“I could have been fired, you know.”
“I know. That’s why I made sure Dr. Greeley knows that you were an unwilling participant and that no disciplinary action is needed. You just need to be more careful next time, Doctor. There’s something about you that I find so . . . captivating.”
I stepped toward the bed to let him know in no uncertain terms that there wouldn’t be another kiss, but stopped as I felt the weight of the miniature in my pocket. Having prepared no statement to explain why I had possession of it, I simply pulled it out and handed it to him.
I watched his beautiful fingers slowly unwrap the linen handkerchief and take out the small portrait. “Where did you find this?” he asked, shadows moving behind his eyes.
“In your duffel bag. I was searching through it looking for more contact information for relatives in Charleston and I came across it.” I put my hands behind my back like a little girl about to be scolded. “I thought you might want to have it with you.”
He held it toward the light and I bent my head toward it to get a closer look.
“It’s uncanny, isn’t it?” he asked.
I pulled back, wondering if he saw what I saw. “What is?”
“How much you look like her.”
Our eyes met, and in the dim light his seemed more gold than green, like a chameleon. “Who is she?”
He studied the portrait again, tilting it in the light. “I’m not sure. It belonged to my grandfather, the great artist, and then to my father. And now it’s mine. All I know is what my father told me—that the woman was my grandfather’s great and true love. You can tell by the way he painted her, that there was true passion between the artist and his subject.”
“Your grandmother, then?”
His lips quirked upward. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. It was given to my father by an old friend of my grandfather’s after my grandfather’s death. The friend had been a fellow artist living in Cuba before the Spanish-American War, and he had possession of this portrait and my grandfather’s journal.” His eyes brightened. “The journal contains quite a few salacious details regarding my grandfather’s amorous activities while in Cuba—mostly revolving around a beautiful Cuban girl, Maria, who eventually became my grandmother. I never met her, but I’d like to believe she’s the woman in the portrait. Except . . .”
“Except?” I asked, leaning closer.
“Except that in my grandfather’s journal he mentions Maria’s beautiful brown eyes.”
I took a step back, having the sensation of a cold breath on my neck. “You said you’ve been drawing me since you first picked up a pencil. Is this who you meant?”
He was silent for a moment. “Yes. I found her intriguing, mesmerizing. Mysterious. I felt compelled to draw her. And when I first saw you . . .”
“You thought you’d found her,” I finished. I licked my dry lips, wondering if I should tell him more. Wondering how I could not. “There’s something else . . . ,” I started to say.
I was interrupted by a brief knock and then Nurse Hathaway stuck her head around the door. “Dr. Schuyler? The first-shift nurses will be up soon. I thought you might want to be downstairs before they awaken.”
I looked at her with sincere gratitude. “Thank you. You have no idea . . .”
“I think I do,” she said with a sparkle in her eyes. “You go on downstairs and try to get some sleep.”
I turned back to the bed. “Good night, Captain.”
“Good night, Doctor,” he said with a secret smile.
I headed toward the stairs, chill bumps erupting on my skin, as I felt again the unmistakable sensation of a cold breath of air running down my spine.
I scooped up my stack of change from the nickel thrower in the glass booth at Horn & Hardart Automat, her rubber-tipped fingers impatiently tapping the counter as she stared past me without any expression whatsoever. Hurrying over to the long wall of square glass compartments, I quickly selected my coffee, macaroni and cheese, cucumber salad, and tapioca pudding, sliding in my nickels and turning the chrome-plated knobs with porcelain centers. I waited briefly before each glass door opened and I pulled out my food.
After scanning the crowded room, I found Margie already seated at one of the highly lacquered tables, her feet and pocketbook on the only available chair. As I approached she slid her feet to the ground and removed her purse.
“Sorry,” she said. “It was the only way I could keep it from being taken.” She scowled up at a matronly woman who approached the chair with an expectant look. The woman stepped back in alarm, then continued her hunt for a chair.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “Dr. Greeley doesn’t want to let me out of his sight. I had to sneak away just to telephone you to set this up. And he wants me back in thirty minutes.”
She watched as I settled myself in the chair, dropping my pocketbook on the floor beside me. “Well, that’s an idea.”
“What’s that?” I asked, arranging my dishes and placing a napkin on my lap.