A PORTRAIT OF MARGUERITE
Published by David C Cook
4050 Lee Vance View
Colorado Springs, CO 80918 U.S.A.
David C Cook Distribution Canada
55 Woodslee Avenue, Paris, Ontario, Canada N3L 3E5
David C Cook U.K., Kingsway Communications
Eastbourne, East Sussex BN23 6NT, England
David C Cook and the graphic circle C logo
are registered trademarks of Cook Communications.
All rights reserved. Except for brief excerpts for review purposes, no part of this book may be reproduced or used in any form without written permission from the publisher.
The website addresses recommended throughout this book are offered as a resource to you. These websites are not intended in any way to be or imply an endorsement on the part of David C Cook, nor do we vouch for their content.
This story is a work of fiction. All characters and events are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, is coincidental.
LCCN 2005938002
ISBN 978-1-58919-056-6
eISBN 978-0-7814-0724-3
© 2011 Kate Lloyd
The Team: John Blase, Amy Kiechlin, Sarah Schultz, Jack Campbell, Karen Athen
Cover Design: Koechel Peterson & Associates, Inc.
Cover Illustration: Dan Thornberg
First Edition 2006
Dedicated with love to my husband, Noel
I would like to thank my sons, Bryan Redecker and Chris Lloyd, for their patience while I pursued my creative dreams. Thank you, Chris, for helping me many times with my writing. Thank you dear sister, Margaret Coppock, and friend and realtor, Nancy House, for your encouragement and for proofing my manuscript, and Waverly Fitzgerald, my first critique group leader, for your wisdom and guidance. Thank you to my agent, Les Stobbe, and Jeff Dunn at RiverOak.
Contents
Dedicated with love to my husband, Noel
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Reader’s Guide
About the Author
“This was a mistake,” I said, peering down the hall of the art building at a display of framed watercolors and a bulletin board smothered with notices of upcoming events.
“Why?” Laurie asked.
I tried to untangle my thoughts, but found no explanation to give my friend. “Because it’s bad luck to return to the scene of a crime.”
“Marguerite, you haven’t done anything wrong.” She nudged me forward. “Come on. We’re going to be late.”
As I led the way into the shadowy stairwell, memories poured over me. Back in college I’d waltzed up these stairs with my paint box in one hand and a stretched canvas in the other. And in the painting studio I’d found my lover, Phil.
With Laurie on my heels, I reached the second floor and shoved open the door. I inhaled the smell of turpentine and oil paint, what used to be a sweet perfume. But tonight the biting odor assaulted my nostrils. Moving forward, I spotted our room, number 213. I slowed my pace and tried to settle my jagged breath, but a tornado of anxiety whirled through my chest, as if I were about to topple off a cliff.
Laurie swished past me and breezed through the classroom’s doorway. Watching her angular silhouette disappear, I stood for a moment in disbelief. Why had I let her bamboozle me into taking this class? This was the last place on earth I wanted to be.
Get a grip, I told myself. There was no reason to come unglued. I could fake it through one evening; I was a master at camouflaging my emotions. Not even my parents or best friends knew the real me. And that was how it needed to stay.
I straightened my spine and widened my shoulders—the way I did when tackling a difficult real-estate client—and followed Laurie into the room where ten people sat at low worktables set up in a semicircle.
She and I found vacant seats off to the left just as a man standing at the front of the room said, “Good evening. I’m Professor Marsh, your instructor for this session of Beginning Drawing.”
He wasn’t what I expected. Judging by his thick peppered hair, he was probably fifty, about ten years older than I. He seemed muscular under his collared shirt, as though he worked out with weights. No wedding ring, I couldn’t help but notice, and not bad looking. But I’d vowed to steer clear of artists. Once was enough.
Professor Marsh scanned the students, and his gaze settled on the woman in the seat next to me. “Please, call me Henry,” he said, the corners of his mouth lifting.
Behind him stood a chalkboard. On its greenish surface in a bold, slanted hand were written the words: Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up. Pablo Picasso.
“Tonight, we’ll review some drawing basics.” Henry’s baritone voice rang with easy confidence. “We’ll explore how our eyes perceive the three-dimensional world, then translate those images onto a two-dimensional surface.”
As he spoke about drawing techniques, I surveyed the still life arranged on the table next to him: a dented brass kettle, a stack of weathered textbooks, three mason jars, and a hideous-looking orange lamp with a crooked shade. Had he brought this mishmash from home? I grimaced as I imagined what the inside of this guy’s house looked like. Probably a typical artist’s hovel, I thought, remembering my ex-husband Phil’s apartment the last time I’d seen it. His place was a pigsty, and it stunk of cigarette smoke and stale beer.
Henry adjusted the lampshade, then stood back. “Regard these objects as geometric shapes: cubes, cones, and prisms. Nothing more than solid shapes sitting on top of other solid shapes.” His face brimmed with enthusiasm as he gave instructions on cross-hatching and blending methods used to create the illusion of shade. “Now let’s get to work.”
I watched my classmates sharpen their pencils and spread out their drawing paper. At least I wasn’t the oldest person there. More than half of
