pleasure.”
“Killed?” Nora half-expected to hear that Violet had murdered George Olmstead yet had somehow escaped prosecution.
“It was an auto accident, forty years ago,” Garrison said. “He lost control on the Coast Highway driving home from Los
Angeles, went over the edge where, in those days, there wasn’t a guardrail. The embankment was sixty or eighty feet high, very
steep, and George’s car-a large black Packard- rolled over several times on the way down to the rocks below. Violet inherited
everything because, though she had initiated divorce proceedings against him, George had not gotten around to changing his will.”
Travis said, “So George Olmstead not only betrayed Violet but, in dying,UGG Classic Crochet, left her with no target for her anger. So she directed
that anger at the world in general.”
“And at me in particular,” Nora said.
That same afternoon, Nora told Travis about her painting. She had not mentioned her artistic pursuits before, and he had not been
in her bedroom to see her easel, supply cabinet, and drawing board. She was not sure why she had kept this aspect of her life a
secret from him. She had mentioned an interest in art, which was why they had gone to galleries and museums, but Perhaps she had
never spoken of her own work because she was afraid that, On seeing her canvases, he would be unimpressed.
What if he felt that she had no real talent?
Aside from the escape provided by books, the thing that kept Nora going
through many grim, lonely years was her painting. She believed that she was good,womens mbt, perhaps very good, though she was too shy
and too vulnerable to voice that conviction to anyone. What if she was wrong? What if she had no talent and had been merely
filling time? Her art was the primary medium by which she defined herself. She had little else with which to sustain even her thin
and shaky self-image, so she desperately needed to believe in her talent. Travis’s opinion meant more to her than she could say,
and if his reaction to her painting was negative, she would be devastated.
But after leaving Garrison Dilworth’s office, Nora knew that the time had come to take the risk. The truth about Violet Devon
had been a key that had unlocked Nora’s emotional prison. She would need a long time to move from her cell, down the long hall
to the outside world, but the journey would inevitably continue. Therefore, she would have to open herself to all the experiences
that her new life provided,black ugg, including the awful possibility of rejection and severe disappointment. Without risk, there was no hope
of gain.
Back at the house, she considered taking Travis upstairs to have a look at a half dozen of her most recent paintings. But the idea
of having a man in her bedroom, even with the most innocent intentions, was too unsettling. Garrison Dilworth’s revelations freed
her, yes, and her world was rapidly broadening, but she was not yet that free. Instead, she insisted that Travis and Einstein sit on
one of the big sofas in the furniture-stuffed living room, where she would bring some of her canvases for viewing. She turned on
all the lights, drew the drapes away from the windows, and said, “I’ll be right back.”
But upstairs she dithered over the ten paintings in her bedroom, unable to decide which two she should take to him first. Finally
she settled on four pieces, though it was a bit awkward carrying that many at once. Halfway down the stairs, she halted, trembling,
and decided to take the paintings back and select others. But she retreated only four steps before she realized that she could spend
the entire day in vacillation. Reminding herself that nothing could be gained without risk, she took a deep breath and went quickly
downstairs with the four paintings that she had originally chosen.
Travis liked them. More than liked them. He raved about them. “My God, Nora, this is no hobby painting. This is the real thing.
This is art.”
She propped the paintings on four chairs, and he was not content to study them from the sofa. He got up for a closer look, moved
from one canvas to another and back again.
“You’re a superb photorealist,” he said. “Okay, so I’m no art critic, but by God you’re as skilled as Wyeth. But this other
thing . . . this eerie quality in two of these . .
His compliments had left her blushing furiously, and she had to swallow hard to find her voice. “A touch of surrealism.”
She had brought two landscapes and two still lifes. One of each was, indeed, strictly a photorealist work. But the other two were
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