Portrait of a Love Page 3

  “Isabel.” He drawled it out in his gentle way, and for the first time in her life Isabel found herself liking the sound of her name.

  “Well, to answer your question,” he began, “no, I’m not active in the family business. Ben is the one who inherited my father’s talent in that area.” He shook his head a little in admiration. “He’s quite something, you know. Has a mind like a razor.”

  “You can’t be any slouch yourself,” Isabel said with raised brows. “Rhodes scholarships aren’t handed out to the average student.”

  “I was lucky,” he said amiably.

  There was a pause and then Isabel changed the subject. “Your mother has her heart set on this portrait,” she said.

  “I know. She’s pestered me about it ever since I got elected.” A small smile creased the corner of his mouth. “Ever since she married my father, she’s become more Sinclair than the Sinclairs.”

  “She certainly is proud of the family.”

  “She certainly is.” The note of amused affection was clear in his voice.

  “She’s a lovely person,” Isabel heard herself saying.

  “They broke the mold the day they made my mother,” Leo Sinclair said simply, and Isabel turned to stare at him again. It sounded so odd, so old-fashioned to hear a man saying such a thing of his mother. I suppose, Isabel thought with a flash of insight, it’s only men like Leo Sinclair who can afford to say things like that. No one in his right mind would ever accuse the senator of being a mama’s boy.

  An arched bridge crossed the water to Island Views, the famous Sinclair-built modern resort and retirement community. Isabel was wide-eyed at the sight of the beautiful homes, the yachts, the four golf courses and seventy tennis courts.

  “It’s fabulous,” she said as they walked along a quiet stretch of beach that faced the house the Sinclairs had retained for their own use. She laughed. “I suppose this is what life in the Sunbelt is all about.”

  “It is for a lot of people,” he replied. “Do you play golf, Isabel? Or tennis?”

  “No.” A lovely breeze blew off the water and stirred the hair at her temples. She had plaited the length of it into a long thick braid that fell down her back almost to her waist. She looked out at the blue water and smiled a little ruefully. “I grew up in New York City—and not on the fashionable East Side. Our big sports were stoop ball and basketball in the schoolyard.”

  “Stoop ball?” he said in bewilderment.

  Isabel looked at him and suddenly smiled, not her usual, social smile, but a real one, rarely seen and radiantly beautiful. “You have to be from New York,” she said.

  He was watching her face. “I have found,” he said, “that New Yorkers are absolutely the most insular people in the entire world.”

  Isabel laughed. “You’re probably right.”

  “Do you mind sitting on the sand?” he asked.

  “Of course not.” Isabel dropped to the white sand and clasped her arms around her knees. Leo stretched out beside her, his arms behind his head, his eyes narrowed against the sun.

  “How did you get into art?” he asked half-sleepily.

  “My high-school art teacher encouraged me, mostly. She was super. If it weren’t for her, I would never have gone on to art school.”

  “Why not?”

  Leo’s soft, sleepy sounding voice disarmed Isabel. If she had thought he was conducting an inquisition, she would have frozen up, but she answered easily and truthfully, “We couldn’t afford it. Money was always tight in my house.”

  “But you did go to art school.”

  “Yes. I got into Cooper Union.” She rested her cheek on her updrawn knees. “It’s a terrific school in New York City that gives degrees in architecture, engineering, and fine arts. And the tuition is free.”

  “Free tuition. You can’t beat that.”

  She laughed. “No. And if it weren’t for Mrs. Simpson, I would never have known about it. As it was, I got four years of first-class training.”

  “And now you are on the road to success.”

  She sighed. “I hope so.”

  A comfortable silence descended between the two of them. Isabel thought Leo had fallen asleep. The sun was warm and she opened another button on her shirt. She had rolled up her sleeves before they left Charleston. She gazed out over the water and felt the warmth sinking into her. It was very peaceful. After a few minutes she turned to look at the man sleeping at her side. He was so beautifully blond, she thought. His lids opened, and eyes blue as the cobalt sky above looked into hers. Isabel felt her heartbeat accelerate.

  “I was falling asleep,” he said.

  “Don’t mind me.”

  He smiled and sat up effortlessly. He was very close to her, a fact that did nothing to slow the wild tapping of her heart.

  “Washington is so hectic that I really appreciate a chance to just relax.”

  “I know what you mean.” Isabel hoped her voice sounded normal. “New York is like that, too.”

  He was looking at her slender brown arm revealed by the rolled-up sleeve of her shirt. He reached out with gentle fingers and touched her forearm.

  “How did you get that?”

  He ran his finger along a thin, whitish scar that looked as if it had been there for many years. Isabel cleared her throat. “I fell when I was a child. On glass.” She turned her eyes away from him, fearing the sensations his touch awakened in her.

  He looked for a minute in silence at her averted head, so beautifully and proudly set on her long neck.

  “Look,” he said suddenly. “Over yonder.”

  Isabel followed his pointing finger to a sea bird in full flight carrying a fish in its long orange beak. “It’s a royal tern,” Leo said. “Their nesting grounds are all over the Sea Islands.”

  “It’s lovely,” said Isabel. He stood up and she followed his lead gratefully. It made her uncomfortable to be so close to him. “Do you play golf and tennis?” she asked as they resumed their interrupted walk.

  “I golf some,” he replied. An indefinable change of expression crossed his mouth. Isabel suddenly remembered why he had left football. He had had several operations on his knees, or so she had read in a sports magazine.

  “Football isn’t kind to knees,” she remarked neutrally.

  “No.”

  Isabel glanced at him walking beside her. His hands were in his pockets, his blond head bent a little forward. He sounded perfectly normal.

  “I have never understood this urge men seem to have to knock each other about,” she said astringently. “It makes no sense at all.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t—to women at least.”

  “What a condescending remark!”

  He stopped walking and turned to look at her. “Yours was scarcely complimentary,” he said, and raised his golden eyebrows.

  After a minute Isabel laughed. “I suppose it wasn’t. All right. About football, let us simply agree to disagree.”

  “I’ve gotten used to people disagreeing with me,” he said good-naturedly. “The senate does that for you.”

  “Do you like it?” she asked curiously. “Washington and being a senator, I mean.”

  “Yes,” he answered promptly. “Mama would say it was in the blood, that Sinclairs were born to govern.”

  He slowly walked forward again and Isabel fell into step beside him.

  “Perhaps I should paint you holding a sceptre and a crown.”

  “Don’t be funny,” he said as he took a hand out of his pocket and gave her braid a good hard tug.

  “Ouch!” said Isabel, and stared at him reproachfully.

  “I couldn’t resist,” he said with cheerful unrepentance. “I’ve been longing to do that all day. I’ve felt just like a little boy in the fourth grade ever since you appeared with that enticing braid hanging down your back.”

  Isabel’s face lit with its rare sweet smile. “Shame on you, Leo,” she said. “And to think it’s the likes of you who run this country.”

&nb
sp; “I’m better than a lot of them,” he said imperturbably. “And we’re making progress. You finally called me Leo.”

  Isabel smiled and they continued to stroll along the beach, each savoring the view.

  “This place is absolutely fabulous,” Isabel said again as they got into the car to leave.

  Leo started the motor. “I know. But I wouldn’t want to live here.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s too easy, too lazy. There’s nothing to challenge you, nothing to throw your mind into.”

  “I see what you mean,” said Isabel. They were on the main road when she asked, “Do you enjoy a challenge, Leo?”

  “It’s meat and drink to me. It’s what I liked about Oxford and about football.”

  “Oxford and football,” said Isabel. “What a combination.”

  “It’s not so unusual,” he murmured. “Only at Oxford they call it rugby.”

  “And now you find your challenge in the Senate.”

  “Yes.” He glanced at her, a fleeting flash of blue. “What about you, Isabel? Do you find painting a challenge?”

  “Not exactly,” she said slowly. “I do it because, well, because I have to. But you’re right in one sense. It is a struggle to paint well.”

  There was a thoughtful pause. “Yes,” he said then. “How did you get into doing portraits? I rather thought serious artists didn’t do them anymore.”

  “For a long time they didn’t. Everything was abstract. The invention of the camera changed things so much, and representational painting seemed passé. But Abstract Expressionism has lost a lot of its force. There’s been a renewed interest in realism since, oh, the fifties, really. And a portrait—a good portrait—is much more than just a record of how a person looks. At least, I think it is.”

  “Anyone whose seen a portrait by Rembrandt would have to agree with you.”

  Isabel laughed. “I can hardly put myself in the same class as Rembrandt. But, yes, that is precisely what I mean.”

  Leo changed the subject. “I’m very sorry about the inconvenience of making you come to Washington. I reckon neither Mama nor I thought too much about how much time you would need.” A faint smile touched his lips. “The photographic mentality,” he said.

  Isabel shrugged. “It’s all right. You must know that doing this portrait is a big break for me.” She turned her head. “I’d go to Antarctica with you if I had to.”

  His blond hair blew in the breeze from the open window. The expression on his face was inscrutable. “Would you?” he said. “That’s nice to know.” A wary expression came over Isabel’s face and after a minute he went on easily, “Coming to Washington might actually be a good idea. I’ll introduce you around—’Isabel MacCarthy, the portrait painter,’ that sort of thing.”

  His tone of voice was comical and Isabel relaxed. “And I can hear the answer already. “ ‘Isabel who?’ “

  “Then I’ll say, ‘Isabel MacCarthy. From New York. My mother engaged her on the recommendation of the Times art critic to do my portrait. We shall be having a party when it’s finished—you must come.’“

  “A party,” Isabel repeated blankly.

  “Certainly. You must know that Washington spends half its time looking for excuses to have parties. There are dinners and receptions every night of the week. I save a fortune on food by dining out. So I’ll introduce you around,” he repeated. “Then Mama will come up and hostess a big unveiling party for the portrait and voilá, you’re in business.”

  Isabel’s head was in a whirl. “Are you serious?”

  “Perfectly. There is, however, one condition.”

  “What is that?”

  “The portrait had better be good.”

  “Yes,” Isabel said faintly as she leaned back against the cushion. “It had better be, hadn’t it?”

  Chapter Four

  Isabel’s mind was a jumble of thoughts as she went to bed that evening. Could Leo have been serious? Did he really intend to launch her into Washington society?

  “The portrait had better be good,” he had said. Certainly, Isabel thought as she lay sleepless on her antique four-poster bed, she could not have found a better subject for her first commissioned portrait. Leo Sinclair had a face any artist would give his right arm to paint.

  He had extraordinary coloring, so fair and yet so vivid. She would paint him with the light striking his hair, she thought. The features of his face, so strong and yet so good-humored, reminded her of a man well-accustomed to having the world go his way. He was golden and royal, just like a lion, she thought. Isabel smiled to herself in the darkness. Of course. Leo the lion. And on that thought, she fell asleep.

  * * * *

  Leo was reading the newspaper at the breakfast table the following morning. He looked up as Isabel came in, and he lowered the paper a trifle. “Good morning,” he said.

  If Isabel had a fault, it was that she was too serious. She had grown up a solemn and responsible only child and had never learned the trick of light-hearted teasing. But now, looking at Leo as he sat in the sunny breakfast room, his eyes very blue in the morning light, she felt an unusual surge of gaiety.

  “Good mawnin’,” she replied demurely, and sat down at the table.

  Simon came in to ask what she wanted to eat and Leo said, “Miss MacCarthy is making fun of my accent, Simon.”

  “It’s not you that has the accent, Mr. Leo,” Simon replied.

  Isabel laughed. “Touché, Simon.”

  The black man asked her for her order and left the room. Being waited on by black servants made Isabel extremely uncomfortable. Simon hardly seemed like a humble Uncle Tom type; in fact, Isabel had heard him and Leo laughing and arguing in the kitchen after dinner last night. Yet there was just something a little pre—Civil War about it all.

  “I’m getting spoiled,” she said lightly. “I’m not used to servants at home.”

  He looked at her shrewdly. “Do you think Simon is our resident slave?”

  She flushed. “Of course not.”

  Leo stirred his coffee. “Would it surprise you to learn that Simon has one grandson at MIT and another at Stanford?”

  Isabel stared at her own coffee and then bravely looked up to meet his eyes. “Yes, it does surprise me,” she said honestly. “And it is my turn to beg your pardon for being insulting.”

  His mouth remained grave, but a slow smile crept into his eyes. For what seemed like a very long moment they just sat there looking at each other, the blond, blue-eyed man and the dark, intense-looking woman. When Mrs. Sinclair entered the room, the intangible something that had been floating in the air between them dissipated.

  “Good morning,” Leo’s mother said cheerfully.

  “Good morning, Mama,” said the senator.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Sinclair.” This time Isabel spoke the words in her own accent. Leo cast a swift, amused glance in her direction before he asked if he could pour his mother some coffee. Simon came in with Isabel’s breakfast and some melon and toast for Mrs. Sinclair.

  “I think we’ll head back to Washington tomorrow, Mama,” Leo said as his mother sipped her coffee. “Isabel is anxious to get to work. And so am I, for that matter.”

  “All right, dear,” Mrs. Sinclair said tranquilly. “Will you drive up in Isabel’s station wagon?”

  “Will that be all right with you, Isabel?” Leo asked.

  “Of course.”

  Mrs. Sinclair smiled at Isabel. “Leo told me last night about his idea of introducing you around in Washington. I must say, I think it is a splendid notion. And we’ll have a nice party to unveil the portrait.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Isabel stammered. “It’s very kind of you both to trouble yourselves over me.”

  “Nonsense. It’s no trouble at all. In fact, it’s time Leo had a party of his own. He’s been dining out for two years now.”

  “There’s nothing like being a Southern Democrat in Washington these days,” Leo said to Isabel. “The Democrats
wine and dine me because they need my vote to defeat the President’s programs in the Senate, and the Republicans wine and dine me because they need my vote to pass them.” He grinned. “As a result, I’m on the receiving end of a constant flow of invitations.”

  Isabel’s dark eyes sparkled a little. “And how do you usually vote?”

  He buttered a piece of toast. “Sometimes for, sometimes against. It depends on the particular piece of legislation.”

  “An independent man, in fact.”

  “I reckon.”

  “Isabel, dear,” Mrs. Sinclair said softly, “what kind of clothes do you have with you?”

  “Oh.” Isabel wrinkled her long, narrow, and elegant nose. “No dinner dresses, that’s for sure. I wasn’t expecting to make the social scene.”

  “Of course you weren’t. I really think that you should regard the Washington engagements as an investment, though. It may cost you a few dresses, but the benefits could be considerable. There are a lot of art patrons in Washington.”

  Isabel frowned thoughtfully. “True. I do have a couple of dresses home in New York. A friend of mine belongs to a very stuffy architectural firm and I always have to make a good impression at their dinners.” She looked abstractedly into space. “I could call Bob and have him send the dresses to Washington, I guess. They’d be a start.”

  There was a pause. “Why don’t you do that?” Mrs. Sinclair said then, very gently. Leo said nothing. “If you like, we can do some shopping this afternoon,” Leo’s mother added.

  Isabel, thanks to the check Mrs. Sinclair had sent her for one-half of her commission, had a very healthy bank balance at present. However, unless she got a few new commissions or made a few good sales, that money was going to have to last for a long time. Mrs. Sinclair was right. At this point, a few dresses would be a wise investment. But she had to make it very clear to the senator that the only reward he was going to ‘get for his efforts on her behalf was a portrait.

  “I’d like that,” she replied to Mrs. Sinclair. “But will your local stores take a check on a New York bank?”