met. It was partly the figure, more defined even in the six weeks since he had seen her last. Beneath a T-shirt similar to the one that swam on Hope, Samantha stood confident and as subtly curved as her mother. But it was the voice that clinched it, the echo of caution, even hurt, that he had heard in Rachel on their last night together�and suddenly he was back in their bedroom that night, sorting through the closet for ties to pack while Rachel spoke from the door.
He could see her clear as day, with her tousled blond hair and gentle curves. She had just left the studio they shared on the top floor of their pink Mediterranean-style home in the Marina, and was wearing an old pair of slim jeans and one of his shirts. The once-white shirt was spattered with a dozen different colors, not the least of which was the aquamarine she had repainted their bedroom walls with several months before. Her face was pale and held the kind of disappointment that put him on the defensive in a flash.
"I thought you weren't going, " she said.
"So did I, but I had to change plans." He pushed ties around on the rack, looking for ones to go with the suits he had laid out.
"We've had so little time. I was hoping you'd be here for a while. " He didn't turn, didn't want to see her pallor. "So was I. " "Couldn't you just . . . just . . . say no? " "That's not the way it works, " he answered, more sharply than necessary, but she sounded so reasonable and he felt so guilty, and he was tired, it had been that kind of week.
"I've been hired to design a convention center. A big convention center. The basic design may be done, but that's the easy part. The hard part is fleshing it out for function and fit, and to do that, I have to feel the city more." He tossed down a tie and turned to her, pleading. "Think of your own work.
You make preliminary sketches, but so does every other artist. Okay.
Your skill sets you apart. But so do the choices you make on depth, attitude, medium, and you can't make those choices without spending time in the field. Well, neither can I. " She kept her voice low, but she didn't back down. "I limit my travel to one week twice a year, because I have responsibilities here. You're gone twice a month�three times, if you go to Providence tomorrow."
"This is my work, Rachel.
" She looked close to tears. "It doesn't have to be."
"It does, if I want to succeed." She folded her arms on her chest�he remembered that, remembered feeling annoyed, because she was such a slim thing, shutting him out with that gesture, and still barely raising her voice, which made what she said even stronger. "That leaves me alone here." Only in a manner of speaking, he knew. "You have the girls. You could have friends if you wanted to do things besides paint. You could be out every night, if you wanted."
"But I don't. I never have, never once, not when we met, not now. I hate dressing up, I hate small talk, I hate standing around on spikey heels munching on pretty little caviar snacks."
"Not even for a good cause? " Charity fund-raisers were an integral part of social life in the Bay Area, particularly for someone like Jack. He needed to see and be seen. It was good for business.
Sadly, she said, "I can't paint here." And painting was her world, which made him even more defensive and annoyed. "Every artist gets blocks."
"It's more than that." Those folded arms hugged her middle. "I'm dried up, creatively dead. I can't see color here. I can't feel subjects the way I used to. I don't need a shrink to tell me the problem. Art imitates life. I'm not happy here. I'm not satisfied.
I don't feel complete. You and I are apart more than we're together."
"Then travel with me, " he urged, shifting the responsibility to her.
She rolled her eyes. "We've been through this."
"Right. You won't leave the girls. You do it for your work, but not for mine. How do you think that makes me feel? Like a second banana, is how it makes me feel."
"Jack, they're
He could see her clear as day, with her tousled blond hair and gentle curves. She had just left the studio they shared on the top floor of their pink Mediterranean-style home in the Marina, and was wearing an old pair of slim jeans and one of his shirts. The once-white shirt was spattered with a dozen different colors, not the least of which was the aquamarine she had repainted their bedroom walls with several months before. Her face was pale and held the kind of disappointment that put him on the defensive in a flash.
"I thought you weren't going, " she said.
"So did I, but I had to change plans." He pushed ties around on the rack, looking for ones to go with the suits he had laid out.
"We've had so little time. I was hoping you'd be here for a while. " He didn't turn, didn't want to see her pallor. "So was I. " "Couldn't you just . . . just . . . say no? " "That's not the way it works, " he answered, more sharply than necessary, but she sounded so reasonable and he felt so guilty, and he was tired, it had been that kind of week.
"I've been hired to design a convention center. A big convention center. The basic design may be done, but that's the easy part. The hard part is fleshing it out for function and fit, and to do that, I have to feel the city more." He tossed down a tie and turned to her, pleading. "Think of your own work.
You make preliminary sketches, but so does every other artist. Okay.
Your skill sets you apart. But so do the choices you make on depth, attitude, medium, and you can't make those choices without spending time in the field. Well, neither can I. " She kept her voice low, but she didn't back down. "I limit my travel to one week twice a year, because I have responsibilities here. You're gone twice a month�three times, if you go to Providence tomorrow."
"This is my work, Rachel.
" She looked close to tears. "It doesn't have to be."
"It does, if I want to succeed." She folded her arms on her chest�he remembered that, remembered feeling annoyed, because she was such a slim thing, shutting him out with that gesture, and still barely raising her voice, which made what she said even stronger. "That leaves me alone here." Only in a manner of speaking, he knew. "You have the girls. You could have friends if you wanted to do things besides paint. You could be out every night, if you wanted."
"But I don't. I never have, never once, not when we met, not now. I hate dressing up, I hate small talk, I hate standing around on spikey heels munching on pretty little caviar snacks."
"Not even for a good cause? " Charity fund-raisers were an integral part of social life in the Bay Area, particularly for someone like Jack. He needed to see and be seen. It was good for business.
Sadly, she said, "I can't paint here." And painting was her world, which made him even more defensive and annoyed. "Every artist gets blocks."
"It's more than that." Those folded arms hugged her middle. "I'm dried up, creatively dead. I can't see color here. I can't feel subjects the way I used to. I don't need a shrink to tell me the problem. Art imitates life. I'm not happy here. I'm not satisfied.
I don't feel complete. You and I are apart more than we're together."
"Then travel with me, " he urged, shifting the responsibility to her.
She rolled her eyes. "We've been through this."
"Right. You won't leave the girls. You do it for your work, but not for mine. How do you think that makes me feel? Like a second banana, is how it makes me feel."
"Jack, they're
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