The Hawk: Part One

  By late August, Stanford had stopped calling the Snyders. Lynne’s vague excuses weren’t comforting, and Stanford was starting to think Lynne was telling him the truth. She didn’t know where Eric was, or when he would be back. She did say when, not if, and so had Samuel Ahern, when Stanford called him. Stanford hadn’t spoken to Renee Ahern, but suspected she would offer the same, her voice like her husband’s and Lynne’s; resigned but hopeful. What bothered Stanford the most was their shared resignation.

  He had discussed it thoroughly with Laurie, who had told Stanford to visit Lynne Snyder. And if possible, bring home some of the pie that Stanford hadn’t stopped blathering about, or that Agatha, for all her culinary skills, couldn’t imitate. Agatha said it was the boysenberries, available only out west. She used blackberries, but they weren’t the same. Her tone was slightly huffy, and the men had laughed about it after she went home, how no one had ever threatened Agatha’s culinary prowess. What would she do about Sam Ahern’s custard and those pork chops, Laurie had then chuckled, wishing he could visit the Aherns and Lynne Snyder, but only for the cuisine.

  Stanford had sighed, uncertain of what to do. Obviously there was something wrong with Eric, but it probably wasn’t that he was having an affair. Stanford hadn’t detected any jealousy from Lynne, or any indignation from Samuel. That man would have betrayed a sense of outrage, but Stanford only noted a trace of sorrow from him, and none from Lynne. Whatever troubled Eric was probably what had kept him away from the exhibit in February, and had postponed the show originally slated for October. Stanford hadn’t broached with Lynne when another show might take place, but he was dying to see what Eric would have presented, then sold. Not the Ahern family portraits, or Samuel’s wife’s clan, but the rest of the nature series, and…. Some of the painter’s wife. Not that Eric had spoken about that, but Stanford had a feeling Eric Snyder had been dabbling in more than family pictures. Then Stanford paused, thinking back to something Laurie had said in bed last night, that neither the Snyders nor Aherns had any children. Stanford assumed that with the Aherns it was related to Sam’s war injury. But Eric and Lynne had been married for several years; perhaps Lynne was barren. She had remained employed because there wasn’t anything else for her to do.

  None of Eric’s paintings included his wife, so she wasn’t posing for him in her spare time. Instead she supported him in other ways, like lying for him…. Stanford stood in his office, staring out at New York. The skyline never failed to impress, he wasn’t a blasé city dweller. He liked the view best from here, as if slightly detached from what the city meant to him as a man. In this room, it was about representing talented artists who deserved to be shown in the most metropolitan place on Earth. He was the gatekeeper for a host of painters, keeping them safe from those who wished to exploit them. Stanford never felt he used his artists; he was used by them to enlighten others. Then he smiled. How very magnanimous of him.

  Then he saw the city with clearer eyes, the eyes he used at home with Laurie, or around their families. The men hadn’t shied from mingling among their relatives as a couple. Not that Stanford and Laurie were openly expressive; they never held hands unless it was behind their closed bedroom door, and Agatha had never witnessed undue affection shared between them. But as it was New York, and that they represented artists, their unusual attraction to each other wasn’t frowned upon by those who loved them best. Stanford’s grandfather had been a homosexual, marrying for convenience and to have a family. When he died five years ago, he was attended not only by his wife, children, and grandchildren, but by the man who had lived with Carmichael and Elise Taylor as their servant. Stanford had never questioned his grandmother, but the stories had gotten around, after Elise passed away three years ago. Elise hadn’t minded sharing her husband with Edgar Proberst all those years. Edgar had been discreet in satisfying Carmichael’s carnal desires, and was an excellent butler as well.

  But after Elise died, Edgar disappeared, and it had taken Stanford several months to track him down, finally learning he had moved back to his native Ontario, Canada. Stanford had inquired about meeting with Edgar, but the invitation was declined, yet, when Edgar passed away last summer, several older Taylors, Stanford’s father included, paid their respects. Stanford appreciated that gesture, and he wasn’t sure why, other than telling Laurie it meant their relationship was similarly acknowledged.

  Stanford gazed at skyscrapers seen on a daily basis, but rarely did he consider who might be staring back at him. Then he thought about the blue barn; how had Eric…. Then Stanford sighed. Where was that painter?

  It hadn’t been hard finding Edgar Proberst; Stanford employed detectives for such inquiries, then he grimaced. He wouldn’t send one after Eric. Yet, Eric’s career was right at the cusp; an exhibit in October would have pushed that artist over the edge and…. Then Stanford shivered. Was that why Eric had fled? Was he afraid of fame, or was there a far more damning skeleton than what Stanford and Laurie hid? How many years had Stanford visited his grandparents, welcomed warmly by Edgar, with no idea to that man’s true position within the household. When he learned, Stanford had wanted to speak to Edgar, who had always treated him and Laurie with utmost respect. Yet, to breach such levels of class were verboten, and what Stanford had wished to say was even less open to discussion. But the truth was implicit at every family function and holiday dinner when Stanford and Laurie entered a room side by side. Stanford knew he was fortunate that his choice of lifestyle wasn’t castigated, nor were the men shunned when among Laurie’s relatives. Stanford stepped to the window, staring down. Was Eric there, in New York, doing God knows what behind Lynne’s back? Was he recovering from an addiction, perhaps he was a drinker. Maybe he was in an institution, or maybe….

  Stanford turned toward his desk, glancing at the telephone. Another call to the Snyders wouldn’t get him anywhere. Was it his business where Eric was? Eric was Lynne’s husband, he was…. He was one of the most promising American artists any of the Taylors had represented, yet where the hell was he?

  Taking a deep breath, Stanford walked to his desk, picking up the receiver. Then he set it back in the cradle. Grabbing his coat and hat, he left his office, informing his secretary that he would see her again tomorrow morning.

  During the first weeks of Eric’s absence, Lynne told anyone who asked that he was at an artist’s retreat. In August, she said that he had stretched his initial visit into a lengthy sabbatical, and she was backed up in full by Sam and Renee. As September began, no one asked where Eric was, perhaps out of embarrassment for Lynne, or that Eric’s departure was expected of such a brilliant artist. Even Stanford had stopped calling, but Lynne didn’t think Stanford’s curiosity had waned. He was biding his time, she felt, for he had too much invested in Eric to forget about him.

  Lynne never forgot her husband; she spent many moments in the studio, studying the pictures of herself, which she hadn’t moved into the house. She would need to, and soon, for the weather was becoming cooler, days growing shorter. But if she did that, she wouldn’t have a reason to journey into this place where Eric seemed to linger, if only from the canvases that stared back at her with acuity. Perhaps Lynne hadn’t looked at Eric when he painted her, but for some reason, his two-dimensional subject reached right into the living woman, who wondered just how her husband achieved his magic.

  What tricks did he employee to allow her furtive, painted eyes to now dig deeply into Lynne’s living flesh, how had he mastered such an elaborate technique? It was akin to the frightened mice, to the laughing Ahern and Nolan families, to the pensive or proud hawks; Eric had crawled into all of those psyches, then translated the most prevalent emotions. But what Lynne saw in herself was the most stunning representation of all, and Renee had been correct. Eric did love her, but felt wholly undeserving of her returned affections.

  He hadn’t painted her as a saint, but she was certainly long-suffering, in how she never met his gaze, refusing to give him her true self. So he had painted ar
ound her fears, trying to put him within her there on the canvas. His absences were beyond his control, and she had fully accepted that. But the child they couldn’t create wasn’t because of her, no matter what she thought. It was…. Lynne flinched, then gripped herself, standing within the only place she could imagine her husband. She didn’t sleep in their bed anymore, preferring the sofa where they had made love over and over during that last weekend before he left. She had turned over the cushions, but at night, when slumber eluded, she could just detect the faintest hint of him, which sometimes made her cry. At other times she encountered incredible loneliness, finding herself drifting to sleep while mumbling his name. Two months without him made Lynne pine for all those previously short-lived absences. Four days would be no more than a matter of shallow breaths. But who knew if Eric would ever revert to such brief departures.

  She also saw that in the paintings, how meticulously he had captured her hands gripping the rolling pin, crimping pie crust edges, or grasping weeds from the ground. The way he had depicted her fingers entwined with yarn and knitting needles made her ache. He had studied all of her movements, in case he forgot them. What if he came home, and couldn’t transform completely? Would he live behind their walls, staring at these pictures, the only way he could recall the life they used to live?

  She shook her head, then touched the canvas, dry under her fingers. Closing her eyes, she followed the brush strokes, imagining him beside her, guiding her hand, as if teaching her how to knit, to bake, to garden. Where are you, she nearly said aloud, wishing with all of her heart that he was there, for if he was, she would let him make love to her in that studio, she would let him paint her however he desired. He wanted to paint her nude, he wanted to…. She jerked back from the canvas, biting her lower lip, salty blood seeping onto her tongue. He wanted to make up for all he felt he had denied her, and in these veiled paintings, he had done his very best.

  Lynne stood back, then looked at the pictures with a more discerning eye. She wasn’t a critic, especially not of her husband’s work, but no one could miss his talent, or the tenor. He had told her Stanford knew nothing of these paintings; Stanford wasn’t overly pleased by all the Ahern and Nolan portraits, and of course there was the nature series from when Eric came back last fall. Now those pictures were nearly a year old, waiting in the house, like secrets. But these paintings were the mysteries. What would Stanford make of them, Lynne wondered, not that she would be able to tell him where Eric was, or allude to his return. But maybe if she showed the dealer these pictures, he would understand a little more of the artist. Or perhaps, Lynne shivered, more questions would be raised. She would seek Sam and Renee’s opinions. Stanford had called them as well, and Lynne didn’t want them to be harassed all autumn.

  Two weeks later, Stanford stood in Lynne’s living room, along with Lawrence Abrams, whom he had introduced as his partner in crime. Laurie possessed an athlete’s physique, his thick dark blonde hair and bright green eyes a strong contrast to Stanford, who was four years Laurie’s senior. Laurie told Lynne that he had played several sports in high school, unlike Stanford, who had spent most of his time holed up in various city libraries, reading about painters.

  Samuel and Renee had joined the festivities, in part that Stanford requested those delicious pork chops, and that Stanford wondered how much Samuel Ahern knew about Eric Snyder. Not that Stanford would blurt what he had learned in front of the couple. But all that information sat right on the tip of Stanford’s tongue, and he longed to have it confirmed by the one person who was aware. Of course Lynne knew, Stanford had said to Laurie. No way in hell could Eric have kept it from her.

  That Laurie was there had been a huge risk, but Stanford hadn’t been able to keep him from making his own booking on the train, and Lynne had been delighted to hear that Stanford was bringing a guest. She lamented there was no extra space, but Laurie had offered to sleep on the sofa, which at first Lynne refused, offering her and Eric’s room. But Laurie wouldn’t displace Lynne from her own quarters, and after the Aherns left for the evening, the men would say their polite good evening’s in front of Lynne, then retire to separate beds. It was only for one night, Laurie had teased Stanford, well worth those pork chops and that boysenberry pie.

  Laurie had instantly taken a liking to Renee Ahern, who still annoyed Stanford, what with her loud voice and how she hovered over Lynne. Sam was chattier than last time, which caught Stanford slightly off guard, as if Samuel was more comfortable in the Snyder home than his own. Perhaps he was feeling protective of Lynne, maybe he did know about Eric’s…. Stanford sighed, then joined Laurie and Renee, who were laughing. Lynne had stepped into the kitchen to give Sam a hand, and Stanford’s stomach rumbled, making Renee giggle. “He’s been cooking all day,” she smiled, nodding to where Sam and Lynne spoke.

  “Sounds like he’s in his element,” Laurie said. “My God, it smells like heaven.”

  “I’m a lucky woman,” Renee said. “I can’t cook to save my life.”

  “Well, the sooner we eat, the sooner Stanford’s belly will quiet down.” Laurie finished his drink, then motioned to the stairs. “I’ll be right back.”

  As Laurie headed up the stairs, Stanford wanted to roll his eyes. The last thing he wanted was to make small talk with Renee. She seemed reticent too, glancing toward the kitchen, as if waiting for her husband’s call. Then she sighed. “So, do you work with Mr. Abrams often?”

  “Lawrence and I represent different clients, but our paths do occasionally cross. Sometimes it’s a very small city.”

  Renee nodded, then smiled. “I’ve never been to the East Coast, pretty much stayed local all my life. It must seem very provincial here.”

  “It’s quaint, but charming. The weather’s been spectacular for autumn.”

  “It’s been cool at night.” Then she grimaced, which Stanford didn’t miss. “I hope winter doesn’t come early.”

  “Well, it is just September. Several weeks of sun before the temperatures get ugly.”

  “From your lips to God’s ears.” Renee tried to smile, but she failed. Then she blinked, and Stanford felt poked by her bright eyelashes. He stared at those pale irises; she wasn’t an albino, not with that red hair, although her eyes were strange. Then her husband called for her, and Renee slipped away, not excusing herself.

  Stanford waited for Laurie to return, then they headed into the kitchen, where Laurie refreshed his drink, noting that the whiskey was a good one. Sam smiled, taking responsibility for that beverage, then he announced dinner would be another ten minutes. Laurie laughed, offering his hands if they would speed the proceedings. Lynne said Laurie could take her place, as she approached Stanford. “There’s something I wanna show you, it won’t take long.”

  Stanford nodded. “Wonderful. I have no desire to cook.”

  “Then be gone with you both,” Laurie chuckled, donning one of Lynne’s aprons. “Maybe there’ll be something left when we’re done.”

  Renee giggled, but Sam was too focused on the food. Lynne led Stanford from the kitchen to a chorus of Take your time.

  The sun was just setting as they reached the patio, then Lynne gazed across the garden. “I froze a record number of boysenberries this year. Looking forward to pie all winter and spring.”

  “It’s beautiful out here.” Stanford inhaled deeply. What he wanted to tell Lynne would take longer than a few minutes, but this had been her idea. “It’s too bad….”

  That slipped, making Stanford clear his throat. But Lynne smiled, then grasped his hand. “Actually, what I wanted to show you will take longer than ten minutes, but I need to do it before the light’s gone. Have you ever been in Eric’s studio?”

  Her words didn’t fit with her light tone, putting Stanford immediately on the back foot. “What? No, I, uh….”

  Lynne tugged on his hand. “Hurry, or it’ll be too dark to see.”

  His steps were unsteady, but only Laurie had been drinking, well, Renee too, but Stanford hadn’t even
accepted a glass of wine. He had wanted to be fully in control when he confronted Lynne with what he knew. Now he wished for a drink, as she took long strides past the bubbling fountain, reaching the bird bath, then the studio. Eric had never permitted Stanford access to this most private realm; was he dead? Stanford had trouble catching his breath, as Lynne pulled a key from a pocket of her skirt. Then he shivered, as she inserted the key into the lock, deliberately invading Eric’s privacy. “Lynne, no, I’ve never been in here and….”

  She nodded. “I know, but he won’t mind.” Her tone was still upbeat, but that did nothing to assuage Stanford’s racing heart. Lynne stepped inside, but the dealer hesitated. “Well, do you wanna see the last things he painted?”

  “The last….” Stanford nodded, but felt like a voyeur. Stepping into the studio, he closed his eyes, then opened them, as Lynne again grasped his hand.

  She walked him to the back, where easels stood. Stanford tried to look at the walls, the ceiling, even the floor, but his eyes were drawn to those canvases, all of which featured the woman still gripping his hand. Yet these pictures weren’t like any Stanford had previously seen, in part due to the subject. And because for the first time, Stanford couldn’t penetrate the model’s soul.

  Previously, Eric’s themes, be they hawks or mice or sunsets or barns, were transparent. But Lynne Snyder was an enigma, just like her husband, and Stanford was stunned at how this seemingly affable couple concealed such inner turmoil. Nothing about Lynne was obvious, other than her hobbies, and how much she was adored, which to Stanford was for the best. Eric’s background would be rich fodder for the newspapers, once it became public knowledge. And it would, eventually, unless Eric never returned, and his work faded into obscurity. That would be the only way for Eric and Lynne to maintain their privacy.

  Then Stanford trembled; was that why he had left her? The dealer stared at Lynne, then swallowed hard. “I know about his father, is that where he is?”

  She nodded, then motioned to the canvases. “He told me he didn’t want these displayed, mostly because he wasn’t sure I’d want them shown. But I’ll leave that up to you. If you’d like Lawrence to see them, that would be fine. Of course, I don’t know when Eric will be back, so I suppose you’re still looking at an exhibit next spring, but….”

  “Lynne, why?” Then Stanford sighed. He knew why Eric had never spoken of his family; his mother was dead, his father in prison for murder. His father had also committed other grievous crimes, and Stanford felt sick to his stomach. “Do they know, the Aherns, about his dad?”

  “Renee does. I’m sure she’s told Sam a little of it, but….” Now Lynne’s voice cracked, but she took a deep breath, then nodded. “He doesn’t know that’s why Eric’s foot’s damaged. Or if he does, he hasn’t brought it up with me.”

  That had been what most turned Stanford’s stomach, and again it made him wish to be ill. He gazed around the studio; it looked as if Eric had planned to return, but with cold nights, these canvases should be in the house. “Are you going to leave these out here much longer?”

  “Actually, I was going to ask you and Lawrence to help me take them in tonight. I wanted to show you these Stanford, I wanted you to see what he….” She paused, then composed herself. “He is a great painter, maybe you’re aware of it, but if not, I wanted you to know that when he comes back, he’ll need time to recover. Then, after he does….”

  “He can have all the time he needs Lynne, my God, of course. And yes, Laurie and I’ll help you take these inside.”

  Stanford realized the slip as soon as he said it. Lynne gazed at him, but said nothing. Then she nodded, as Renee called their names. “Time to eat,” Lynne said softly. “We can get to these after dinner. In fact, Sam and Renee can help.”

  “They’ve seen them, I take it?” Stanford spoke evenly, but sweat poured from him. How could he have been so careless, using Laurie instead of Lawrence?

  “They saw them after he left. And they felt that showing them to you was for the best.” She hesitated for seconds, then smiled. “If Eric’s angry, he shouldn’t have….”

  “Left them here for a nosy dealer to find.” Stanford chuckled, hoping she couldn’t hear his pounding heart. “I’ll tell him I badgered you mercilessly.”

  “He’ll know we’re both liars, but he won’t argue about it. He’ll probably thank you for being a nag. He wants to show these, it was me he wanted to protect.”

  Stanford wondered who was the biggest liar, as he stared into Lynne’s cloudy eyes. “Of course. He loves you very much.”

  “And I love him, and these are just the tip of the iceberg, like the barn. Something’s waiting when he returns Stanford, if you’re willing to be patient with him, and if….”

  “Lynne, Mr. Taylor!” Renee hollered, then she stood at the studio doorway, but didn’t step inside. “It’s, uh, time. For dinner,” she coughed.

  Lynne nodded, then clasped Stanford’s hand. “We’re on our way. Tell Sam that after dinner Stanford and Lawrence will help us get all these into the house. Then we’ll reward ourselves with pie.”

  “Oh, um, okay. Are you sure?” Renee stayed in the doorway.

  “Uh-huh. Stanford, you ready to eat?”

  He jerked at the sound of his name, but he had also flinched when Lynne spoke it and Laurie’s together, although she deliberately said Lawrence. “Yes, I’m, um, starving.” Suddenly he was, and he gripped Lynne’s hand. Then he eased the pressure, but she squeezed back, smiling at him.

  “I’ll tell Sam you’re on your way. And about the, uh, after dinner task.” Renee stepped from the doorway, then scurried along the path, back toward the house.

  Lynne led Stanford from the studio, but she didn’t lock the door behind them. Hand in hand they walked through the garden, hearing mumbled voices growing louder as they reached the house. Stanford smiled at Laurie as Sam spoke to his wife, then gazed at Lynne. It was then that Stanford knew that while Sam Ahern had seen those paintings, he was unaware about Eric’s father. But Renee Ahern knew, of that Stanford was completely certain.

  Chapter 20