After a while, she stood up and approached a little bit, standing behind him and to the side, so he remained unaware of her presence, but she had a clear view of his work in progress. She liked the colors he was working with, and there was a sunset in the painting that she liked as well. The dog was tired by then, and stood by, seeming to wait for a command. And it was yet another little while before she approached again, and stood near enough for the artist to notice her at last. He looked up, startled, as the dog bounded past him, sending up a spray of sand. It was only then that the man glanced up and saw the child. He said nothing, and went on working, and was surprised to notice that she hadn't moved, and was still watching him, when he turned his head again, and mixed some water in his paints, half an hour later.
They said nothing to each other, but she continued to watch, and finally sat down on the sand. It was warmer, keeping low in the wind. Like her, the artist was wearing a sweatshirt, and in his case jeans, and an old pair of deck shoes that were well worn. He had a gently weathered face and a deep tan, and she noticed as he worked that he had nice hands. He was roughly the same age as her father, somewhere in his forties. And as he turned to see if she was still there, their eyes met, but neither smiled. He hadn't talked to a child in a long time.
“Do you like to draw?” He couldn't imagine any other reason why she'd still be there, except if she were an aspiring artist. She would have been bored otherwise. In truth, she just liked the silent companionship of being close to someone, even a stranger. It seemed friendly somehow.
“Sometimes.” She was cautious with him. He was, after all, a stranger, and she knew the rules about that. Her mother always reminded her not to talk to strangers.
“What do you like to draw?” he asked, cleaning a brush, and looking down at it as he talked. He had a handsome, chiseled face, and a cleft chin. There was something quiet and powerful about him, with broad shoulders and long legs. And in spite of sitting on the artist's stool, you could see he was a tall man.
“I like to draw my dog. How do you draw the boats if they aren't there?”
He smiled this time as he turned toward her, and their eyes met again. “I imagine them. Would you like to try?” He held out a small sketch pad and a pencil, it was obvious that she wasn't going anywhere. She hesitated, and then stood up, walked toward him, and took the pad and pencil.
“Can I draw my dog?” Her delicate face was serious as she inquired. She felt honored that he had offered her the pad.
“Sure. You can draw anything you like.” They didn't exchange names, but just sat near each other for a time, as each worked. She looked intent as she labored on the drawing. “What's his name?” the artist inquired as the Lab sailed past them, chasing seagulls.
“Mousse,” she said, without raising her eyes from her drawing.
“He doesn't look much like a moose. But it's a good name,” he said, correcting something on his own work, and momentarily scowling at his painting.
“It's a dessert. It's French, and it's chocolate.”
“I guess that'll work,” he said, looking satisfied again. He was almost through for the day. It was after four o'clock and he'd been there since lunchtime. “Do you speak French?” he said, more for something to say than out of any real interest, and was surprised when she nodded. It had been years since he'd spoken to a child her age, and he wasn't sure what he should say to her. But she had been so tenacious in her silent presence. And he noticed, as he glanced at her, that aside from the red hair, she looked a little like his daughter. Vanessa had had long straight blond hair at that age, but there was something similar about the demeanor and the posture. If he squinted, he could almost see her.
“My mom's French,” she added, as she sat, observing her own work. She had encountered the same difficulty she always did when she drew Mousse—the back legs didn't come out right.
“Let's take a look,” he said, holding a hand out for the sketch pad, aware of her consternation.
“I can never do the back part,” she said, handing it to him. They were like master and student, the drawing creating an instant bond between them. And she seemed strangely comfortable with him.
“I'll show you.… May I?” he asked her permission before adding to her efforts, and she nodded. And with careful strokes of the pencil, he corrected the problem. It was actually a very creditable portrait of the dog, even before he improved it. “You did a good job,” he observed, as he handed the page back to her and put away his sketch pad and pencil.
“Thank you for fixing it. I never know how to do that part.”
“You'll know next time,” he said, and started putting his paints away. It was getting colder, but neither of them seemed to notice.
“Are you going home now?” She looked disappointed, and it struck him as he looked into the cognac-colored eyes that she was lonely, and it touched him. Something about her haunted him.
“It's getting late.” And the fog on the waves was getting thicker. “Do you live here, or are you just visiting?” Neither knew the other's name, but it didn't seem to matter.
“I'm here for the summer.” There was no excitement in her voice, and she smiled seldom. He couldn't help wondering about her. She had crept into his afternoon, and now there was an odd, undefinable link between them.
“At the gated end?” He assumed she had come from the north end of the beach, and she nodded.
“Do you live here?” she asked, and he gestured with his head in the direction of one of the bungalows just behind them in answer. “Are you an artist?”
“I guess so. So are you,” he smiled, glancing at the portrait of Mousse she was holding tightly. Neither of them seemed to want to leave, but they knew they had to. She had to get home before her mother did, or she'd get in trouble. She had escaped the baby-sitter who'd been talking for hours on the phone with her boyfriend. The child knew that the teenage baby-sitter never cared if she went wandering off. Most of the time she didn't even notice, until the child's mother came home and asked about her.
“My father used to draw too.” He noticed the “used to,” but wasn't sure if it meant that her father no longer drew, or had left them. He suspected the latter. She was probably a child from a broken home, hungry for male attention. None of that was unfamiliar to him.
“Is he an artist?”
“No, an engineer. And he invented some things.” And then, with a sigh, she looked at him sadly. “I guess I'd better go home now.” And as though on cue, Mousse reappeared and stood beside her.
“Maybe I'll see you again sometime.” It was early July, and there was still a lot of life left in the summer. But he had never seen her before, and suspected she didn't come down this way very often. It was a good distance for her.
“Thank you for letting me draw with you,” she said politely, a smile dancing in her eyes this time, and the wistfulness he saw there touched him profoundly.
“I liked it,” he said honestly, and then stuck a hand out to her, feeling somewhat awkward. “My name is Matthew Bowles, by the way.”