Drawing Lessons Page 19

  He pulled her roughly into his arms and squeezed her sandy face between his sandy hands. “If you drown, Marie, then I can’t do what I feel like.”

  His kiss was hard and angry. She tried to soften it by kissing him back, but he wouldn’t let her. When he finally released her, her lips were swollen and tender. She was about to protest this treatment when he leaned his forehead against hers.

  “I can’t lose you, Marie,” he whispered. “I just can’t.”

  “You won’t lose me.” She sought out his lips and gave him the tender kiss she’d tried to just seconds earlier.

  “I scare easily when it comes to you. Remember that. Please.”

  She let him pull her in the direction of Sam’s house. She didn’t want to argue anymore, certainly not out here on the beach. The sun was beginning to break through the clouds and it was pleasant enough for November, but not in wet clothes.

  Luc was quiet on the walk back and she didn’t force any conversation. She still needed to know what had happened with Grace McKinley. He wasn’t getting off the hook on that, but she didn’t want any more yelling. She had started it, and it had felt good—cathartic—for a few minutes. She had never been able to yell at Richard. Now, though, she was ashamed of her behavior. He should have told her about this girl a long time ago—and he would, she would make sure of that—but he didn’t deserve to have it splashed all over the television. If it hadn’t been for her, if she weren’t who she were—Senator Richard Macintyre’s wife—it would never have happened.

  They trudged up the stairs to the deck, her thighs burning with the effort. At the top, Luc released her hand. She brushed the sand from her jeans.

  “Go inside and shower. Change into dry clothes.”

  She reached for his hand but he pulled it away. “You aren’t coming?”

  He shook his head. “I’ll wait out here.”

  “Why? Come inside where it’s warm.”

  “Just go, Marie. Don’t argue with me anymore.”

  She backed away from the flash of anger in his eyes, and retreated into the house to do as he asked. She showered quickly, combed out her hair and changed into a dry pair of jeans and a clean blouse.

  He was still on the deck. She ventured cautiously outside. He was lying on a chaise longue, still in his wet clothing, one foot planted on the deck floor, the other leg stretched out before him. His eyes were closed but he gestured toward a chair. A sketchpad and pencil lay on the chair.

  “Sit,” he said.

  She lifted the pad and pencil and sat down.

  “Draw me,” he said.

  She quietly took a deep breath, trying to tamp down a flare of anger. “I thought you were going to tell me your side of the story.”

  “I will tell you as you draw.” He sat up, planted his feet on either side of the lounge and leaned forward.

  “Why are we doing this?” she asked.

  “I want you to see me.”

  She flipped open the sketchpad, the pencil poised over the page. How could she see him when he was being so distant? So stubborn? She felt miles away from him—was that what she was supposed to draw? Looking at him, let alone seeing him, was almost more than she could bear right now. She was used to Richard being angry with her—that was the usual state of affairs with him—but not Luc. She didn’t want him angry with her.

  “Marie.”

  She took a deep breath and looked across the miles at him, then began to draw in faint, tentative lines. His eyes were dark on her, his stare unwavering. His hair was wild from the sand and ocean, like some modern-day Poseidon. His legs and the end of the chaise longue formed the tines of a trident. She bit her lip. She could draw him that way, as god of the ocean. She suspected he wouldn’t be amused. Not today.

  “I used to be a professor at the University of Virginia,” he said. “Art history.”

  He paused, letting this information sink in for her. She took quick glances at him, just long enough to capture enough visual information to draw a few more lines, and tried to imagine him as Dr. Marchand standing in front of a room filled with students.

  “I became involved with one of my students. As you know. She was a grad student, not an undergrad. So she was just a few years younger than I was.” His voice was measured, deliberate. “The university had a policy against this, as most do, but I loved her. I love unwisely, perhaps. At least, that is Sam’s opinion.”

  It was impossible to capture with mere pencil the absolute flat darkness in his eyes. Impossible for her, anyway. And the way the weak late morning sun made the sand in his hair glow. But she tried. She tried to see him.

  “I planned to propose to her at Christmas. I bought a ring. I was ready to spend the rest of my life with her. Then she disappeared one week.”

  Marie’s pencil stilled.

  “I called everywhere to find her. No one knew—or would tell me—where she’d gone. When she returned, she refused to tell me. But eventually, she confessed. She’d gone to Richmond to have an abortion. A friend drove her there and back. I couldn’t ask her to marry me after that. I just couldn’t. And I told her that. I told her that I’d been planning to propose but that now I couldn’t. I should have kept my mouth shut, but I was so angry ... I said things I shouldn’t have.”

  Pain was etched all over Luc’s face. She couldn’t draw this, even if she wanted to. She didn’t have the technical skill to corral emotions beneath her pencil. The physical difference between a smile and a grimace could be so slight.

  “She hung herself in her apartment.” His voice cracked, and he closed his eyes against Marie’s gaze. Even he didn’t want her to see this. “She killed my child, and I killed her.”

  “You didn’t kill her.”

  “I did. I drove her to it. I said terrible things to her.” He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if he were trying to push the memory back into his brain. “And you and I, we were yelling at each other today—”

  “I’m not her, Luc.”

  “Please let’s not yell at each other anymore. Promise me that.”

  “We have to be able to disagree.”

  “You were running away from me. You could have drowned. There are riptides all along the shore here.”

  “I can swim ...” Marie was beginning to remind him when, suddenly, she saw.

  Luc was afraid. Terrified. That’s what he wanted her to draw, his fear of losing her. He had already lost Grace and now Richard was running around telling the whole world that their marriage was back on.

  “When you walked into my studio that first day, I didn’t think I want this woman,” he said. “I thought I want to belong to her.”

  “But you sent me away ...”

  “Because I knew even then that if I ended up losing you I would lose myself too. You would take me with you and leave me with nothing. I am yours, Marie.”

  Chapter 21

  Thanksgiving had always been Marie’s favorite holiday as a child. Christmas was a rushed affair, a slap and dash through presents, then off to the National Cathedral to be seen with her parents at one of the services. Afternoons were spent serving meals at a soup kitchen or delivering gifts to local nursing homes. Not that the childhood Marie hadn’t appreciated the value of doing all that, but it was a day of work. Even Richard had been surprised, initially, by how her parents’ careers didn’t cease even for Christmas.

  But on Thanksgiving, the Witherspoon family stayed home and allowed everyone else to come to them. Instead of a traditional sit-down dinner, Eileen Witherspoon hosted a day-long open house with a never-ending parade of important people marching through the house. People stopped by on their way to or from other dinners, dropped in for a drink and dessert, or plopped down on the sofa to watch a quarter or two of the Redskins-Cowboys game. The Witherspoons’ turkey could be eaten traditionally, on a plate piled high with sweet potatoes and stuffing, or layered into a sandwich and washed down with cider or beer. Within a certain stratum of Washington society, the Witherspoon house
was the place to see and be seen on Thanksgiving.

  For a child like Marie, the combination of grazing for hours on hors d’oeuvres and desserts (because no one was particularly watching what she ate) and being expected to stay under the radar and in the background made for a darn near perfect day. Thanksgiving awarded her, for one blissful day, a cloak of invisibility. She could do as she pleased and no one noticed. Extra slice of pie? Disappear to her bedroom to make whispered phone calls to friends? Sneak a juice glass filled with wine? No problem.

  This year, however, Marie was dreading the day. She drove around and around the streets of her parents’ Cleveland Park neighborhood, passing up open parking spots. Maybe I’ll find one closer. Even she knew that was a lie. The longer it took to park the car, the longer she could put off having to make small talk with the dozens of people who were already at her parents’ house. She could hear it already.

  How lovely that you and your husband are getting back together! I know your mother is dying for grandchildren. She talks about it all the time.

  Of course, we didn’t go see that awful show. Pornography, I heard it was! Did he drug you, sweetie? Because that’s what we heard.

  The French. Libertines. What can you expect?

  The phone in her purse buzzed. That would be her mother, impatient. She’d been calling every ten minutes for the past hour. Marie sighed and pulled into an illegal spot next to a stop sign. Running up parking tickets all over town was a strategy that might still come in handy. Senator’s wife owes thousands of dollars in unpaid parking fines!

  Her mother had studiously avoided the subject of Luc’s show all week and the silence from Richard’s camp had been equally deafening. According to Nishi, he’d been busy fending off the press.

  Going out of town last weekend had turned out to be a smart move. With her and Luc’s whereabouts unknown, Richard and Sam had been the only people the press could talk to. On Nishi’s advice, Marie had turned down all interview requests since and stayed home as much as possible. “Just keep forcing them to call Richard,” she’d said. “He’ll crack eventually.”

  It had to work. How could it not make him reconsider filing for divorce? Mistresses just weren’t that uncommon in Washington. Nude paintings of your wife, on the other hand, were.

  On the sidewalk, she took several deep breaths, counted to ten—then twenty—and plucked imaginary lint off her skirt. She’d dressed simply, almost business-like, in a navy skirt and ivory silk blouse, low heels. An outfit that would blend in with the other guests. Her mother would be dressed in a long skirt and autumn-colored sweater. Her father would wear dress slacks, a shirt and tie. The guests would be all over the board, depending on their other social obligations. There would be sequins on some, jeans on teenagers, even the odd turkey-shaped earrings. Money didn’t always buy taste.

  Marie touched her own bare earlobes, then dug into her purse for a ponytail band. She quickly rolled her hair up into a loose bun. Should have brought an apron. Then I could pretend to be catering staff.

  Her parents’ home was a classic Cleveland Park four-square. Cleveland Park was a quiet city neighborhood whose tree-lined streets and well-tended yards camouflaged its affluence. The homes were not over-the-top huge like in the suburbs, but they were comfortable and gracious, with traditional details and neighborly porches. Small wooden garages were usually tucked in the back, next to flower beds and modest stone patios.

  She paused at the front door and took another deep breath before turning the knob and letting herself in. As quietly as she could, she hung her coat in the hall closet. From her father’s study at the back of the house came the sound of television. It took her a moment to realize that she shouldn’t be able to hear the television today. The house should be filled with the noise of competing conversations, gossip and policy talk, friendly strong-arming and low-pressure pitches.

  But it wasn’t. The house was eerily quiet, save the sound of a football game on her father’s study television. She was reaching back into the closet for her coat, when the quiet was shattered.

  “About damn time you got here. My parents are expecting us later, you know.” Richard’s voice seethed with barely-controlled fury.

  She turned to him, a polite smile on her face. “How would I know that your parents are expecting us later? I had no idea my parents were expecting you.”

  Richard grabbed her arm roughly and yanked her toward the dining room. “You haven’t exactly deserved the courtesy of information lately. But we’ll discuss that later.”

  “I’m looking forward to discussing the nude paintings of your wife. Sounds like fun.”

  Richard dug his fingers deeper into her flesh, but she bit her lip to stifle any reaction. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “You. Are. A. Whore,” he spit out, his voice low and mean.

  “Well, that does seem to be your taste in women,” Marie replied brightly. She refused to be intimidated by him.

  He pulled her against his chest, his eyes cold slits. “You belong to me. Understand? And you are going to do as I tell you to do from here on out. After the election, I’ll be well rid of you. But until then, I own you. And you’re not going to forget it.”

  She rolled her eyes at him. “Or what, exactly?” She laughed and pushed away from his chest, then went in search of her mother.

  I don’t belong to you.

  She found her mother in the kitchen, slicing a rather smallish turkey with an electric knife. A green apron was tied around her mother’s wool pants and sweater.

  “Mother. What gives?” Marie gestured to the empty kitchen. “Where is everyone?”

  Eileen Witherspoon looked up. “Oh, there you are. I’ve been calling your cell phone. Here.” She nodded her head toward a bottle of wine. “Take that into the dining room. Your father is waiting for it.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “We’re having a quiet Thanksgiving this year, dear. Your father and I thought it was a good idea.”

  The unspoken words, given the circumstances, hung in the air between them.

  So she was too much of an embarrassment to hold the usual Thanksgiving open house. Well, good. That’s what I wanted. A cornucopia of embarrassment. She picked up the bottle. A riesling, her parents’ usual Thanksgiving wine.

  “Did you have to invite him though?” she asked.

  Her mother shot her a disapproving look. “He is your husband. And after, you two are going to the Macintyres for a late dinner.”

  “I am doing no such thing. No one even told me.”

  “Let’s not ruin today any more than it already is.” Eileen dropped slices of white meat onto a platter.

  “I’d have been happy to stay home and let you invite everyone else. That way, I wouldn’t have ruined the day.”

  “We’re not discussing this any further, Marie. Take the wine in. I will follow with the turkey.”

  The dining room table was decked out with her mother’s formal china and crystal wine goblets. An elaborate floral centerpiece stood on the table, as usual. Marie set the wine in front of her father, who was sitting at the head of the table. Then she surveyed the place settings—two on the other side of the table, one directly in front of her. No way was she sitting next to Richard, who was currently on his phone in her father’s study. She pulled out the chair closest to her and sat.

  Her mother made bright happy small talk during the meal. Occasionally, her father and Richard lapsed into some discussion of college bowl game predictions or first round draft picks for the Redskins. Marie nodded her head at appropriate times and ate. It was all thoroughly awkward. What were her parents thinking? Neither she nor Richard wanted to be there. Luc had invited her to spend Thanksgiving with him at Sam’s house, but Marie had been too chicken. Sam must be furious about the media digging up Grace McKinley after all these years.

  She reached for a second helping of sweet potatoes, but her mother’s pointed throat clearing stopped her.

  “There
’s something we need to discuss,” Eileen said.

  Yeah yeah, the nudie paintings my lover made of me.

  “After the New Year, you will be going into rehab for awhile,” Richard said.

  Marie looked around at the three faces staring at her from across the table. She could swear the earth had just stopped revolving on its axis.

  “What?” she said.

  “People will excuse all this ... unseemly behavior if it’s the result of substance abuse,” her mother chimed in.

  “But I don’t have a substance abuse problem.”

  “You do now,” Richard said. “Prescription painkillers. Alcohol.”

  “You don’t like what I’m doing so you’re going to put me away?”

  “Don’t worry. We’ve found you a nice, upscale facility. Think of it as an extended spa stay, dear.”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. She turned to her mother in disbelief. Her parents had always been on Richard’s side but she’d never imagined they would go along with a scheme like this.

  She pushed back her chair and stood up. “You all are fucking crazy if you think I’m just going to meekly give in to this crap-shit idea. You can’t make me go into rehab.” This was nuts. What were they thinking?

  “It’s the best thing for everyone, dear,” her mother said.

  “No. It’s the best thing for Richard.” She glared at him. “It’s not MY fault that your constituents are unhappy. YOU made the decision to cheat on your wife. YOU made the decision to file for divorce. That was all YOU. And if it’s not working out for you, well I’m sorry but it’s not my problem to solve. We are not getting back together and I am NOT going to rehab just because your campaign is circling the drain.”

  Her father was maintaining his usual poker face. Marie whirled on him next.

  “And you’re selling me out so your company doesn’t lose funding on projects that the Pentagon doesn’t even want. Yeah, I read the paper too. I guess you’ll just have to find another member of Congress to kiss up to.”

  The expressions on her mother’s and Richard’s faces were priceless. Clearly, they’d expected her to just acquiesce. Yes, sure, I’ll go into rehab. I have nothing better to do after the holidays. A little spa experience, sounds like fun!