Web of Dreams

  "Boyfriend? How could I? Momma wanted me to come home each and every weekend. You know we spent a lot of time together, skiing, horseback riding . . ."

  "Yes, yes, but I thought . . . boys do come to visit there, don't they?" he asked, tilting his head to the side and smiling.

  "No. Miss Mallory has prohibited boys from the building unless it's a properly chaperoned dance. There were a few dances, but I never got to go to them," I said bitterly.

  "I see. Well, next year, you'll stay more often and get to meet boys. You're interested in boys now, aren't you? What about at your old school? Did you have a boyfriend there?"

  "Not really."

  "Not a steady one, huh? Just someone," he said and nodded as though I had admitted it. "How about a cool drink? Coke?"

  "Okay." He went into the kitchen and brought out two glasses of soda. While he drank, he stared at me. I thought he might be still thinking about how to draw this or that, but he was thinking of other things.

  "This boy who wasn't really a boyfriend," he began again, "I'm sure you kissed him, didn't you?"

  "No," I said quickly. His question made my face redden and he smiled.

  "Don't worry. I won't tell your mother."

  "There's nothing to tell her," I insisted.

  "Girls still kiss boys, don't they," he asked laughing, "or is that against the new rules? You just rock and roll nowadays?"

  "Boys still kiss girls," I replied, although I wasn't speaking from experience.

  "Did you ever French-kiss?" He sat on the couch and looked up at me, eager for my answer. I hadn't known what French kissing was until I joined the "special club" at Winterhaven and heard Marie Johnson describe it.

  "No," I said more firmly.

  "You do know what that is, don't you?"

  "Yes."

  "But you've never done it. How wonderful. You really are as innocent as you look. You mean when you didn't kiss this boy who wasn't really a boyfriend, you didn't press your tongue against his or he press his against yours?"

  "I said no," I replied. Why was he teasing me so much?

  He laughed. "It's not as bad as it sounds, Leigh, although your mother has come to think so, as well as thinking the rest of it is as bad," he added, suddenly angry. He stared down at the floor for a long moment and then those blue eyes swung my way, suddenly totally void of expression, as if he wasn't looking at me or didn't see me. It bothered me how empty he could make his eyes, as if he knew how to turn his emotions on and off. Then he blinked rapidly and focused on me again.

  "You strike me as a very precocious young girl, Leigh. It's why I thought you would be wonderful as a model. Sometimes, you have a very knowing, very grown-up look in your eyes. I bet you're heads and shoulders above other girls your age, aren't you?"

  I shrugged. Sometimes I felt that I was, but sometimes, when all the girls got together and began to tell their experiences, I felt as though I had lived in another world.

  "I know you were very upset about your parents getting divorced and for a while you hated me, right? You blamed me for it? You don't have to answer. I understand. In your shoes, I would have felt the same way. I hope the time we spent together skiing and horseback riding has been good for you and maybe helped to have you hate me less," he said sadly.

  "I don't hate you, Tony," I proclaimed. I really didn't hate him, not now, not anymore.

  "No? Well, I'm glad. I want us to be friends, to be more than friends." I didn't say anything. When he gazed up at me now, there was a different look in his eyes from the look he had while he had been drawing me. This gaze went deeper and made me very selfconscious. I allowed my eyes to meet his briefly and then I felt myself blush again and looked away quickly. "Well," he said slapping his knees, "time to go back to work."

  He got up and went to his canvas. I went back to the couch.

  "I'm going to draw you from the top down, working slowly, capturing the details," he explained. "I'm glad you wore that kind of blouse. I want to see you gradually. It gives me the sense that you're emerging from the canvas, rising up out of the blank page like Venus rising from the sea.

  "I want to do an outline of your torso now. Just stand, with your arms at your sides, please," he instructed. I did. "Yes, that's it," he said excitedly, as if I had done something significant or difficult. "Yes, yes . . ."

  He drew lines rapidly.

  "Now, just unbutton your blouse enough to bring it down over your shoulders. Go on," he said when I didn't move. "It's all right. Just over your shoulders," he repeated in a soft voice.

  I raised my fingers to my first button and undid it.

  "Good. Go on. Fine," he coaxed. "Now another." I did it. "And another. Go on, one more. There, now lower the blouse over your shoulders softly. Yes, yes."

  His eyes widened and he looked at me longer before turning back to the canvas each time.

  "Another button," he said gazing at what he had drawn so far. I undid it. Then he glanced my way, looked at his drawing and nodded. "Just pull your arms out of the blouse and hold it slightly above your . . . your breasts," he said.

  I understood and appreciated what he had said about Venus rising from the sea, but it felt so odd to undress this slowly. It was almost as if I were doing a striptease.

  I brought my arms out and held the blouse from falling back and down. Tony looked at me for a very long time and then shook his head.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "I'm not getting your shoulders right . . . something . . ." He approached me and squeezed his chin with the fingers of his right hand as he stared down at me. Then he reached out and peeled the thin straps of my bra off my shoulders. He stepped back again, stared for a moment, went back to the canvas, gazed at it and nodded. "Just turn around," he said.

  "Around? All the way around?"

  "Yes, please."

  I did it and waited.

  "Now, let your blouse go." I released it and it fell to my feet. "Yes," he said in a loud whisper. "The lines in your neck and shoulders . ."

  "What about them?" I asked quickly.

  "Nothing bad," he replied with a slight laugh. "They threw me for a moment." I heard him come up behind me and then I felt the tips of his fingers trace the curve of my neck and shoulders. I jumped when I felt him. "Try to relax," he whispered in my ear. "Sometimes, an artist has to make contact with his subject so he truly absorbs the lines and curves in his consciousness. At least, I do."

  "It tickled," I said. I couldn't see him, but his breath felt so hot on the back of my neck, it made me think his lips were only inches away.

  "Do you mind if I do this now?" he asked. He had his fingers on the clasp of my bra. For a moment I couldn't speak. My heart thumped against my chest. "I want an unobstructed view of your back at this point, okay?" he asked again. I just nodded and then felt the clasp undone, the elastic material snap away, and the undergarment loosen. With the shoulder straps already down, my bra fell clear of my budding breasts. I started to pull it back up, but Tony seized my wrists, quickly and roughly at first and then immediately softening his grasp. "No, just keep your arms at your sides," he said. He stepped back to the easel.

  I stood as still as I could, my heart racing so fast, it took my breath away. It seemed I was standing this way for hours before he spoke again.

  "This is coming along fine," he said. "Perfect."

  I didn't move. What would he want me to do next? Suddenly, I felt him drape a white sheet over my shoulders. He pinned it around my neck like a cape.

  "I know you're nervous," he said in that voice that was barely above a whisper, "but I'm not unhappy about that. I want to use it to my advantage, and as I told you, capture you as I would capture Venus rising out of the sea. Take off the rest of your clothing now, but keep this wrapped around you. You'll lower it as we go along, okay? I'll be right back. I want to check on what we have for lunch. It's almost time and I've worked up an appetite."

  Why was he asking me to take off all my clothes if we were going
to stop for lunch shortly? I wondered. Perhaps he thought it would be easier for me afterward. Although I was still quite nervous and embarrassed, I felt a warm, pleasing tingle wash over me as I slipped my skirt down and stepped out of it. When I lowered my panties and then pressed the cool sheet against my body, I felt an undulating warmth climb up my ankles, making it seem as if I were stepping into a tepid bath. I saw that the small valley between my breasts had reddened. I wrapped the sheet snugly around my chest and waited for Tony to return.

  He called me from the kitchen.

  "I have everything ready, Leigh."

  I went into the kitchen. He had made a platter of finger sandwiches and uncorked a bottle of red wine. He poured me a glass and then he poured one for himself. When I didn't move, he pulled out my chair like a waiter in a fancy restaurant.

  "Madam."

  "Thank you." I took my seat and began to eat. Dressed only in this white sheet, I couldn't help feeling foolish sitting at the small table. But Tony acted as if it were quite an ordinary thing. Perhaps it was because of all his artistic experience, I thought. Whenever I moved, the sheet parted, so I held it together with one hand while I ate and drank with the other.

  "Do you think girls are more modest than boys?" he asked, obviously noticing my awkwardness.

  "No."

  "Did you ever see a boy naked?"

  "Of course not," I snapped. He laughed. I knew he was just teasing me again, but it made my nerve ends twang.

  "Now don't tell me there aren't any Peeping Janes, just like there are Peeping Toms. I know when girls get together, they talk about boys they have seen naked, just like boys might talk about girls. I bet the girls at Winterhaven do when they get together, right?"

  I didn't reply, but he was right. At one of our last get-togethers in Marie's room, Ellen Stevens told us about seeing her brother take a shower. Just recalling it now made me blush.

  "It's all right," Tony said shaking his head and smiling from ear to ear. "It's only natural to have curiosity about the opposite sex." He drank his wine.

  I took a tiny sip of the wine. I felt flushed. My face grew warmer. He finished his glass and poured himself another quickly.

  "There's nothing wrong with modesty," he continued, "unless it's taken to a ridiculous extreme." His face hardened, his eyes turning cold and gray suddenly. "If you're married and your wife still shuts you out whenever she is dressing . ."

  He looked up at me quickly as if I had said something to disagree, but I was so still and quiet, I was almost like the statue he wanted to create.

  "Why would a wife not want her own husband to set eyes on her?" he asked as if I were the older and the wiser one. "Is she afraid he will see some imperfection, a wrinkle, a large birthmark? Would you always want the lights out whenever you made love with your husband?" he asked. I didn't know what to say. "Of course, you wouldn't. Why should you?" He looked down and muttered, "She's driving me crazy."

  I knew he was talking about my mother, but I said nothing. Did Momma think that if Tony saw her naked in a brightly lit room he would know her true age? I wondered. She had such a perfect figure. How could it reveal her age?

  I finished my sandwich and sipped a little more wine. Tony seemed in a daze. Suddenly, he snapped out of it and smiled.

  "Time to go back to work," he announced and rose from his seat.

  I followed him back to the living room that had been turned into a studio and stood where I had stood before.

  "I see the wine has given you a crimson tint. I like that. I'll have to capture that," he said. "Does the glow continue down your neck?" he asked and drew closer and ran his right forefinger along my neckline to my collarbone. "You're truly exquisite," he whispered. "A young flower just blooming." His eyes were piercing, bright. He sighed and shook his head. "How lucky I am to have you, Leigh. This will succeed only because I have such a beautiful model"

  He returned to the easel and began to draw. After a moment he stopped.

  "Just unclip the sheet at your neck and hold it at your waist," he said as nonchalantly as he might say, "Turn your head to the left."

  At my waist, I thought. My fingers trembled so when went to unclip it I couldn't do it. He laughed.

  "Here, let me help you," he said, coming forward. He lifted my fingers from the clip gently and undid it. I held the sheet against my body for a moment. Then he peeled it down over my shoulders, over my arms, peeled it from my bosom, all the time keeping his eyes on my eyes. He smiled and stepped back, gazing at me. My heart pounded.

  "I love that little birthmark under your breast," he exclaimed. "That's the kind of individualistic little thing I can put into the model to make it definitely you. Everyone will look for something that will make the doll more specifically a replica of themselves, don't you see?" He appeared so excited about it that I could only shake my head in astonishment. He rushed back to his easel and continued to sketch.

  He worked for more than an hour, stopping often to study me with such intensity and sighing before shaking his head and smiling. Suddenly he stopped and bit down on his lip hard, shaking his head.

  "What's wrong?" I asked.

  "I'm not getting this right. It's o, unbalanced. I'm not doing justice to your symmetry," he declared.

  "Does it have to be so perfect, Tony?"

  "Of course," he said, a ripple of annoyance passing through his face. "It's the first and the best." He looked at his sketch and then looked at me. He turned back to the sketch and nodded. Then he stepped forward.

  "I hope you don't mind," he said, "but sometimes, we artists see things clearer with our eyes closed."

  "But how can you see with your eyes closed?" I asked.

  "We see through our other senses. An artist who paints beautiful birds must listen to them sing and get their songs into the painting as well as their colors and shapes. When an artist paints a beautiful green field, he gets the aroma of grass and flowers into his painting. Understand?" I nodded. It did sound right.

  "And through touch," he said, "an artist brings depth, texture, fullness to his work. This will be a great asset to me when I transform the drawing into a sculpture. Just relax a moment," he requested in a breathy whisper. He brought his hands to my waist and closed his eyes. Then his fingers traveled up over my ribs, pausing as they pressed against my bones. "Yes," he said. "Yes." He moved his hands farther up and the tips of his fingers touched the undersides of my breasts. I started to step back.

  "Easy," he said. "I'm seeing it all perfectly now."

  I looked into his face. His eyes were still shut tight, but I could see them moving back and forth under the lids.

  The tips of his fingers moved very slowly up the sides of my breasts and then came down over the tops. He paused there for a moment, holding his breath. I held mine as well.

  The tickling sensation I had first experienced disappeared rapidly and was replaced with a tingling that traveled deep into my body, exploding

  everywhere. It was as if a dozen fingers were on me, sending the same sensation through my legs and arms and stomach.

  The mixture of feelings was bewildering, frightening and thrilling at the same time. I was so confused. Should I pull away, take his hands from my body? Did all artists' models permit the artist to explore their bodies this way? Sometimes when he looked at me so intensely, it felt as if Tony's eyes did touch me, but this was different. His fingers moved under my bosom and over it as if he were shaping me in his mind. My legs grew weak and began to tremble.

  Finally, Tony stepped back, holding his hands off me but keeping them in the air just at the height of my bosom. He lingered there for a moment, nodded, and returned slowly to the easel, opening his eyes only when he began to sketch.

  He worked with a frenzy now, his lips tight and his jaw firm. I barely moved. My heart was thumping so hard I thought it would burst through my chest. What had he just done? What had I permitted him to do? Did Momma know this would happen? Why hadn't she warned me?

  "Yes,
" Tony said. "It's coming now. It's working," He smiled at me and worked on. Not long after, he stopped abruptly, stepped back to look at his work, and the nodded.

  "Okay," he said. "We've done enough for today. Why don't you get dressed while I clean up."

  I turned my back to him and began putting on my clothing. When I was finished, he beckoned for me to look at the work.

  "Well? What do you think?"

  I did see resemblances to my face. He had captured the shape of my head and my chin perfectly, but my torso looked far more mature than I was. My body looked more like my mother's body.

  "It's very good, Tony," I said, "but you've made me look older."

  "It's how I see you too, you know. This is a work of art, not a photograph. Half of it is in the artist's mind. That's why it was so important for me to touch you, too. I hope you understand, Leigh," he said, an expression of concern on his face.

  "Yes, I understand," I replied, but I didn't really understand. I didn't understand my own feelings, as well. I had felt embarrassed, frightened and thrilled at the same time. It was all so confusing. I made up my mind I would talk to my mother about it, no matter what.

  But she was already gone for the evening when Tony and arrived at the house. She had left a note explaining that she was going to dinner and the theater in Boston with some of her women friends. It came as just as much a surprise to Tony as it did to me.

  "Looks like you and I will dine alone again tonight," he muttered and rushed upstairs to his suite.

  Soon after I went up to mine, Troy came to see me. His bouts with the chicken pox and the measles, his allergies and colds, had left him so thin and pale. Even the time he spent in the summer sun didn't do much to make his complexion richer. Because he had lost a little weight, too, he looked gaunt and his eyes were drawn and had dark circles around them. Despite his condition he brightened when he came charging into my bedroom to see how the work on the Tatterton portrait doll had gone.

  "When will it be ready?" he asked. "This week?"

  "I don't know, Troy. All we did today is sketch in the picture. Tony has to paint and then begin making a sculpture. Did you have your dinner?" I asked. The doctors had put him on a different feeding schedule and he was eating earlier than the rest of us. I knew that pleased my mother, but it made him very unhappy to have to eat alone or only with his nurse.