Part 9 (2/2)

Isabelle walked into the studio. ”Thank you,” she said simply.

He looked up. ”Now,” he said, ”I think it's time for you to pose for me.”

IT MADE SENSE to stand naked in the studio room, her back to the open wall where the sun came in and ran down the length of her spine, the soft, rounded flesh below, the backs of her knees. She, who had never even stood naked alone in her own bathroom, welcomed the warmth, felt it center between her legs, at the base of her neck. She watched Isaac's strong brown eyes as they moved slowly and with a deepening understanding over her body, the softened angles of her collarbones, the slope of her waist rounding into her hips, the after-baby softness of her stomach, watched his hands as they moved across the stone, over the hours carving a curve that spiraled endlessly out into the world. The s.e.x, when it happened late in the afternoon, was something both wanted but neither needed, as long and slow as the sun moving outside the shutters of the cool, dark room. to stand naked in the studio room, her back to the open wall where the sun came in and ran down the length of her spine, the soft, rounded flesh below, the backs of her knees. She, who had never even stood naked alone in her own bathroom, welcomed the warmth, felt it center between her legs, at the base of her neck. She watched Isaac's strong brown eyes as they moved slowly and with a deepening understanding over her body, the softened angles of her collarbones, the slope of her waist rounding into her hips, the after-baby softness of her stomach, watched his hands as they moved across the stone, over the hours carving a curve that spiraled endlessly out into the world. The s.e.x, when it happened late in the afternoon, was something both wanted but neither needed, as long and slow as the sun moving outside the shutters of the cool, dark room.

When she left, a week later, he stood at the door, watching her put her things in the car. She looked up and saw him and they smiled, long and slow, at each other.

He walked up to her. ”For you,” he said, and handed her a smooth oval of white marble that slipped into the hollow of her hand.

SALMON, THICK THICK, DENSE DENSE against her teeth, a beach of smooth white beans underneath. Isabelle at six years old, throwing thin, flat rocks sideways, watching them sink and disappear while her father's floated across the surface, dipping then spinning up, like birds looking for food. The air cold and full of moisture on her face, even on a July morning, early, early, her mother and brothers still asleep, with just her and her father on the beach where she had found him, looking down the bay as if he could see what she couldn't at the other end. She had wanted to hold his hand, but her father wasn't like that, so she had picked up a rock and tried to throw it the way she had seen him do with her brothers. against her teeth, a beach of smooth white beans underneath. Isabelle at six years old, throwing thin, flat rocks sideways, watching them sink and disappear while her father's floated across the surface, dipping then spinning up, like birds looking for food. The air cold and full of moisture on her face, even on a July morning, early, early, her mother and brothers still asleep, with just her and her father on the beach where she had found him, looking down the bay as if he could see what she couldn't at the other end. She had wanted to hold his hand, but her father wasn't like that, so she had picked up a rock and tried to throw it the way she had seen him do with her brothers.

”You'll kill the fish that way,” he had said, as her rock plunged into the water like a lead ball, but his laugh wasn't rough.

”Show me?” she had asked, in a burst of bravery. And they had stayed on the beach while he showed her how to position the rock in her hand and snap her wrist and she threw rock after rock, until one of hers finally skipped, dancing on the water like a child.

”Time for breakfast?” her father had said then, and they had turned and walked back up to the cabin that waited where the rock beach met the big green trees behind.

It was only later, after her father was dead and she had children herself, that Isabelle realized that parents most often know when their children are stalling to hold off the end of something they want to hold on to. When she realized that there are many kinds of love and not all of them are obvious, that some wait, like presents in the back of a closet, until you are able to open them.

IT WAS THE CABIN Isabelle headed to after she left the desert. It wasn't a straight line-she stopped in Los Angeles and sold the family home; she spent time with each of her children as she moved her way north. The girls didn't understand. Grown now, one with a baby, the other in graduate school, they contemplated her from the cool remove of their new, adult selves. Isabelle headed to after she left the desert. It wasn't a straight line-she stopped in Los Angeles and sold the family home; she spent time with each of her children as she moved her way north. The girls didn't understand. Grown now, one with a baby, the other in graduate school, they contemplated her from the cool remove of their new, adult selves.

”Mom, this is crazy. No one's been to the cabin in years. It's probably a wreck. And what are you going to do there all by yourself?”

They stood facing her like twin pillars of sensibility. Isabelle thought that if Isaac were to make a sculpture of them right now, it would hold the shape of an admonis.h.i.+ng finger.

”Mom? What are you thinking?” Her daughters were looking at her expectantly.

”I'm thinking then you'll have to come and visit me.” Knowing they would not.

Isabelle reached her son's house later the next day, as dinnertime was approaching. Rory lived in a big house in Berkeley, full of college roommates, who cooked together and laughingly muscled a capacious living room chair into the dining room so she could have a place at the table. She sat, distinctly lower in height, as they placed generous servings on her plate, insisting on mothering her, because, they all teased, she looked like a girl herself, with that short hair and tan skin, like she had been out climbing trees and needed a good dinner to fatten her up. Isabelle sat back in her deep, cus.h.i.+oned chair and listened to their good-natured voices, feeling both distinctly at home and ready to move on to her own.

Isabelle told her son her plan after dinner, sitting in the same chair, now back in its proper place. Her son considered her for a long time, and then smiled.

”I've got summer break coming up,” he noted, ”you might need help with that roof.”

THE CABIN WAS worse than even she had thought. Windows broken, the roof barely protecting the squirrels that had set up lodging inside. The first thing she did, after spending a good week cleaning, was to build a shed for tools, but also for the squirrels, who eagerly vacated their former abode for one a little more private. The lines of the shed were hardly straight; Isabelle spent a lot of time asking questions at the local hardware store and trying to remember the lessons she had overheard her father teaching her brothers. But in the end, it had four walls, a roof, and a door that shut, with a shove, and the squirrels didn't seem like picky tenants in any case. worse than even she had thought. Windows broken, the roof barely protecting the squirrels that had set up lodging inside. The first thing she did, after spending a good week cleaning, was to build a shed for tools, but also for the squirrels, who eagerly vacated their former abode for one a little more private. The lines of the shed were hardly straight; Isabelle spent a lot of time asking questions at the local hardware store and trying to remember the lessons she had overheard her father teaching her brothers. But in the end, it had four walls, a roof, and a door that shut, with a shove, and the squirrels didn't seem like picky tenants in any case.

The cabin was nothing like the solid, square-cornered house she had shared with Edward and her children, but she discovered that was just fine, too. She cooked stews on the ancient white-enameled stove and baked brilliantly yellow cornbread in the oven. She found old gla.s.s, the kind that made the world outside appear as if it were underwater, and she fixed the broken windows. She went to the not-quite-antique stores that peppered the side of the road leading to the national park nearby, and found an old bed quilt, blue and white, with st.i.tches made by a hand she didn't know but trusted all the same, and laid it across the black metal bedstead. She discovered she liked the heft of an axe in her hand, the satisfying thud as it sunk into the log in front of her, the glistening white of the exposed wood as she stacked it on the pile.

On the night she got the phone line installed she called Rory down in California. She told him of her progress, made plans for his visit the next month.

”I think the roof will hold out until then.” She laughed.

”Where did you learn to do these things?” Rory sounded amused. ”I don't remember you fixing any windows at our house.”

”You also don't remember that I didn't know how to cook when I married your father, or drive a car, or get a colicky baby to sleep. People learn, Rory. I'd hate to think there is an age when we have to stop.”

On evenings when the air was warm, Isabelle would put on one of her father's old jazz records, open the door to the cabin, and walk down to the rocky beach. As the sun slid behind the top of the mountains, the sad, sensual sound of a trumpet, the low, deep voice of a woman in love, flowed out of the cabin like light from windows, and she would sit on a drift log, her toes playing among the stones, while the seals came up to the surface of the water and listened, their eyes dark and intelligent above the water line.

RORY CAME, as he had promised, when the days grew longer, clear and warm, stretching into evenings of abalone-blue sky. He was full of philosophy, his favorite cla.s.s of the previous term, reciting pa.s.sages of Plato and Kant as if they had just been written and he the first to find them.

Isabelle listened, watching the muscles move in her son's biceps and back as he ripped s.h.i.+ngles from the roof and threw them down to her, wondering where the soft, round arms of her baby boy had gone, marveling at the beauty of her son standing above her.

”Philosophy and roofing skills,” she called up to him. ”You'll make some girl very happy.”

”There is one,” he told her, a little embarra.s.sed. And then he had sat down on the edge of the roof and talked for an hour while Isabelle craned up at him and never once mentioned the crick in her neck because it was too precious to listen to her boy telling her with such beautiful naivete about being in love, when all he had known was parents who hadn't been by the time he was born.

”MOM?” Rory asked one evening, as they sat on the beach watching the seals. Concert time, Isabelle called it.

”Yes?”

”Would you ever try marijuana?”

Isabelle laughed. ”So this is what your college tuition is for?”

”Seriously, Mom. I mean, look at you. You're sure not the woman who married Dad. Have you thought about trying something really different?”

”I don't like to smoke.”

”Well, we could work around that.”

THE b.u.t.tER SIZZLED in the pan, the leaves emitting a soft, smoky scent, not unlike sage, Isabelle thought. As she watched, the leaves softened, releasing their oil into the b.u.t.ter, while on the other burner, a brick of chocolate melted into a molten, glistening liquid. in the pan, the leaves emitting a soft, smoky scent, not unlike sage, Isabelle thought. As she watched, the leaves softened, releasing their oil into the b.u.t.ter, while on the other burner, a brick of chocolate melted into a molten, glistening liquid.

”It's softer this way,” Rory explained, ”and you don't have to smoke.”

They added sugar and eggs, flour. ”Your father always liked brownies,” Isabelle commented with a small smile as they put the pan in the big white oven.

They sat on the front steps, the smell keeping them company, thickening, deep and dense with chocolate. When the brownies were done, they ate them, still hungry from their day's work, even after a dinner of chili and cornbread.

”What are you thinking, Mom?” asked Rory after a time, wiping melted chocolate from his upper lip.

But Isabelle was flying, a mother bunny in golden slippers, looking down at her children, her husband, her house. Her cabin of her own, its roof almost finished.

”ISABELLE,” said a voice at her side. Isabelle looked up. She was in a restaurant. Lillian's restaurant. Of course. It was not cooking-cla.s.s night-that had been silly of her-but then why was this young man, the sad one from the cooking cla.s.s, standing by her table with Lillian?

”Isabelle,” Lillian said gently. ”I'm sorry to interrupt your dinner. Tom happened by, and the tables are a bit crowded. I hoped you wouldn't mind if he shared yours with you.”

”Of course not,” Isabelle answered automatically, motioning to the seat across from her. Tom sat and Lillian left them to check on a nearby table.

Isabelle shook off her thoughts and looked down at the last few cannellini beans left on her plate. ”I'm afraid I am almost finished.”

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