Heartsong (Logan 2)

"Kenneth, my stomach is growling," I moaned. "What?"

"I've been pleading for the last half hour. Aren't you hungry?" I cried.

I was still basically in the same position he had originally placed me. It seemed that whatever he was doing was never good enough to please him. He would rip off pages and crumble them with frustration and then start anew, pacing, studying, coming up to me and adjusting my shoulders or my head, changing a strand of hair, finding something to do with the most minute detail of my being before making a new attempt to satisfy his artistic appetite. Meanwhile, my lowly, earthly appetite whined and groaned.

"Oh. Yes. Right. Is it lunch time already? It seems like we just started."

"We've been at it for nearly three hour

s, Kenneth. Even to a fanatic like you, that's more than just starting, isn't it?" I asked.

He laughed and threw up his hands.

"Sorry. Okay, you go fix us some lunch. I'll be right there," he promised.

"I'm not going to call you, Kenneth. This time, I'm going to start eating without you if you don't come," I warned.

"A model is not supposed to nag the artist," he decreed. "She has to remain subtle and discreet, very unobtrusive, or the artist will lose the vision and have to start all over again," he threatened.

"That's blackmail," I told him as I pulled on my sweatshirt.

"No, it's basic artistic survival," he replied.

I paused before leaving the studio and looked at him sharply. It caught his attention.

"What?" he asked.

"You're not above taking advantage of your art to escape from things," I accused. He started to grimace and then turned it into a smile.

"Looks like the model is beginning to develop some vision herself," he said nodding. "Go make lunch. I'll be right in. That's an artistic promise."

I laughed and hurried out. Whenever he smiled at me and spoke warmly to me, it changed the face of the world. Every day had become more interesting and a little more exciting for me since Kenneth and I had had our heart-to-heart discussion, confessing more to each other, finally being honest with each other. It was as if another barrier had crumbled between us. Realizing that Kenneth could not be my father changed everything. Something different, some new feeling was emerging from the deepest places in my secret, put-away heart. Even when I was away from him, home from work, helping Aunt Sara in the kitchen, playing with May, I couldn't stop thinking of Kenneth. I would go over the things he said to me that day, the way he'd looked at me; it all took on new meaning. I even imagined that the long, slow looks he'd given me while we were working were looks not of an artist in love with his art, but of a man in love with his model.

Cary lost patience with me a number of times because I wasn't listening or paying attention to him. I resembled someone going in and out of a coma, drifting, walking about with a soft grin on my face, nodding at sounds, but never really hearing anything but the whispering voices emerging from my own tingling heart. Through the fog of it all I knew that I was disappointing Cary, letting him down, but I just couldn't help wanting something more from Kenneth, something I was afraid Cary could never give me.

No matter how I tried, I couldn't stop

fantasizing that Kenneth was falling in love with me.

In the library, I read stories about famous artists who had developed passionate affairs with their models, affairs of love that drove them mad with desire. Age didn't matter when it came to such strong emotion. It would be the same between Kenneth and me, I thought. After all, we had so much in common, and that came from his own lips. He had said we were both like orphans, rejecting and rejected by family. Most important, he had been in love with Mommy, and now, he surely saw something of her in me, enough of her to stir his suffering heart. It went deeper, I told myself, and he not only saw Mommy in me, but something more. He had said that, too. He had told me I was twice the woman. Could that mean he cared for me twice as much as he'd cared for Mommy?

Perhaps because of these new feelings, as well as my growing understanding of the artistic process, I was even more anxious to go to Kenneth's studio each day. I even offered to work overtime at no pay and come Sunday as well as Saturday if he wanted.

"We'll see," he said. "An artist can't rush things, can't overdo them either. I'm not complaining, you understand. I would never complain about it, but the work is very intense, exhausting. When you leave here, I usually crash."

"And don't even eat the supper I prepared for you, right?"

He shrugged.

"I know you don't because when I return the next day, I can see how much food is still there. I should stay longer, eat dinner with you," I suggested hopefully.

"Don't they expect you home to help?"

"If I don't eat there, I don't have to earn my keep," I told him.

"We'll see," he said, always the cautious one.

Twice during the week, however, I got him to permit me to serve him dinner and eat with him. I pretended that this was our house and Kenneth and I had long discussions over the meal I'd so lovingly prepared. One night our discussion turned to family, and, as always, our words became heated.