Right of Thirst Read Online Free Page B

dead?”
    â€œLots of my subjects are dead. I use photographs.”
    â€œWhat do you do if they were unattractive?”
    She laughed.
    â€œThat can be awkward,” she said, “but the first rule of portraiture is kindness.”
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    Later, we walked down the steps and out onto the lawn leading to the water’s edge. She took off her heels, and held them in her hand. I’d had another glass of whiskey by then. The lights of the house cast our shadows out onto the grass, and her necklace—tiny triangles of linked stained glass, green and blue and dull orange, framed in pewter—sparkled as she turned her head.
    â€œThe grass feels good,” she said.
    â€œIt’s beautiful, isn’t it,” I said. “This place. It doesn’t seem real.”
    She thought for a moment, looking at the house behind us, shining like an ocean liner in the dark, with a quarter mile of private beach stretching in either direction.
    â€œFor people like us, it isn’t. It’s out of reach. Mrs. Spruance is a nice woman, but I only get to come because of the watercolorclass and because my father is a professor at the university. You get to come because she likes young doctors and she likes giving money to hospitals. We’re the decoration.”
    â€œNothing seems real tonight,” I said, looking at her.
    She smiled.
    â€œI’m just an art teacher,” she said. “Don’t be fooled.”
    â€œMaybe you’ll be a famous artist someday.”
    â€œI’m a woman,” she said, with a hint of bitterness. “And portraits are always out of style.”
    â€œYou could paint something else.”
    â€œI could,” she said. “But I like portraits. They matter to people. They mean more than other kinds of paintings.”
    We reached the dock.
    â€œOkay, then, it’s your turn,” she said, as we stepped out onto the wooden planks. “What do you want?”
    â€œIt’s nothing complicated. I want a better life than my parents had, I guess. And I want to make a contribution.”
    â€œTo what?”
    â€œTo cardiology if I can. A lot of specialties don’t do very much. But cardiologists actually make a difference.”
    â€œSo you’re ambitious.”
    â€œYes,” I said. “I guess I am. Maybe it sounds silly.”
    At the end of the dock, where I might have kissed her, she stopped suddenly and looked at her watch.
    â€œOh, no,” she said. “It’s late. I have to leave.” My heart sank, but then she turned to me.
    â€œYou’re easy to talk to, you know,” she continued. “I like you. You don’t sound silly. You sound honest and you have a real job. It’s refreshing. Plus you’re not bad-looking and you’re not too old. That’s always a plus.”
    With that, she reached for her purse, withdrew a card, and handed it to me.
    â€œHere’s my number,” she said. “Call me if you’d like to.”
    I held it up in the dim light. Rachel Adams, it read. Artist. Portraits and Private Classes.
    â€œAre you sure you have to go?”
    â€œI really do,” she said. “I’m sorry. I have to take my class home. None of them can drive at night.”
    She hesitated, her eyes on my face, and she must have seen how disappointed I was, because she stepped up and kissed me lightly on the cheek.
    â€œGood night,” she said, simply. “It was nice to meet you. I hope I’ll see you again.”
    I watched her walk away down the dock. As she stepped out on the grass, she turned, and gave me a friendly wave, her pale arm leaping out of the dark, and then she disappeared into the heavy shadows cast by the veranda on the lawn. But a few moments later I saw her again, slim and elegant on the well-lit stairs leading up to the veranda, and I realized that she’d put her heels back on.
    For her, that night can’t have meant very much at the