“Really, I can’t. Perhaps some other time.”
“I understand.” The fire dampened a little in his eyes, but the smile was still there. “It’s a beautiful piece though, and the woman in it looks a great deal like you.”
“Thank you. That’s a lovely thing to say.” She was wondering how to leave him. He seemed to have no immediate intention of returning to his house.
“May I walk you back up the beach? It’s a little too dark now for you to be wandering around on your own.” He grinned at her, squinting into the wind. “You might get accosted by a stranger.” She laughed in answer and nodded as they walked down the shallow dune back toward the sea. “Tell me, how did you become so fond of Wyeth?”
“I thought he was the greatest American painter I had ever seen. But then,” she looked apologetically into his eyes, “I fell in love with all the French Impressionists. And I’m afraid I forgot about him. Not forgot, really, but I fell a little bit out of love.”
They walked along comfortably, side by side, the only two people on the beach, with the surf pounding beside them. She laughed suddenly then. It was so incongruous, discussing art with this stranger, walking in the sand in Carmel. What would she tell Kim? Or would she tell Kim at all? For a moment she was inclined to tell no one about her new friend. It was just a moment’s encounter at dusk on a quiet beach. What was there to tell?
“Do you always fall out of love that easily?” It was a silly thing to say, the sort of things strangers say to each other for lack of something better. But she smiled.
“Generally not. Only when French Impressionists are involved.”
He nodded sagely. “That makes sense. Do you paint?”
“A bit.”
“Like the Impressionists?” He seemed to know the answer already, and she nodded. “I’d like to see your work. Is it shown?”
She shook her head, looking out at the waves capped iridescently by the first light of the moon. “No, not anymore. Just once, a long time ago.”
“Did you fall out of love with painting too?”
“Never.” She looked down at the sand as she spoke and then back at him again. “Painting is my life.”
“Then why don’t you show?” He seemed puzzled by her reaction, but she only shrugged. They had reached the place where she had walked onto the beach.
“This is where I get off.” They stood in the moonlight, looking into each other’s eyes. For the madness of one moment she wanted to be held in those strong, comfortable arms, wrapped in his Windbreaker with him. “It was nice talking to you.” Her face was strangely serious as she spoke.
“My name is Ben.”
She hesitated for a moment. “Deanna.”
He held out his hand, shook hers, and then turned away and walked back down the beach. She watched him, the broad shoulders, the strong back, and the wind in his hair. She wanted to shout “Good-bye,” but the word would have been lost in the wind. Instead, he turned, and she thought she saw him wave at her once in the dark.
4
“Where the hell have you been?” Kim was waiting for her in the lobby with a look of concern, when Deanna returned. She smoothed her tangled hair back from her face and smiled at her friend. Her cheeks were pink from the wind, her eyes shining. The word radiant flashed into Kim’s mind as Deanna began a rush of explanation.
“I’m sorry. I walked farther than I thought. It took me ages to get back.”
“It sure did. I was beginning to worry.”
“I’m sorry.” She looked remorseful, and Kim’s face softened into a smile.
“All right. But Jesus, let the kid loose on a beach and she vanishes. I thought maybe you’d run into a friend.”
“No.” She paused for a moment. “I just walked.” She had missed it. Her chance to tell Kim about Ben. But what was there to say? That she had met a stranger on the beach with whom she had discussed art? It sounded ridiculous. Childish. Or worse, stupid and improper. And she found that when she thought of
“I understand.” The fire dampened a little in his eyes, but the smile was still there. “It’s a beautiful piece though, and the woman in it looks a great deal like you.”
“Thank you. That’s a lovely thing to say.” She was wondering how to leave him. He seemed to have no immediate intention of returning to his house.
“May I walk you back up the beach? It’s a little too dark now for you to be wandering around on your own.” He grinned at her, squinting into the wind. “You might get accosted by a stranger.” She laughed in answer and nodded as they walked down the shallow dune back toward the sea. “Tell me, how did you become so fond of Wyeth?”
“I thought he was the greatest American painter I had ever seen. But then,” she looked apologetically into his eyes, “I fell in love with all the French Impressionists. And I’m afraid I forgot about him. Not forgot, really, but I fell a little bit out of love.”
They walked along comfortably, side by side, the only two people on the beach, with the surf pounding beside them. She laughed suddenly then. It was so incongruous, discussing art with this stranger, walking in the sand in Carmel. What would she tell Kim? Or would she tell Kim at all? For a moment she was inclined to tell no one about her new friend. It was just a moment’s encounter at dusk on a quiet beach. What was there to tell?
“Do you always fall out of love that easily?” It was a silly thing to say, the sort of things strangers say to each other for lack of something better. But she smiled.
“Generally not. Only when French Impressionists are involved.”
He nodded sagely. “That makes sense. Do you paint?”
“A bit.”
“Like the Impressionists?” He seemed to know the answer already, and she nodded. “I’d like to see your work. Is it shown?”
She shook her head, looking out at the waves capped iridescently by the first light of the moon. “No, not anymore. Just once, a long time ago.”
“Did you fall out of love with painting too?”
“Never.” She looked down at the sand as she spoke and then back at him again. “Painting is my life.”
“Then why don’t you show?” He seemed puzzled by her reaction, but she only shrugged. They had reached the place where she had walked onto the beach.
“This is where I get off.” They stood in the moonlight, looking into each other’s eyes. For the madness of one moment she wanted to be held in those strong, comfortable arms, wrapped in his Windbreaker with him. “It was nice talking to you.” Her face was strangely serious as she spoke.
“My name is Ben.”
She hesitated for a moment. “Deanna.”
He held out his hand, shook hers, and then turned away and walked back down the beach. She watched him, the broad shoulders, the strong back, and the wind in his hair. She wanted to shout “Good-bye,” but the word would have been lost in the wind. Instead, he turned, and she thought she saw him wave at her once in the dark.
4
“Where the hell have you been?” Kim was waiting for her in the lobby with a look of concern, when Deanna returned. She smoothed her tangled hair back from her face and smiled at her friend. Her cheeks were pink from the wind, her eyes shining. The word radiant flashed into Kim’s mind as Deanna began a rush of explanation.
“I’m sorry. I walked farther than I thought. It took me ages to get back.”
“It sure did. I was beginning to worry.”
“I’m sorry.” She looked remorseful, and Kim’s face softened into a smile.
“All right. But Jesus, let the kid loose on a beach and she vanishes. I thought maybe you’d run into a friend.”
“No.” She paused for a moment. “I just walked.” She had missed it. Her chance to tell Kim about Ben. But what was there to say? That she had met a stranger on the beach with whom she had discussed art? It sounded ridiculous. Childish. Or worse, stupid and improper. And she found that when she thought of
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