He stays in his room and in his studio. Mother's death has returned him to a more introverted state."
"You'll have to consider professional help as soon as possible.,"
Professor Fuentes said.
"Yes. It's probably best for him if he is in a structured therapeutic environment. Maybe then I'll sell and go back to South Carolina."
"I hope not." Professor Fuentes said, his eyes full of sincerity, even a little fear that I might do what I said. He kept his eyes fixed on me.
I shook my head.
"I don't really know what I'm saying, what I'll be doing. I have a baby to think about first."
"Of course. You will find the strength. I'm sure. Please." he added, reaching for my hand, which was something he had never before done, "call on me for anything, anything at all."
"I will," I said. Even I was surprised at how sincerely and definitely that came out.
He patted my hand and stood,
"I must get back to the campus." "Thank you for coming. Professor."
"I think we know each other well enough by now that you can call me Miguel. Unless, of course, it makes you feel uncomfortable to do so." he quickly added. "No." I smiled. "Gracias, Miguel."
He laughed, then hugged me, brushing his lips against my cheek as he pulled back. I walked him to the door and watched him leave,
"Such a property," he said from the front steps.
"Soon. I'll have you back and show you around." I said.
"I'll hold you to that," he threatened playfully.
I waited until he started away in his car, then went upstairs to see how Linden was doing. I didn't find him in his suite. so I went to his studio. As usual the door was closed, only this time it was also locked. I knocked and called to him. When he didn't answer. I knocked harder and called louder. Finally, I heard him unlocking the door. He opened it slowly.
His hair was disheveled, his shirt opened, and some black paint was smeared on his chin. He had a brush in his hand, but it wasn't an artist's brush: it was a housepainter's.
"Are you all right. Linden?" I asked. "I haven't seen you all day."
"Yes," he said. He didn't step back as usual to permit me to enter.
"What are you doing with that?" I asked, nodding at the brush in his hand.
"I'm working," he said. "But--"
"I can't talk now I'll see you later," he said, and closed the door.
I heard him lock it quickly.
What was he doing? What sort of work of art was he creating with that? I wandered. I stood there thinking about it for a moment more, and then went to my suite to take a bath and try to relax. Tomorrow would be a dreadful day. I remembered all too vividly how hard it was for me at my father's funeral. Of course. I had been with him so much longer than I had been with my real mother, but the bond between her and me had developed so quickly and tightly, it was as if we had truly been together all my life.
After my bath I lay down and fell asleep. I hadn't realized just how tired emotional fatigue had made me. I slept until nearly seven, then got up and dressed quickly. If I didn't have dinner. Linden certainly wouldn't. I thought. As I was descending the stairs. I heard Jennings and our maids talking in the hallway. The moment they saw me, they stopped, and the maids went about their business. Jennings didn't look guilty as much as he looked troubled, I thought.
"What's wrong. Jennings?" I asked. "I can tell something is." He shook his head.
"Come with me." he said. "Please."
I followed him through the house and out the French doors
of the den. We went across the loggia and down the steps. He continued about a dozen feet or so along the pathway, then turned and nodded at the house.