The Restoration Artist by Lewis DeSoto Page B

removed the backing before pressing it over my wrist. Her face wasclose to mine as she bent over my arm and I was conscious of the warmth and scent of her body. A hint of lily of the valley perfume. I studied her profile, the smooth tanned skin of her cheek, the sweep of her thick eyelashes, the full mouth as she bit lightly on her lower lip with concentration.
    I looked at her hands. They were long-fingered, strong-looking. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but there was a band of much lighter skin on the third finger of her left hand and the kind of indentation that the long wearing of a ring leaves. On the underside of her left wrist were two pale lines on the skin, running parallel to the veins. I glanced at her other hand. The same thing there. Cuts, from long ago. I wondered about that. And the bruise. I’d been so consumed with my own story that I hadn’t given much thought to who she was and why she was here. There was something out of the ordinary about the situation.
    She looked up, meeting my scrutiny. I saw the sudden widening of her pupils as her eyes seemed to become darker and more intense in her face. That moment when we had looked at each other in the chapel came back to me—the almost physical sensation I had felt.
    “I don’t even know your name,” I said.
    “It’s Lorca,” she answered in a thick voice.
    “You’re not French?”
    “I am. Lorca Daubigny. I was named for the Spanish poet.”
    “I’m Leo Millar.”
    “I know. You said so that day on the cliff.” She let my wrist drop, still looking at me. Then she gave a little shake of her head and got to her feet. She stood leaning on the mantelpiece, busying herself lighting another cigarette.
    “And when you find this boy,” she said, “and realize thathe is, as you put it, a local lad with a life of his own, what then? What will you do?”
    “I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought beyond just wanting to verify who he was. I changed the subject. “Have you seen the old painting in the chapel?”
    “No. I’ve only been to the chapel once. The day I saw you there.”
    Our eyes met again. Did I imagine that little flare of connection?
    “The painting is supposedly by Davide Asmodeus. Do you know his work?”
    “Didn’t he do that one in the Louvre? It hangs near Géricault’s
Raft of the Medusa
?”
    “Yes. But this one is in a terrible condition. Père Caron, the priest, has asked me if I could try and clean it.”
    “You are an artist?” She inclined her head at Piero’s paintbox.
    “Yes. But not a restorer. Anyway, you should come and look at the painting. That is, if you are interested in Asmodeus.”
    “Maybe.” There was something guarded and pensive in her expression now. Her voice had become impersonal.
    “It’s called ‘Love and the Pilgrim,’” I said.
    She raised her eyebrows and gave me that steady, assessing look. I suddenly felt uncomfortable, embarrassed at talking about my life with someone who was, after all, a stranger. And was I completely misinterpreting those glances between us? Was I being foolish, even a little desperate, while she was merely being polite? The logs in the fireplace were throwing off an intense heat, the room seemed smoky, and the taste of the wine was sour on my tongue.
    “I should be going.” I buttoned my sleeve, stood and picked up the paintbox. “Thank you for your help. And for listening.”
    She saw me to the door. “Take care of your arm. If I see the boy I’ll let you know,” she said.
    “Thanks. I’m going to be at the chapel most days.”
    At the end of the path, where it curved into the trees, I glanced back. She was standing in her doorway, staring after me, but I was too far away to read her expression.

C HAPTER 14
    “H IS NAME IS T OBIAS.”
    “Who? You mean him?” I pointed with my brush at the painting.
    Père Caron and I were standing in front of “Love and the Pilgrim” examining the newly cleaned section. I had concentrated my efforts so far on