My next model was Payton Hayes. Earlier in the summer, after the appointment he’d set up for me with Gillian Donaldson, he’d phoned to see how the meeting went and then again several weeks later to see if anything had come of the whole episode. I was happy to inform him that the reporter had never followed through with a formal complaint. Another man might have suggested we get together for a drink, but I had never been that kind of men’s-night-out kind of guy and our relationship remained what it had been, cordial but not close. So when I’d asked him if he would pose for Saint Vincent de Paul, he’d seemed surprised and hesitated so long I believed he would refuse, but then he’d shrugged and said, not without amusement, “Why not?”
After Payton left, I took a break to stretch, regroup, and have some water. The Globe Elaine had brought with her was still on the chair where she had tossed it and I scanned the front page, flipping idly through the front section. One headline caught my eye: “Study shows war veterans report hearing problems.” The opening paragraph spoke of a study released by Johns Hopkins that reported on a number of war veterans returning home who were experiencing both distorted hearing and hearing loss. The story was continued further in the section, but before I could turn to it, I was interrupted by my next model and I set the paper aside. I had two more sittings that day and so stayed on late. It was after dark by the time I returned home, and later still—after I’d showered and eaten dinner—when I noticed the red message light blinking on the phone.
“Hi, Will.”
My reaction to Sophie’s voice was physical, a jolt that coursed through me.
“Just checking in to see how things are going. Is it still hot as hell there? We’ve had a nice breeze coming in off the water here today, and it’s actually been quite comfortable. Call me when you get a minute. Okay? Nothing important.”
I checked the time. Nine forty-five. Too late to return her call? Better to wait until morning? I replayed her message, listening hard to what she said, trying harder to hear what was left unsaid. The paper where she had written the number for her Maine rental was on the table next to the phone, and without giving myself time for second thoughts, I punched it in the keypad. I counted five rings and was about to hang up when Sophie answered.
“Hi,” I said. “It’s me.”
“Hi, you.” Her voice was soft.
“I know it’s late, but I just noticed the message on the machine. Hope I’m not waking you.”
“No. I was just sitting here with a book.”
“What are you reading?”
She laughed, and I realized how long it had been since I’d heard that, the sweet, joyful sound of her laugh. “You wouldn’t believe it.”
“Something for your research?” I thought of the books she had taken with her. The Plight of Our Murdered Children: Our Nation’s Shame.
“Hardly. Do you remember the cottage we rented for a week the first summer we were married?”
“By the lake in New Hampshire?”
“The very one.”
Memory took me. The cabin with its splintery wooden dock jutting out into the lake. Early-morning swims and afternoons spent paddling a canoe across Sunapee. Simple meals cooked in a kitchen outfitted with a mismatched collection of dishes and pans. Fresh-picked blueberries and soda crackers in a bath of the cream-clotted milk purchased from a local farmer. Grilled trout, sliced tomatoes, and a salad of fiddlehead ferns. The one bedroom with a lumpy mattress on the double bed. The living room with wicker chairs and faded chintz cushions that flanked a fieldstone fireplace and, on the opposite wall, two plain pine shelves nailed between studs. “By any chance are you holding a Reader’s Digest condensed book?”
She laughed again. “You got it,” she said. “They even smell the same. You know? Kind of musty. I swear, this is the only time I can stand that smell. In an odd way, it’s almost comforting.”
I thought about the old boat barn where I was working, the smell of tar and salt, wood and must. “So what’s the story you’re reading?”
“The Snow Goose, by Paul Gallico.”
“Sounds familiar. What’s it about?”
“Love and loneliness.”
I swallowed against a closed throat.
“The main character is a reclusive artist,” she said.
“Oh yeah? How does it end?”
“I don’t know, Will.” She paused then as if we were talking about a different story. “I haven’t reached the end yet.”
“Should I keep my fingers crossed then? For a happy ending?”
Instead of answering, she said, “I’m glad you called.”
Glad you called. I parsed the three words carefully, as if by doing so I could mine a deeper meaning. “Is everything okay up there?” I asked. “Are you okay?” Are you okay? Immediately I wanted to take back the question. How I had hated when people asked me that in the weeks after Lucy’s death. As if anything could ever be okay again.
“I’m doing okay. I’m making good progress. What about you? How’s your work going?”
“Pretty well. Today I started photo studies for the second panel. This afternoon I had Harold Weaver.”
“Harold from the hardware store?”
“The same. He’s posing for Simon. And Payton Hayes came in too.”
“Really? I didn’t know he was one of the models.”
“He seemed surprised when I asked him. With his Van Gogh beard he’s perfect for Vincent de Paul.”
“Yes. I can see that. Did he mention Ellen? I often wonder how she’s doing. We e-mailed a couple of times after they divorced, and she wrote last fall. A lovely letter expressing her sorrow for us and how wonderful Lucy had been with their boy. But then we fell out of touch.”
Lucy. The sound of her name opened wounds, as did anything I associated with our daughter. “Payton didn’t mention her. I got the feeling that’s a chapter of his life he has left behind. This morning Elaine Neal came in. She’s posing for Monica.”
“How was Elaine? I haven’t seen her in ages.”
“She was Elaine, you know, the walking history of the citizens of Port Fortune. Oh, you’ll appreciate this. She told me Valentina Walsh wants to do a series of poems about the project.”
Sophie chuckled. “In rhyming couplets, no doubt.”
“No doubt.” I settled back in the chair, struck by the ease of our conversation. “Elaine also told me an interesting story about Valentina.”
“You mean about her fiancé, the boy who drowned the day before their wedding?”
“You know about that?”
“Oh, Will,” she said. “Everyone in Port Fortune knows. It’s one of the local legends.”
“Apparently. That’s one of the odd things. I’ve been hearing a lot of local history from the people who come in to pose.”
“Like what?”
I told her Leon’s story about Louie Johns.
“Leon posed, too? I have to say that surprises me.”
“Why?” This was the easiest conversation we’d had in months.
“I would have expected it of Elaine Neal and even Harold Weaver, but Leon doesn’t seem the type.”
“Actually,” I said, “there’s only been one person who hasn’t agreed to pose.”
“Who’s that?”
“A boy. I don’t know his name, though he looks vaguely familiar. I’ve seen him a number of times around town. At the playground. Always alone. When I asked him, you’d think I was suggesting he commit a major crime. He couldn’t get away fast enough. The thing is, you should see him, Sophie. There’s something about him, something vulnerable and proud. He would be perfect for Saint Sebastian.”