"
"I did a drawing of you. I wanted to name it, but--I didn't know your
name."
"Ruby."
"Ruby, ah. I'm Don. You want to see it? I'll bring it tomorrow."
"Sure."
"O.K. How you feeling?"
"Better, now."
"Good." He walked to his usual bench and sat down. The sun beat on the
live oak trees and sage-green strings of Spanish moss while the birds
made happy sounds in front of Ruby. She had lost weight, he thought,
but it was hard to tell, the way she dressed. She was a beauty once. He
remembered his bloodshot eyes in the bathroom mirror. None of us
getting any younger. He would give her the drawing in the morning and
take off. It was time to leave Savannah, past time. Head for Portland
again. Look up Lorna.
Lorna. The Art Students League. It seemed like last week that she was
looking carefully into his eyes and shaking his hand, curious and
unafraid, different from him in many ways, but similar in that.
Painter's eyes, he thought, clear and unblinking. Couldn't tell how
good she was, though--eyes are one thing; talent is another. And hard
work is another.
She lived in a studio behind her parents' house on a mountain
road--what was it called?--the Glasco Turnpike. Her father, Lad
Charles, was a painter, a friendly guy who wore bow ties and was well
liked in town. Lorna was protected, highly educated, out of reach for
Don Delahanty.
He was blocky. She was slim. His neck was thick and turned with his
body; her neck was graceful and turned by itself.
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