the canvas was a masterpiece. He felt all he had to do was make it come together. Of course, as an artist, he could bring paint to the canvas. But how does one stir up a woman who is wealthy and has never known life except as a carefully protected individual, almost as if she were sealed in a cocoon?
Cara saw his hesitation. “Of course there’s more than flowers, but someone has to paint flowers.”
“No argument there. Some of the finest paintings I’ve seen in Europe, and in this country too, are of flowers. But my theory of art is that an artist should put things on a canvas that move people, that stir them, that make them angry even. A painting should at least make some sort of statement about the world in which we live.”
“But . . . these flowers are a part of our world.”
Phil had a flash of intuition. “Let me see some of your paintings that aren’t of flowers,” he said and watched her face. He saw it change and knew he had hit a nerve.
“I . . . I don’t have any.”
“You see? You love flowers, which is very commendable, but as I said, life is a lot more than flowers.”
Cara stared at him and felt intimidated by the health and zest for life that radiated from him. She saw a strength in him that she admired. It was not like the strength of her father, for his was no more than indomitable control and harshness. No, this man standing before her was strong, but his strength lay under an amiable exterior, even a fine-looking one. Shehad had a few sweethearts before her illness, but that had been years ago. Long, long ago she had given up any hope of romance and courtship and marriage. But now, as she looked at Phil Winslow, something stirred within her heart. It was so faint that she was not even fully conscious of it. All she knew was that he was a man who had brought something into her castle that had not been there before. She had been content and satisfied about her painting, confident that it was good, and that she had one small accomplishment to smile about in her confined world. Now this man had come in and challenged the one possession she had. Anger flared up in her, and she said, “I don’t think it behooves you, an artist who has never sold a painting, to bring charges against me!”
“I’m sorry I’ve angered you,” Phil said quietly. “I didn’t mean to. I think you have great talent, maybe greater than you realize. I believe you’re capable of painting more than a daisy.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of this!” Cara said, raising her voice.
“Very well. Once again, I’m sorry we disagree. I didn’t mean to be offensive.” He paused for one moment, then looked into her eyes and said, “Don’t be afraid of life, Cara.”
A silence fell over the room. Cara could hear only the ticking of the mantel clock. His words seemed to find a lodging somewhere deep inside her. They had a prophetic sound, and very rarely in her life had anything struck her so hard and so sharply. Don’t be afraid of life. The words seemed to echo, like a tolling bell deep within her. Suddenly unable to listen any longer, she said abruptly, “Good-bye, Mr. Winslow.”
“It’s Phil . . . and good night, Cara.” He turned and left the room, unaware of the devastating effect his visit and his words had made upon her.
As the door closed, Cara realized that her hands were trembling. She held them together and turned quickly and looked at the pictures of the flowers that she had labored on for so long. She had been so proud of them, and now withone visit, with one phrase, this man she hardly even knew had managed to destroy the foundations of her happiness.
Don’t be afraid of life.
The words came to her again and again, and even after she went to bed she could not sleep, mulling over in her mind what he had said. There’s more to life than flowers. A wave of resentment flooded her. “What does he know?” she said aloud. “He’s strong and healthy, and I’m confined to this room
Cara saw his hesitation. “Of course there’s more than flowers, but someone has to paint flowers.”
“No argument there. Some of the finest paintings I’ve seen in Europe, and in this country too, are of flowers. But my theory of art is that an artist should put things on a canvas that move people, that stir them, that make them angry even. A painting should at least make some sort of statement about the world in which we live.”
“But . . . these flowers are a part of our world.”
Phil had a flash of intuition. “Let me see some of your paintings that aren’t of flowers,” he said and watched her face. He saw it change and knew he had hit a nerve.
“I . . . I don’t have any.”
“You see? You love flowers, which is very commendable, but as I said, life is a lot more than flowers.”
Cara stared at him and felt intimidated by the health and zest for life that radiated from him. She saw a strength in him that she admired. It was not like the strength of her father, for his was no more than indomitable control and harshness. No, this man standing before her was strong, but his strength lay under an amiable exterior, even a fine-looking one. Shehad had a few sweethearts before her illness, but that had been years ago. Long, long ago she had given up any hope of romance and courtship and marriage. But now, as she looked at Phil Winslow, something stirred within her heart. It was so faint that she was not even fully conscious of it. All she knew was that he was a man who had brought something into her castle that had not been there before. She had been content and satisfied about her painting, confident that it was good, and that she had one small accomplishment to smile about in her confined world. Now this man had come in and challenged the one possession she had. Anger flared up in her, and she said, “I don’t think it behooves you, an artist who has never sold a painting, to bring charges against me!”
“I’m sorry I’ve angered you,” Phil said quietly. “I didn’t mean to. I think you have great talent, maybe greater than you realize. I believe you’re capable of painting more than a daisy.”
“I don’t want to hear any more of this!” Cara said, raising her voice.
“Very well. Once again, I’m sorry we disagree. I didn’t mean to be offensive.” He paused for one moment, then looked into her eyes and said, “Don’t be afraid of life, Cara.”
A silence fell over the room. Cara could hear only the ticking of the mantel clock. His words seemed to find a lodging somewhere deep inside her. They had a prophetic sound, and very rarely in her life had anything struck her so hard and so sharply. Don’t be afraid of life. The words seemed to echo, like a tolling bell deep within her. Suddenly unable to listen any longer, she said abruptly, “Good-bye, Mr. Winslow.”
“It’s Phil . . . and good night, Cara.” He turned and left the room, unaware of the devastating effect his visit and his words had made upon her.
As the door closed, Cara realized that her hands were trembling. She held them together and turned quickly and looked at the pictures of the flowers that she had labored on for so long. She had been so proud of them, and now withone visit, with one phrase, this man she hardly even knew had managed to destroy the foundations of her happiness.
Don’t be afraid of life.
The words came to her again and again, and even after she went to bed she could not sleep, mulling over in her mind what he had said. There’s more to life than flowers. A wave of resentment flooded her. “What does he know?” she said aloud. “He’s strong and healthy, and I’m confined to this room