'Your brakes failed?"
"We'll put it here," Valerie said, sweeping away leaves collected in a niche. When she was satisfied that the tribute was properly displayed she looked uneasily around. "Next we're going to that sort of ugly one with the little fountain. But we need to hurry. They make me leave, you know, they're very strict about that. I can't come back until seven-thirty in the morning. So I. . . must spend the night by myself. That's always the hard part, isn't it? Getting through the night."
She didn't talk much while they finished unloading the flowers and dressing up the neglected mausoleums. Once she appeared to be pleased with her afternoon's work and at peace with herself, Peter asked, as if all along they'd been having a conversation about Ransome, "Did John come to see you after your accident?"
Valerie paused to run a gloved hand over a damaged marble plinth.
"Seventeen sixty-two. Wasn't thai a long time ago."
"Valerie—"
"I don't know why you're asking me questions," she said crossly. "I'm cold. I want to go to my car." She began walking away, then hesitated. "John is . . . all right, isn't he?"
"Was the last time I saw him. By the way, he sends his warmest regards."
"Ohhh. Well, there's good news. I mean that he's all right. And still painting?" Peter nodded. "He's a genius, you know."
"I'm not one to judge."
Her tone changed as they walked on. "Let's just skip it. Talking about John. I can't get Silkie to shut up about him. He was always so generous to me. I don't know why Silkie is afraid of him. John wouldn't hurt her."
"Who's Silkie?"
"My friend. I mean she comes around. Says she's my friend."
"What does she say about John?"
Valerie closed the tailgate of her wagon. She crossed her arms, shuddering in spite of the fur-lined greatcoat she wore.
"That John wanted to—destroy all of us. So that only his paintings live. How ridiculous. The one thing I was always sure of was John's love for me. And I loved him. I'm able to say it now. Loved him. I was going to have his baby."
Peter took a few unhappy moments to absorb that. "Did he know?"
"Uh-uh. I found out after I left the island. I tried and tried to get in touch with John, but— they wouldn't let me. So I—"
Valerie faced Peter. In the twilight he could see her staring at him through the mesh over her face. She drew a horizontal line with a finger where her abdomen would be beneath the greatcoat.
"—Did this. And then I—" She held up an arm, exposing another scarred wrist above the fur cuff of the coat sleeve. "—did this. I was so . . . angry." She let her arm drop. "I don't know why I'm telling you this.
But Dr. Gosden says 'Don't keep the bad things hidden, Valerie.' And you are a friend of John's. I would never want him to think poorly of me, as my mother used to say. Skip my mother. I never talk about her.
Would you let John know I'm okay now? The anger is gone. I'll be just fine, no matter what Goz thinks."
She lifted her face to the darkened sky, snowflakes spangling her veil. She swallowed nervously. "Do you have the time, Peter?"
"Ten to five." He stamped his feet; his toes were freezing.
"Gates close at five in winter. We'd better go."
"Valerie, when did Silkie pose for Ransome?”
"Oh, that was over with a year ago. I've never been jealous of her."
"Has Silkie had any accidents you know of?”
"No," Valerie said, sounding mildly perplexed. "But I told you, obsessing about John John John all the time has her in a state What I think, she's just having a hard time getting over him, so she makes up stuff about how he wants to hurt her. When it's the other way around. Goz would say she's having neurotic displacements. Anyway, she uses different names and doesn't have a home of her own. Picks up guys and stays with them a couple of nights, week at the most, then moves on."
"Then you don't know how I can get hold of her."
"Well—she left me a phone number. If I ever needed her, she said." Valerie turned the key in the ignition and the engine rumbled. She looked back at Peter. "I can try to find the number for you later." Her usually somber tone had lightened. "Why don't you come by, say, nine o'clock?"
"Where?"
"415 West Churchill. I'm in 6-A. I know I must seem old to you, Peter. Sometimes I feel—ancient. Like I'm living a whole lot of lives at the same time. Skip that. Truth is I'm only twenty-seven! You probably wouldn't have guessed. I'm not coming on to you or anything, but I could make dinner for us. Would you like that?"
"Very much. Thank you, Valerie."
"Call me Val, why don't you?" she said, and drove off.
Echo was rosy-fresh from a long hot soak, sitting at the foot of her bed with her hair bound up, frowning at the laptop computer she couldn't get to work. She looked up at a knock on her door; she was clearing her throat to speak when the door opened and John Ransome looked in.
"Oh, Mary Catherine. I'm sorry—"
"No, it's okay. I was about to get dressed. John, there's something wrong with my laptop, it isn't working at all."
He shook his head. "Wish I could help. I'm barely computer literate; I've never even looked inside one of those things. There's a computer in my office you're welcome to use."
"Thank you."
He was closing the door when she said, "John?"
'Yes?"
"It's going well for you, isn't it? Your painting. You know, you looked happy today— well, most of the time."
"Did I?" he smiled, almost reluctant to confirm this. "All I know is, the hours go by so quickly in good company. And the work— yes, I am pleased. I don't feel tired tonight. How about you? Posing doesn't seem to tire or bore you."
"Because I always have something interesting to think about or tell you. 1 try not to talk too much. I'm not tired either but I'm starving."
"Then I'll see you downstairs." But he didn't leave or look away from her. He'd had his own bath. He wore corduroys and a thick sweater with a shawl collar. He had a glass of wine in his left hand. "Mary Catherine, I was thinking—but this really isn't the time, I'm intruding."
"What is it, John? You can come in, it's okay."
He smiled and opened the door wider. But he stayed in the doorway, drank some wine, looked fondly at her.
"I've been thinking of trying something new, for me. Painting you contrapposto, nothing else on the canvas, no background."
She nodded thoughtfully.
"Old dog, new tricks," he said with a shrug, still smiling.
'You'd want me to pose nude, then.''
"Yes. Unless you have strong reservations. I'd understand. It's just an idea."
"But I think it's a good idea," she said quickly. 'You know I'm in favor of whatever makes the work go more easily, inspires you. That's why I'm here."
'You don't have to decide impetuously," he cautioned. "There's plenty of time--"
Echo nodded again. "I'm fine with it, John. Believe me."
After a few moments she rose slowly from the bed, her lips lightly compressed, with a certain inwardness that distanced her from Ransome. She slowly and with pleasure let down her hair, arms held high, glistening by lamplight. She gave her abundant dark mane a full shakeout, then stared at the floor for a few seconds longer before turning away from him as she undid the towel.
Ransome's face was impassive as he stared at Echo, his creative eye absorbing motion, light, shadow, coloring, contour. In that part of his mind removed from her subtle eroticism there was a great cold weight of ocean, the tolling waves.