“Look at the tree.”
“I’m looking at it.”
“Don’t say anything. Just look at it. Take as long as you want.” The brigadier did as he was told and looked at the tree. He looked at it long and hard until his eyes stung and he had to blink. “Now how does it make you feel?”
The brigadier was about to say “nervous” again when he felt a strange sensation in the middle of his chest. He looked at the tree and thought of his wife. It reminded him of the day they had taken their eight-year-old daughter to boarding school for the first time. There had been a big cedar tree beside the chapel, and it was full of children climbing the branches like monkeys. “It makes me feel sad,” the brigadier said gruffly.
“So, you see, the tree is more than a tree. It inspires you to feel things. I want to feel those things, too, when I look at your picture.”
“Oh dear, that’s a tough order.” He cleared the unfamiliar emotion away with a cough.
“I don’t care whether your painting is accurate or not, I care that you are moved by what you see and that you try to translate that feeling into the paint on your paper. Give it a go. Don’t worry about it. Don’t think too hard. Just dip your brush in the paint and let your feelings carry it onto the page.”
So, with his thoughts drawn back to his wife, the brigadier began to paint.
14.
Ah, isn’t it delightful to be back in this charming place?” said Veronica Leppley, sweeping into the hall with the enthusiasm of an actress returning to the stage after a long absence. She raised her angular face and closed her eyes, inhaling through dilated nostrils. “It smells just the same.”
“Lilies,” said Grace Delennor in her southern Virginia drawl, running her string of pearls through long fingers. “Hotels always have lilies.” It took a lot to impress Grace Delennor, who had stayed in the finest hotels in the world.
“Careful you don’t get the pollen on your cashmere. It’s a damn nuisance to get out,” warned Pat Pitman. “Sue McCain swears by baking soda, but I’m not convinced.” No one else in the group had ever met Sue McCain, but Pat brought her into every conversation as if she were an old friend they all had in common.
Grace moved away from the lilies and ran her eyes over the room. “I remember the wood paneling. It’s so British.”
“I can smell that, too,” said Veronica excitedly. “That and the lingering smoke from a winter of log fires. Isn’t it lovely, don’t you think?”
Grace shook her head and a single blond curl escaped her coiffure and bounced onto her forehead. “You must have a very acute sense of smell, Veronica. I can’t smell anything at all. Not even lilies.”
Jane Meister hadn’t said a word. She was quietly taking it all in, like a pigeon on a rooftop, watching everything going on about her. So much had changed since the last time she had been there, her world turned upside down by the shocking death of her husband, Henrik, at the age of eighty-six from a heart attack at the bridge table. She watched the two porters come in with their luggage and thought how young they were, with their whole lives ahead of them. She wondered what joys and sorrows lay in store.
At that moment, Marina walked into the hall to greet them. All four ladies recognized her at once.
“Well, hello there,” said Grace, extending her hand where a large diamond ring glittered on her bony finger.
“Welcome back,” Marina said, smiling broadly. “I’m so excited you’re here. Our artist-in-residence is already on the lawn giving a lesson.”
“Paul?” said Veronica. “He was lovely, wasn’t he? Such a gentleman. Didn’t you think so, Pat?”
“I’m afraid Paul wasn’t able to return this year. We have a new one,” Marina explained.
“I hope he’s young and handsome,” said Grace, narrowing her eyes. Pale blue, like topaz, they were all that remained of a once beautiful face, Botox and surgical lifts having destroyed what nature had so generously bestowed.
“Oh, he’s very handsome,” said Marina. “He’s from Argentina.”
“Oh, down there,” said Grace disparagingly.
“How glamorous,” enthused Veronica. “The Argentines are a beautiful people, don’t you think so, Pat?”
“Sue McCain once had a roaring affair with a polo player. We’re talking back in the fifties. She’s never got over it.”
“Hello, Mrs. Meister,” Marina said, remembering how easy she was to overlook, being so quiet and shy. Marina noticed how much she had aged in the last year. Out of all of them, she had had the most youthful skin. Now she looked like she had been rinsed in gray.