pictures all over the house. Or was it the Irish puritan in him? “I must go,” he said, and looked at his watch as though it mattered.
She went to the door with him. “Always you ring the bell, Rodriguez, and wait till I come to the window. If I don’t come, you go away. You enjoyed?”
“Oh, I did. You’re the best. You’re the Rose of Sharon and the Rose of Tralee all rolled up in one.”
She smiled her golden smile. “Next time you bring more money.”
SEVENTEEN
J EFF HAD AN EARLY meeting at the office Monday morning which he felt sure would result in his going to West Virginia: a strike in the coal mines. One of the awards hanging in his study was for his coverage many years before of a mine disaster. He wanted to go, no question. At breakfast he spoke of the recovery of the sick man of American energy which sounded like something out of a lead paragraph. Julie took his shorts and socks to the laundromat and picked up a paint chart at the hardware store. She proposed to paint the wall over the mantel herself.
The phone was ringing as she went up the stairs, but by the time she had managed to open the double lock it had stopped. She felt it was too soon for Romano to call, and yet…Ten minutes later the phone rang again.
“This is Alberto Scotti, Mrs. Hayes. Mr. Romano asks if you will permit him to reframe the painting. He feels that it shows to a disadvantage in so heavy a frame.” It sounded like Romano speaking, the way the words were put together.
“Why not?” Julie said. “Okay.”
She was disappointed, which was unreasonable. After all, he was looking at the picture, and therefore had in mind the story she had asked for.
Jeff called to say that he would have to leave at noon, which gave him very little time to get ready. He asked that she lay out his things for packing, among them a dozen shirts. He also suggested that now that he was home, they ought to have a telephone-answering service. Laying out twelve shirts and being home seemed like a contradiction.
The house seemed very quiet after Jeff had gone, a whispery quiet to which Julie was well accustomed. The mirror lay on its back on the living-room rug, and there it would remain until he returned and hung it. Meanwhile she could paint out the ghost of Felicia’s portrait.
Shortly after noon a call came which she had certainly not expected. “This is Rubin Rubinoff, Mrs. Hayes. I understand you have the Ralph Abel painting we both were interested in.”
Off balance, she took a moment to grasp what he had said.
“Am I right?”
“I do have it, yes.”
“I assume you plan to deliver it to me at your convenience?”
Another snow job. “I don’t plan to do that, Mr. Rubinoff. I bought and paid for it.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Hayes, no one had the right to sell it to you.”
“I understood you withdrew your offer.”
“It was not an offer. It was a commitment, and I certainly did not back down on it. I couldn’t have done that even if I had wanted to.”
She had wondered at the time if Rubinoff could not be held to his purchase. It would seem Abel had lied to her. To spite Maude Sloan? For whatever reason.
“But look, no real harm’s been done,” Rubinoff went on smoothly. “One can sympathize with the young artist’s emotional problems. I will pay you the five hundred dollars and pick up the painting at a time convenient to us both. I am sorry. Now you will be even more attached to it. But I am committed to my client. You can bring it to me if you like.”
“I want to think about it, Mr. Rubinoff.”
“There is not much to think about, I’m afraid. But I don’t mind adding a hundred dollars to compensate you for your disappointment. Or you might find something in my gallery that you would like. Are you a collector?”
“My husband is,” Julie said, throwing everything off-kilter, but she was using Jeff as a defensive weapon.
There was a beat of silence before Rubinoff said, “Then he will know how sacred
She went to the door with him. “Always you ring the bell, Rodriguez, and wait till I come to the window. If I don’t come, you go away. You enjoyed?”
“Oh, I did. You’re the best. You’re the Rose of Sharon and the Rose of Tralee all rolled up in one.”
She smiled her golden smile. “Next time you bring more money.”
SEVENTEEN
J EFF HAD AN EARLY meeting at the office Monday morning which he felt sure would result in his going to West Virginia: a strike in the coal mines. One of the awards hanging in his study was for his coverage many years before of a mine disaster. He wanted to go, no question. At breakfast he spoke of the recovery of the sick man of American energy which sounded like something out of a lead paragraph. Julie took his shorts and socks to the laundromat and picked up a paint chart at the hardware store. She proposed to paint the wall over the mantel herself.
The phone was ringing as she went up the stairs, but by the time she had managed to open the double lock it had stopped. She felt it was too soon for Romano to call, and yet…Ten minutes later the phone rang again.
“This is Alberto Scotti, Mrs. Hayes. Mr. Romano asks if you will permit him to reframe the painting. He feels that it shows to a disadvantage in so heavy a frame.” It sounded like Romano speaking, the way the words were put together.
“Why not?” Julie said. “Okay.”
She was disappointed, which was unreasonable. After all, he was looking at the picture, and therefore had in mind the story she had asked for.
Jeff called to say that he would have to leave at noon, which gave him very little time to get ready. He asked that she lay out his things for packing, among them a dozen shirts. He also suggested that now that he was home, they ought to have a telephone-answering service. Laying out twelve shirts and being home seemed like a contradiction.
The house seemed very quiet after Jeff had gone, a whispery quiet to which Julie was well accustomed. The mirror lay on its back on the living-room rug, and there it would remain until he returned and hung it. Meanwhile she could paint out the ghost of Felicia’s portrait.
Shortly after noon a call came which she had certainly not expected. “This is Rubin Rubinoff, Mrs. Hayes. I understand you have the Ralph Abel painting we both were interested in.”
Off balance, she took a moment to grasp what he had said.
“Am I right?”
“I do have it, yes.”
“I assume you plan to deliver it to me at your convenience?”
Another snow job. “I don’t plan to do that, Mr. Rubinoff. I bought and paid for it.”
“But, my dear Mrs. Hayes, no one had the right to sell it to you.”
“I understood you withdrew your offer.”
“It was not an offer. It was a commitment, and I certainly did not back down on it. I couldn’t have done that even if I had wanted to.”
She had wondered at the time if Rubinoff could not be held to his purchase. It would seem Abel had lied to her. To spite Maude Sloan? For whatever reason.
“But look, no real harm’s been done,” Rubinoff went on smoothly. “One can sympathize with the young artist’s emotional problems. I will pay you the five hundred dollars and pick up the painting at a time convenient to us both. I am sorry. Now you will be even more attached to it. But I am committed to my client. You can bring it to me if you like.”
“I want to think about it, Mr. Rubinoff.”
“There is not much to think about, I’m afraid. But I don’t mind adding a hundred dollars to compensate you for your disappointment. Or you might find something in my gallery that you would like. Are you a collector?”
“My husband is,” Julie said, throwing everything off-kilter, but she was using Jeff as a defensive weapon.
There was a beat of silence before Rubinoff said, “Then he will know how sacred
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