nimbus.
Haydon waved—there was no need to speak since Margaret wouldn’t be able to hear him over Pavarotti—and turned to his left and went down the short hall to Nina’s studio. He stopped at the doorway. Nina was at her drawing board, barefooted, half standing, half sitting on her stool, turned three-quarters away from him. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, her tortoiseshell glasses planted firmly upon her nose as she concentrated over a drawing, a green drawing pencil clamped in her teeth as she measured some small dimension with a triangular scale.
“Can you hear Luciano all right?” Haydon asked, and Nina started and turned around.
“God,” she grinned. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I could have come in shooting and you wouldn’t have heard me,” Haydon said, stepping in and almost closing the door behind him, muting the Italian tenor enough for them to hear each other without screaming. “Do the sisters Ronsard ever complain?”
“Never,” Nina said. She took off her glasses and laid them on the board and put her pencil in the upward-turned crook of the earpieces. She stood. “But then Margaret doesn’t usually have it that loud. She’s getting frustrated with the model…the music goes up.” She reached for her cup of coffee on a side table beside the drawing board. “What are you doing?”
“Going to Guatemala.”
“Oh,” she said, tilting her head to one side and half shrugging. She walked over to a small sofa under the windows that looked out over the street and sat down. “Now?”
“Well, this afternoon. Five-forty. I’m on the way home to pack.”
“How long will you be?”
“A couple of days. I don’t think more than that.”
“I was hoping Bob would make you behave,” she tried to joke.
“I’ll be home by Thursday. Down-and-back, just like that.”
“I don’t know. Latin America seems to be something of a time warp for you.”
“It’s a time warp for everyone,” he said. “I think Jim Fossler is finding it a bit of a strain.”
Nina nodded. She was sitting forward on the sofa, her legs together, her forearms resting on her knees, holding her coffee. Haydon was holding his hat, hadn’t even taken off his coat. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. He needed a haircut, but it would have to wait.
“It’s summer down there now,” Nina reminded him, looking up. “Don’t forget that. You’d be miserable in those wools.”
“Yeah, Fossler said it was pretty warm.”
“You said the flight was at five-forty. You want me to take you to the airport?”
He shook his head. “You’d just waste a lot of time on the expressway at that hour, and it’ll be even worse with this weather. I’ll leave the car in the long-term lot. That’s easiest.” He looked over at the drawing board. “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad, now,” she said, her voice picking up, glad to get off the subject of his departure. “The Spahns are coming by sometime within the next two weeks to look it over again. That should be about the last review. Then we’ll all get to troop down to Mexico for the ground breaking.” She stood, turning to the board. “What do you think?”
“I’ve told you,” he said, stepping over near her. “The best one yet.”
“Yeah, you know, I like it more all the time. It’s a great site, overlooking the Pacific.”
Haydon was a little behind her, looking over her shoulder. He tossed his hat on the sofa and stepped up and put both his arms around her from behind, encircling her waist, feeling her hips and then moving down her stomach and lower. He kissed her neck, kissed the slope of it as it came off her shoulders, kissed it where his lips could feel the strands of hair pulled taut in the chignon and felt the wisps of it that had worked free feathering his face. He inhaled the smell of her, kissed the lobe of her ear, feeling her warmth on his face, which was still cool from the chill morning air. He brought his hands up to
Haydon waved—there was no need to speak since Margaret wouldn’t be able to hear him over Pavarotti—and turned to his left and went down the short hall to Nina’s studio. He stopped at the doorway. Nina was at her drawing board, barefooted, half standing, half sitting on her stool, turned three-quarters away from him. Her hair was pulled back in a chignon, her tortoiseshell glasses planted firmly upon her nose as she concentrated over a drawing, a green drawing pencil clamped in her teeth as she measured some small dimension with a triangular scale.
“Can you hear Luciano all right?” Haydon asked, and Nina started and turned around.
“God,” she grinned. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“I could have come in shooting and you wouldn’t have heard me,” Haydon said, stepping in and almost closing the door behind him, muting the Italian tenor enough for them to hear each other without screaming. “Do the sisters Ronsard ever complain?”
“Never,” Nina said. She took off her glasses and laid them on the board and put her pencil in the upward-turned crook of the earpieces. She stood. “But then Margaret doesn’t usually have it that loud. She’s getting frustrated with the model…the music goes up.” She reached for her cup of coffee on a side table beside the drawing board. “What are you doing?”
“Going to Guatemala.”
“Oh,” she said, tilting her head to one side and half shrugging. She walked over to a small sofa under the windows that looked out over the street and sat down. “Now?”
“Well, this afternoon. Five-forty. I’m on the way home to pack.”
“How long will you be?”
“A couple of days. I don’t think more than that.”
“I was hoping Bob would make you behave,” she tried to joke.
“I’ll be home by Thursday. Down-and-back, just like that.”
“I don’t know. Latin America seems to be something of a time warp for you.”
“It’s a time warp for everyone,” he said. “I think Jim Fossler is finding it a bit of a strain.”
Nina nodded. She was sitting forward on the sofa, her legs together, her forearms resting on her knees, holding her coffee. Haydon was holding his hat, hadn’t even taken off his coat. He ran his fingers through his dark hair. He needed a haircut, but it would have to wait.
“It’s summer down there now,” Nina reminded him, looking up. “Don’t forget that. You’d be miserable in those wools.”
“Yeah, Fossler said it was pretty warm.”
“You said the flight was at five-forty. You want me to take you to the airport?”
He shook his head. “You’d just waste a lot of time on the expressway at that hour, and it’ll be even worse with this weather. I’ll leave the car in the long-term lot. That’s easiest.” He looked over at the drawing board. “How’s it going?”
“Not too bad, now,” she said, her voice picking up, glad to get off the subject of his departure. “The Spahns are coming by sometime within the next two weeks to look it over again. That should be about the last review. Then we’ll all get to troop down to Mexico for the ground breaking.” She stood, turning to the board. “What do you think?”
“I’ve told you,” he said, stepping over near her. “The best one yet.”
“Yeah, you know, I like it more all the time. It’s a great site, overlooking the Pacific.”
Haydon was a little behind her, looking over her shoulder. He tossed his hat on the sofa and stepped up and put both his arms around her from behind, encircling her waist, feeling her hips and then moving down her stomach and lower. He kissed her neck, kissed the slope of it as it came off her shoulders, kissed it where his lips could feel the strands of hair pulled taut in the chignon and felt the wisps of it that had worked free feathering his face. He inhaled the smell of her, kissed the lobe of her ear, feeling her warmth on his face, which was still cool from the chill morning air. He brought his hands up to
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