“Oh, they're not my birds. They're free. No one owns these footloose feathers.”
At that moment, she seemed to him more lonely than reclusive. “I've seen you out here before, feeding them.” He allowed her a closer look at the work. “It calls for you to be in it,” he added and smiled. “The final drawing… perhaps a painting to follow… you should be in it alongside the birds, really.”
“But if I sit for you, and you give me your work free of charge… what's in it for you?”
“I learn my craft. It's a… you know… a challenge.”
They exchanged first names.
Wasting no time, Giles had then speed-sketched her into the work in progress, having earlier left a space for her likeness. She fit perfectly, looking like St. Francis amid the birds. Louisa loved it, taking it to her breast and asking for three more pictures just of the park and the birds.
“When and where can I bring the other sketches to you?”
She pointed to her building. “One-oh-six is the number.”
He had watched her walk off, the November wind tugging at her coattails.
“She's the perfect choice, isn't she?” he asked the birds.
HE had choked on the stuffy air in her hallway. When he'd knocked, she was careful to call through the door, asking who it might be-as if she had frequent visitors-a pretense born of pride and embarrassment, Giles imagined.
“It's Giles… I have your finished drawings.”
She cracked the door, and seeing him, she threw it open. “You can't possibly be finished already!”
“But I am. They were easy.” He held out the charcoal sketches. “They weren't hard, really.”
She looked at each one, praising each in turn. “Let me pay you something for these. They're beautiful.” She saw that he stared at her. “Oh, where are my manners? Come in… come in! It's become too cold out, hasn't it? I'll get you something that will warm your giblet. You must be hungry, too. It's so wonderful to be able to create like you do. It must be so fulfilling and rewarding. Such a gift. Such talent. Were you born with it? Of course, you were, but you must have had to cultivate it as well. Like the seed into the flower, to see it flourish, you must see it nourished, as they say. I once tried my hand at watercolors… once… once was enough.” She twittered instead of laughing. “Everyone in the class was so good, and my stuff… it was… well, pitiful.”
Giles gave the appearance of caring to listen to her non stop chatter. It'd been as if a floodgate were opened. Once inside, with the door closed, Giles heard a man's voice through the thin wall say, “Plumber, ma'am! You called for a plumber?”
It registered with Giles that he mustn't give Louisa a chance to scream out.
Giles had grown somewhat fond of the bird lady. While not decrepit or elderly, Louisa seemed far older than Giles's twenty-two years-perhaps by some fifteen or twenty years-he thought. She was neither pretty nor ugly, only plain-like her choice of clothes, her face a featureless sky, no life in her eyes until and unless she were speaking of or to her birds.
She had turned her back to him and gone straight into the kitchen. Once there, she poured him a drink-Jack Daniel's, softening it with water from an Ice Mountain bottle. She immediately began building him the sandwich, and offered him breadsticks while he waited. In between she said, “Take your hat and gloves off. Stay awhile.”
He patiently waited, biding his time, alert to the right moment when it came. The creation of the sandwich finished, and it handed to him, Giles took a couple of bites and swallowed down some whiskey.
She went back to the sketches she'd laid on the kitchen table, glancing at them with admiration. “The sketches… I'm going to frame each and place each one up on the walls. Now you must take something for your troubles, Giles. I insist.”
She gazed to her purse on the table, placed the sketches down and lifted the purse. Rifling through for cash, she turned toward him.
“I don't want your money, Louisa.” His tone made her look up from the purse and into his eyes. From a darkened corner, her cat growled and hissed at him, and she said, “Now, Archer, bad cat! You stop that now. This is our guest-Giles. You remember, I told you all about Giles, and that he might be coming by to visit with us.”
“If you really want to help me, you'll sit for me,” he said. “But please, I won't take your money.”
“I can do that, sit. In fact, it's one of the best things I do, indeed.” Lightly laughing at her own little joke, Louisa again lifted the sketches, studying them. Then she said, “Giles, you didn't sign the sketches.”
“Forget about the sketches for the moment and concentrate on me,” he said, staring into her eyes. She saw something she could not read flash across those cobalt-blue eyes. He still hadn't taken off his gloves or his hat, only the overcoat.
“Giles, why don't you take off your hat and those gloves?”
“I'm still cold,” he repeated.
“Jack Daniel's'll help with that.” She poured him a second tumbler full and went to the fridge for the water.
“I want you to sit for me now, Louisa,” he told her as she placed the glass in his hands.
“Why didn't you sign the sketches, Giles? They're beautiful. You must see that. You, young man, are an artist of extraordinary talent.”
“Careful of that word. Talent usually means the end result of years of preparation.” He put aside his barely tasted sandwich. “In the living room, on the floor, Louisa. I want to sketch you lying on the floor.”
“Lying on the floor? Really? Now?”
“In the supine position.”
“You mean lounging on pillows?”
“Yes, with your clothes off.”
“Nude! I hardly know you, Giles.”
“I only want to draw you, Louisa. I have no intention of taking advantage of you or to lose the mutual respect and admiration we have. Besides, our age difference alone is… is…“Is what?” she sounded scolding.
“Ahhh… incompatible.”
She shook her head, almost laughed but frowned instead. “Incompatible, indeed.”
“I mean it could only lead to no good, and I wouldn't dare jeopardize our newfound friendship.”
In the back of his head, a voice told him to get on with it, to drop all pretense and take what he wanted and swiftly.
She smiled. “You're right, of course, but you have a lot to learn about how to flatter a girl… ahhh… woman.” She blushed at the underlying suggestiveness, and that they were dancing around such a subject at all. “I suggest you read Men Are from-”
“Mars… Women… from Venus. I have, but it hasn't helped.” He laughed on cue.
Having made him laugh struck her as amazing, and he saw that, for a millisecond, she appeared to fight back a heart-wrenching tear. A quiet coyness filtered into her voice. “I'm not sure if I should be pleased about this age difference thing, or if I should take offense.”
“Calmly now, Louisa, go into the other room, get comfortable with the idea and the pillows and the floor and the nudity. You will be beautiful when I am done with you, I promise. I promise.”
Louisa only stared in response. “I–I-I couldn't… not without weeks of workouts… you know, the cellulite, flab!”
“What?”
“I just couldn't… really, Giles. Not in a million years.” She shivered from within. “We hardly… I hardly know you. It's out of the question, and I think…”
“How much more do we need to know about one another? This is just false modesty, Louisa.”
“No… no… nothing false about it. I have plenty to be modest about.”
“But you're beautiful.”
She dropped her gaze and shook her head. “I know better. All life has taught me different.”
“Just do it… like the ads say, just do it, Louisa.” His impatience filtered through.
“I really can't see myself doing that, Giles.”
“But that's precisely how you do it. You psych up for it, mentally, picturing yourself there”-he pointed to her living room floor-”lying nude there for me to paint. Look, I've gone to the trouble to bring all my tools and supplies for the job. You really must, and I insist.”