The Catswold Portal

They were looking at the paintings, standing together talking, moving along from one painting to the next; but as they progressed from one end of the room to the other they began to argue.

They came out again arguing, their voices cold with anger. The shorter man said, “This is why you kept putting me off, telling me to wait until I got back from London, then until you got back from Carmel, from Sonoma, to wait until after Christmas. Why the hell didn’t you say something, Braden? I hate to sound stuffy, but under contract, you don’t have the right to cancel the show. I like the work—it’s not as great as the Coloma series, but it’s good. You can’t back out of a show, not so late.”

“Just put someone else in the date. Get Garcheff. Any painter in the Bay area would be pleased to have a show at the Chapman.”

“If I’d known earlier I could have put the date up. Or I could have gotten someone. There’s not enough time. And what about the New York show?” He set down his glass and picked up his keys. “The brochures are already at the printers. I won’t cancel.”

“Call the printer. I’ll pay for the damn brochures.”

“There isn’t time to do new ones.”

“The hell there isn’t. Listen, Rye, you—”

“Christ, Braden. Be reasonable. If Alice were alive you wouldn’t be doing this.”

Braden went white. He drained his glass, staring at Rye. Rye looked at the glass pointedly. “Ever since Alice died, Brade, you’ve been letting yourself go to hell.”

“That’s a stupid damn remark.”

Melissa hardly heard them. Ever since Alice died—Alice…Ever since Alice died…She hugged herself, shivering and hurt, so shocked she felt sick, but she didn’t know why. She didn’t remember anyone named Alice.

Rye said, “Where is Alice’s work? That whole alcove used to be full of her prints.”

“At her gallery. Where the hell else would it be?”

“The last etchings, too? The Thompson thoroughbreds? And those drawings of cats’ faces from the garden door? The Blackeston retrievers? She was the only animal artist on the West Coast worth a damn, and you’ve hidden her work away.”

Braden grabbed Rye, twisting him around. “I haven’t hidden a damn thing! What the hell do you—?” Then he looked embarrassed and released the smaller man. “Sorry.” He walked away toward the bushes where Melissa crouched, then turned to look at Rye.

“Alice hasn’t anything to do with this. I’m painted out, run out of steam, that’s all.” He paused. “I have a dinner date, have to dress. Stay if you like. Maybe you can find something for the street fair.”

Rye scowled at his retreating back. “You have ten weeks to get the show in shape.” He left the terrace. As he crossed the garden, a woman’s voice called from somewhere up the hill, “Tom? Tom?” Melissa watched Rye drive away, puzzled by the argument, and filled with emotions she didn’t understand. Braden had gone inside.

When she looked up the hill again, a thin old woman in a brightly flowered dress was crossing from one house to another. The wind had stilled. Melissa could smell suppers cooking. As the sun vanished behind the woods she grew cold. She felt suddenly very alone.

When Braden came out and crossed the garden to a station wagon, she looked speculatively at the studio door. It would be warm in there, and there would be something to eat. She had a sense of delicious food within that childhood refuge. He gunned the engine, and squealed the tires as he turned around in the dead end lane and headed toward the highway. He had been dressed in a pale jacket and slacks, a white shirt and tie. He had left a light burning. She studied the niche between the brick terrace and the house where he had hidden his key. What good to lock a door, then put the key almost in plain sight? She was considering the wisdom of going in when a branch rustled behind her and a boy’s voice said, “Where were you?”

She swallowed, frozen.

“There’s chowder for supper; you’d better come on if you want any.”

Every instinct told her to stay still. She tried to glance up without turning. Her heart was thundering.

The leaves rustled again. “There, that’s better. Hey! Keep your claws in!” A boy strode past her close enough to touch, carrying an orange cat on his shoulder. As he moved away up the garden, silently she let out her breath.

The cat must have been standing just behind her. She wondered if it had been watching her. But it was the boy who had shocked her.

He was about twelve. He had the same dark brown hair as Prince Wylles, the same dark curling lashes and rounded chin—Efil’s chin. The same straight nose as Wylles and Efil. He was fatter than Wylles, his color high and healthy, but still he looked like Prince Wylles. She watched him run up the steps of the white house carrying the cat and disappear inside, slamming the door. She could have been seeing Prince Wylles with only a few pounds added.

She had seen, close enough to touch, the boy who would be changed for Prince Wylles.