“Mooring? For what?”
“An airship, sir.”
“Good Lord, still?” Hawke said. Airships had played a huge role in Bermuda’s early aviation history, but he had no idea any of them still were in operation.
“This is a new one, sir. Built by the owner of Powder Hill. Before that, the last famous ones we had here on Bermuda were the
The driver pulled to a stop in front of the house, and Hawke climbed out, saying good-bye to Starbuck, who promised to return for him in an hour or whenever he called security.
THE LOVELY OLD house had a wide covered verandah that wrapped all the way around the second floor. Hawke looked up to see Asia Korsakova standing at the bougainvillea-covered rail, smiling down at him. Her dark blonde hair was pulled up on top of her head, and she was wearing a pale blue linen smock spattered with paint.
“Mr. Hawke,” she said, “you did come after all.”
“You had doubts?”
“I thought you’d lose your nerve.”
“There’s still time.”
She laughed and motioned him inside. The wide front door was open, a dark foyer inside lit with guttering candles in sconces on the wall.
“Come straight up the stairway. My studio’s up here.”
The studio was a large space, a square, high-ceilinged room filled with the typical artist’s chaos-easels, brushes, paint pots, and very large canvases stacked against the walls everywhere. Paddle fans revolved slowly overhead. What remained of the day streamed through the opened French doors and the big skylight overhead with filtered shades of rosy, buttery light.
There was a large open-hearth fireplace with a Bermuda cedar mantel. Above it hung a marvelous portrait of an inordinately handsome man in a splendid dress military uniform, standing beside a magnificent white stallion in battle livery. Hawke moved to study the work more closely. The effect was stunning, a powerful subject and a deeply heroic treatment, beautifully painted.
Anastasia appeared from a small adjacent room, carrying a tall drink on a small silver tray. He took it, and it was delicious.
“Welcome to Half Moon House,” she said. “I’m so glad you came.”
“Cheers,” Hawke said, raising his glass. “Lovely painting over the fireplace, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“Your work?”
She nodded. “I’ve always reserved that spot for the man I love. That’s my father.”
“Handsome chap.”
“Comes from inside, you know. Always.”
She looked even more luminously beautiful than the picture of her that he’d been carrying in his mind ever since that afternoon on the beach.
“Please sit over there in that wicker chair. I want to take a few photographs while we still have this beautiful light.”
It was a long wicker chaise with a huge fan-shaped back and great rolled arms. The entire thing was beaded with beautiful shells of every color. There were deep cushions covered in rose-colored silk. It looked like the throne of some Polynesian king. Hawke removed his navy linen jacket, dropped it to the floor, and lay back against the cushions. She leaned in with the camera and began clicking away, shooting close-ups of his face.
“So, you do portraits.”
“Yes.”
“Judging by the one, you’re quite good.”
“Some people think so.”
“Are you famous?”
“Google me and find out.”
“I don’t have a computer.”
“Are you so desperately poor, Mr. Hawke?”
“Why do you ask? Is it important?”
“No. I’m simply curious. Your accent is very posh. Yet you live in this crumbling ruin. With your, what’s the current expression, partner. He sounds a trifle old on the phone. Do you like older men, Mr. Hawke?”
Hawke laughed. “I like this one well enough. We’ve been together for years.”
“Really? What’s his name?”
“Pelham. Grenville is his surname. He’s related to the famous writer somehow. A cousin once or twice removed. Wodehouse, you know, one of my literary heroes. A genius.”
“I prefer
“Hmm. Well, I guess I must have missed those, I’m afraid. Have you read Wodehouse’s
“Are you an art lover as well as a connoisseur of great literature?”
“Art? I suppose some of it’s okay. I quite admire Jamie Wyeth’s portrait of John F. Kennedy. And that fat pig painting he did. And Turner. I am rather keen on Turner’s watercolors.”
“A lover of the old masters, one would suppose.”
“The old masters? Me? Hardly. I’m glad they’re all dead. I wish more of them had died sooner.”
She looked at him; he just stood there, looking back at her. For a moment, their eyes were locked, and he had the unmistakable sense that both of their hearts had seized up and that neither of them was breathing.
She suddenly moved toward him.
“Stand up, please, and take your shirt off.”
Hawke did so.
“Turn to the right, so the sun hits you full on the face. Good. Stop slouching, and stand up straight. Now, look at me. Not your head, just your eyes. Perfect. God. Those eyes.”
“My late mother thanks you.”
“What do you do? To support yourself?”
“This and that. Freelance work.”
“Freelance. That covers a lot of ground. Trousers off, please. And your knickers.”
“You’re joking, of course.”
“Everything off, come on! I’m losing my light.”
Hawke mumbled something and stripped off his remaining clothing.
It was an odd feeling, standing naked in front of a fully clothed woman like this. It was not completely unpleasant, bordering on the erotic. He felt a distinct stirring below and quickly turned his attention to the portrait over the fireplace. Her father was, Hawke noticed again, fully clothed. No nudes of him around here, one only hoped.
“Happy?” he said.
“I will be happy, Mr. Hawke. Now, turn around so I can shoot your bum.”
“Christ. I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Too late now.”
“What are these pictures for? I thought this was to be an oil painting. This portrait or whatever.”
“This is just reference. Stuff I can use to work on the portrait when you’re not here in person.”
“How reassuring. And what do you do with them, these naughty photographs, when you’re finished?”
“Post them on the Internet if you’d like.”
