. Of how he’d allowed her the use of his studio for all the years he’d been away. It was easier to simply forget his towering rages. His need to control.
The fact that he really might be the monster that John insisted he was.
She remembered him with uneasiness and affection, both emotions milling about inside her in equal doses, until she knew she had to go see him to judge which was the most true.
She didn’t return to the coach house immediately. At first she mooned about the apartment, looked into getting a new studio, ran about the city with Kathy and visited all those friends she’d never seemed to have enough time to visit because the call of the studio was stronger. But eventually two weeks had gone by and she found herself trudging through a new Ell of snow that littered the lane running from Stanton Street to Rushkin’s studio.
It was a gloomy, cold morning, the sky overhung with clouds, her breath frosting the air, her feet already going numb in her thin boots. She’d left the apartment at eight, planning to get to the studio before Rushkin started work for the day, but instead she’d taken about as indirect a route as she could have managed, walking all the way downtown and then back up Yoors Street before finally finding herself on Stanton. It was going on nine-thirty when she turned into the lane.
Ahead of her, the lights spilling from the studio’s windows were warm and inviting, a golden glow that promised safe haven, a sanctuary from the bitter cold. But that promise was a lie, wasn’t it? She remembered trying to explain it to Kathy when Kathy got home that night after Alan had helped her move all her things back to the
