Jane

  “Perfect. I think that’s the right balance.”

  “Should I shave? I’m thinking about growing a soul patch,” he said. “You know, one of those little blobs of hair right here?” He pointed to the spot beneath his lower lip.

  “I know even less about beards than I do about men’s clothes.”

  “That’s right,” he said teasingly. “You’re a girl.”

  “Maybe you should ask your barber.”

  “I don’t want my barber’s opinion. I’m asking because you’re a girl. A woman, I mean.”

  I didn’t really know what to say to that.

  He surveyed himself in the mirror a moment, then turned back to me. “Do you think I can pull it off?” he asked. “Will I pass?”

  I waited for him to explain further.

  “As a sex symbol?”

  “Oh,” I said. “I didn’t think men worried about things like that.”

  “They do when they’re using their face to sell CDs.” He exhaled sharply. “And when they have to shoot a fucking tour program.” Then he softened a little. “Sorry. I can see you don’t like swearing. I’ll try to rein it in. So. Passing as a sex symbol. Can I?”

  I weighed my words carefully. “You might not be movie-star handsome,” I said finally, “but you’re good-looking for a rock star.”

  Mr. Rathburn’s eyes widened. “That’s three times you’ve hurt my feelings in one conversation,” he said a bit gruffly.

  “Three times?” I really hadn’t meant to be rude.

  He counted on his fingers. “You don’t like my music. I’m a soccer dad. And I’m good-looking… for a rock star.”

  “A lot of women throw themselves at rock stars.”

  He surprised me by laughing, a belly laugh that went on for a while. When he laughed, his eyes crinkled, and I could see how his fans might consider him attractive, despite the scowl and his less-than-classically-handsome features. Then his laughter gave way to a sly smile. “What about you, Jane? Can you imagine throwing yourself at a rock star?”

  I probably should have tried to come up with a more diplomatic answer, but instead I spoke without thinking. “No, Mr. Rathburn.”

  His jaw dropped. “You’re something else. You know that? What planet are you from?”

  I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. How did I manage to keep saying the wrong things? “I should have chosen my words more carefully. I should have said I can’t imagine throwing myself at anyone.” I thought a moment. “I should have said looks aren’t important, especially not in a man.”

  “You’re kidding, right? Looks aren’t important?” He snorted again. “We both know that’s not true. You’re not a movie star either, are you, Jane?”

  “That’s right,” I replied. “I’m not.”

  “And has your life taught you that looks don’t matter?” He dropped to a chair to adjust one of his boots.

  I considered the question. Was he trying to hurt my feelings? His expression was calm enough, without spite, as he fiddled with the buckle of his boot. I decided he wasn’t trying to hurt me any more than I had been trying to hurt him. “No,” I said. “I mean, I know from experience that looks do matter. Quite a bit.”

  “Well then.” He patted the other boot. “Have you had many boyfriends?” He looked up at me quizzically.

  “No. Not many. Not any, actually.”

  “Why not? Don’t you like men?”

  “Yes.” I thought for a moment about the other question. “At Sarah Lawrence the girls outnumbered the boys by far. And I wasn’t the kind of girl the boys noticed.”

  “And you were perfectly fine with that?”

  “I wasn’t fine with it,” I replied. “But I’ve learned to accept the way things are.”

  “The way things are,” he repeated absently. “You don’t mind, do you? That I’m prying into your personal life?”

  “No, Mr. Rathburn.”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll ever get you to call me by my first name, will I?” He stood, walked back over to the three-way mirror, and looked at his reflection for a long time. “So,” he said finally. “Be your usual blunt self. Is there any hope for me?”

  “For a comeback, you mean?”

  He shook his head. “Is there any chance I’ll turn from plastic back into flesh?”

  The question was such a strange one that I had no idea what to say. I waited a moment to see whether he would explain himself.

  “Never mind,” he said. “Thanks for your honesty. You’d better go. Maddy will be wandering around soon if she isn’t calling for you already.”

  I left him rifling through his dresser drawers and went down to the kitchen for a quick drink of water. Nico’s manager already sat waiting in the living room. By his side sat an elegant-looking woman with olive skin, glossy black hair, and a gauzy amber scarf — the photographer, I supposed — and several young assistants. I hurried past them on my way back upstairs to Maddy’s room.

  Maddy kept me so busy that afternoon — playing dress-up and, with the permission of Walter the cook, baking sugar cookies — that I didn’t have time to process my conversation with Mr. Rathburn or to make sense of his last, cryptic question. Later, I drove Maddy to dance class and watched her practice pliés in a line of preschoolers, the stern teacher tapping time with her cane and admonishing them to pay attention. Once I had wanted to take ballet like Jenna did, but my mother pronounced me too clumsy and sent me to violin lessons instead. The memory still stung a little, and I spent most of Maddy’s lesson pushing it out of my head. And it was true. I’d never had Jenna’s long-limbed grace or her flair for the dramatic. I probably would have hated performing onstage at the year-end recital. Instead, I’d been able to blend into the orchestra, hiding amid the other second violins. I could have taken ballet in college if I’d really wanted to, but by then I’d been unable to imagine myself en pointe, gravity suspended for a moment as I leaped through the air in a tour jeté. By then I wasn’t really the dancing type.

  When Maddy and I returned home, Lucia had already left for the night. Walter, a moody, gray-haired, boyish man who sometimes spoke in monosyllables and other times gabbed enthusiastically, was vigorously chopping a pile of leeks for that night’s dinner. Maddy’s meal was already in the oven, and she and I ate together in the breakfast room as we usually did. Most nights so far, Mr. Rathburn had eaten late, often with the entourage of guests who came and went. Tonight, I could hear conversation and Mr. Rathburn’s distinctive laugh in the living room, soon joined by others. It sounded as though the photographer would also be staying for dinner. Lucia had mentioned that she was a celebrity herself; her work had been featured in Vogue and on the cover of Vanity Fair, and it was a real coup to have booked her. What are they laughing about? I wondered as I scooped a spoonful of stewed apple onto Maddy’s plate.

  “Do I have to eat that?” she asked, though by now she knew perfectly well what my answer would be.

  “You have to try it.” She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue, but she took a bite. yet another burst of laughter reached us.

  “I want to go see Daddy,” she said, hopefully. “Can I?”

  “Your daddy is in a business meeting.”

  “It doesn’t sound like business.”

  “But it is. Two more bites of apple.” Usually well lit and cheery, the breakfast room felt dreary, though the sun was far from setting. Like Maddy, I wanted to be in front of the fireplace, where Mr. Rathburn and his company were drinking wine and having what sounded like a good time. Unlike Maddy, I had no reason to be there.

  Getting Maddy to sleep that night took two books and four lullabies. When at last her breathing grew deep and regular, I pulled her favorite furry pink blanket up to her chin and slipped down to the kitchen for a glass of water. Amber was noisily loading the dishwasher, but the downstairs was otherwise quiet. I waved good night to her, planning to take a nice hot shower and read myself to sleep. When I passed the darkened living room, in which the fireplace still cra
ckled, I was startled to hear my name called out from the shadows. I paused in the doorway.

  “I thought that was you,” Mr. Rathburn’s voice said. A lamp switched on to reveal him in his usual chair. “Come sit with me.”

  I took a step into the room, my eyes adjusting to the relative darkness. I could see he was still in the clothes I’d helped him choose that morning. Copilot sat at attention by his knee. I slipped into the chair opposite his.

  “Don’t you want to know how the photo shoot went?” he asked.

  “How did it go?”

  He shrugged. “They posed me in the music room; they posed me out in the yard leaning against a tree. They got me staring moodily out a window. By the time they were done, I felt like an action figure.”

  I thought of his earlier question, about whether he could transform from plastic to flesh. “Did any of the poses feel natural to you?” I asked.

  “Not one, but then there’s nothing natural about the process. About image building. It’s all about taking something complicated, a whole personality, and boiling it down to a single trait.”

  “What’s your single trait?”

  “It’s changed over the years. I started out” — he snapped air quotes with his fingers — “ ‘Wild.’ Then it morphed into ‘Tortured.’ And now, I’m ‘Repentant.’ Don’t look at me like that. You know what I have to be repentant about. I assume a smart girl like you did her research before moving into the infamous rock star’s house.”

  “I did read up on you.”

  “So then you know about my bad-boy days — the mountains of coke I hoovered up my nose. The alcohol and the women. I’m surprised you were willing to come here.”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Rathburn,” I told him. “Besides, cocaine and women — isn’t that just what rock stars do?”

  He scratched Copilot under the chin. “I like to think I took it to a whole new level. On top of the binges and blackouts, I crashed cars, trashed my marriage, and probably wrecked my own heart.” He tapped his chest. “Literally and figuratively.”

  “Plenty of people behave badly without feeling guilty about it. Why shouldn’t you?”

  “Because…” He fell silent a moment. Then, without warning, he leaned toward me. I could smell the faintest trace of spicy aftershave and something else; it must have been the smell of his skin. “Bibi — my wife — was an innocent when I met her. She’d never tried coke or anything else. But she wanted to keep up with me… to share my interests.” He spoke the last phrase mockingly. “At the time, my only real interest was seeing how far I could go before it killed me. And Bibi… well, she worshipped me. She’d try anything I’d try.” His eyes shone darkly in the firelight. “What kind of man does that to his wife?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “People kept telling me how great I was, and the coke made me believe them. I wanted her there with me, on top of the mountain. I wanted to share all my highs with Bibi. It felt like the most loving gesture I could think of.” He leaned back into his chair. “Look at your face. I can see you disapprove. You’re trying to hide it, but you’re not doing a very good job. Your forehead gets these troubled little lines.”

  “I’m trying to imagine what it must have been like,” I said. “To be you, I mean.”

  “Suddenly I was surrounded by people who yessed me to death. My face was on the cover of Rolling Stone. My album had just gone platinum. All that shit. I thought I could get away with anything. I was just about your age, but I acted like a total child. I could have used someone like you to babysit me. As young and innocent as you are, you have about ten times more strength and self-possession than I did then.”

  “But what about your ex-wife?” I asked. “Where is she now? Is she still an addict?”

  “She’s far away.” His face darkened. “Out of my reach. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, but it’s true. At least she’s not using anymore.” He shifted in his chair. “Why am I telling you all this? I feel like I’m in confession. Are you going to tell me to say twenty Hail Marys and then wipe my slate clean?”

  “I’m not Catholic.”

  “You’re a good listener,” he continued. “You’d much rather listen to me drone on all night than reveal anything about yourself. Is that right?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “You’ve learned it’s safer to watch from the sidelines, not to call attention to yourself. No matter what I do or say, you sit there with your hands folded in your lap, with that serious expression on your face. I feel like I could tell you anything. I could tell you I strangled Bibi and chopped her up into little pieces, and you’d sit there perfectly calm, waiting for me to explain myself.” He bit his lower lip. “Well then, I’ll keep going. The universe paid me back, in the form of Maddy’s mother. France’s singing sensation Celine. You’ve heard of her?”

  I nodded.

  “All image, no talent. You’ve seen her picture, right? Six feet tall — all legs, flowing blond hair, red lipstick, designer dresses, and stiletto heels. You won’t be surprised to hear that her head is a pretty soap bubble — shiny and clean, with nothing but air inside. Sometimes I worry Maddy takes after her.”

  “You have some influence over how Maddy turns out.”

  “You mean you do. I don’t know the first thing about raising children,” Mr. Rathburn said. “But I pay you, so I guess I do have some influence.” He laughed. “Anyway, it’s a long story. I can see how tired you are; you’ve got blue circles under your eyes. Go to bed, and tomorrow after you’ve dropped Maddy off, come back to the house, and I’ll show you another good view to paint. Good night, Jane.”

  CHAPTER 7

  The next morning, Mr. Rathburn led me to a part of the grounds I’d never seen before — a cool grove of pines at the back of the property, completely out of view of the house. I had been expecting him to draw me a map to the spot and send me on my way, then get back to his usual morning routine — his workout and a long session in the music room. Instead, he met me on the back porch in jeans and a pair of new-looking hiking boots — had I ever seen him wear those before? — holding a couple of bottles of mineral water, and it dawned on me that he was going to walk me there himself. I was startled, though not displeased.

  “You’re taking the morning off, Mr. Rathburn?” I asked him.

  “Well, it’s not like I haven’t earned it,” he said. “You have some kind of problem with that? You like time by yourself?”

  “Not necessarily.” I decided not to ask him why he had chosen to be my personal tour guide. After all, to me his ways were generally inscrutable; I was getting used to his unpredictability. I followed him down the steps and past the pool house.

  “Lucia tells me you never take Maddy swimming,” he said abruptly when I caught up with him. “Why is that?”

  “She never asks to swim,” I told him.

  “She needs to ask? It’s good exercise. She spends too much time indoors with those little figurines of hers. Kids need fresh air.”

  “She goes out every day in her play yard, weather permitting,” I countered.

  He stopped in the path, hands on his hips, and looked down at me. “Don’t you want to work on your tan?”

  “What tan, Mr. Rathburn?”

  He surprised me by laughing. “The one you’d have if you ever took my daughter to the pool.”

  “I can’t swim,” I admitted. “I couldn’t rescue her if she fell in the deep end.”

  “Nobody ever taught you to swim?” His eyes narrowed. “That’s criminal. We’ll have to hire somebody, get you lessons.”

  “The agency didn’t ask me if I could swim. Otherwise I would have told them. It didn’t occur to me, and…”

  “Never mind that. Why don’t you at least put on a bathing suit and hang out by the pool in your off-hours? You do realize that’s most people’s idea of a good time, don’t you?”

  “I’m not even sure I have a bathing suit,” I told him, trying to think back to the last time
I’d been to a swimming pool. The summer of eleventh grade, maybe.

  “What?” He was frowning now. “No bathing suit? Are you sure you’re not a nun?”

  “Some nuns swim,” I said.

  We had reached a grove of pines. A thick carpet of needles spread out soft and springy underfoot. “If I bring you to the top of that hill over there” — he pointed — “will you spin around and start singing that the hills are alive with the sound of music?” He watched my reaction. “What are you smiling about?”

  “You do remind me a little bit of Captain von Trapp,” I admitted, and to my surprise, he chuckled.

  Something like a path ran down the center of the pine forest, and we walked the length of it in what, to me at least, felt like companionable silence. Rays of sunlight filtered here and there through the boughs; just then Mr. Rathburn stepped into a shaft of light. “What about here?” He pointed to a tree trunk, a perfect place to sit and take out my watercolors. “Would this work?”

  I spread out my jacket on the rough bark and took a seat. The grove before me was cool and peaceful, as though the needles beneath my feet were absorbing all the noises of the world beyond. I began unloading the contents of my backpack. “It’s perfect,” I told him. “Lovely, really.”

  “Yes, well.” He stood off to the side a bit awkwardly, it seemed to me.

  I opened my sketch pad and began to draw a scattering of pines several yards before us, a felled one providing an interesting diagonal amid all the stark black verticals. Within minutes, I had the beginnings of what could make a good watercolor, but as I worked, I could feel Mr. Rathburn’s restless presence just behind me, looking over my shoulder, making it hard for me to concentrate.

  “Would you like to sit down?” I gestured to the trunk beside me. “I’ve got some insect repellent in my backpack.”

  “Insect repellent.” He made a sound that was half laugh, half snort. “I can see I would only get in your way. You have important work to do.”

  “I don’t mind if you stay,” I told him.