If it was espresso, if it was supposed to be espresso, she’d had better. The cup she held seemed to be filled with thin hot mud. She looked for a place to set it down, failed to spot one, and sighed, raising the cup to her lips again. To distract herself from the taste of it, she concentrated on the painting.

Egan Vale—Egan K. Vale, more precisely, according to his signature—had painted a waterfall. A set of waterfalls, in fact; clearly separated onto three canvases that hung one above the other up the wall toward the high ceiling of the gallery. Second floor, pot lights and skylights mingling overhead; most of the light coming from artificial sources on a day like this. She couldn’t claim to be anything like an art expert, but she had enough of a background to at least deem the work adequate, if unremarkable in terms of technique. But what intrigued her, what might be said to rescue the work, were the spaces between the canvases; the mind-silences they implied, which the mind, a slave to such gaps, was unable but to fill with the sounds and spray and everything missing, unpresentable in a static portrait. This was the genius of the piece. And it was why, in a building full of similar works through which she had strolled almost briskly, she stood rooted to this spot, prisoner of a cup of truly horrid coffee.

She was alone on the floor; she had come early, hoping to do her duty and slip away when the crowds came. Ordinarily, seeing Alison appear on the floor and spot her would have been her cue to leave. But suddenly she was in less of a hurry.

“Lowe,” Alison grinned as she approached. “I didn’t see you downstairs. Have you been here long?”

“Maybe half an hour,” Lowe fudged. “Mostly up here.”

Alison nodded. She smiled tightly, like a mischievous girl, and tucking her head between her shoulders, asked, “So… what do you think?”

“They’re wonderful, they really are,” Lowe said. This one is, at any rate.

“Do you really think so? You’re not just saying that…”

“No, Alison, no! You should be very proud. Very proud. In fact… I really like this one.”

“Benham’s Falls, #6? This one?”

“Mm-hmm,” Lowe nodded. “Is that what it’s called?”

“Yes… Benham’s Falls is in Victoria County, not far from where our cottage was. Egan’s always loved it there.” Alison sighed. Shook her head. “I really wish Daniel was here to see this.”

“He would have been proud,” Lowe said, taking Alison’s arm. “I’m sure.”

“You would have liked him.”

Lowe nodded. Eyes on the waterfall, she lifted the cup to her lips and managed to down the last of the evil hot muck, and set it back on the saucer with a triumphal clink.

Alison glanced at it. “Can I get you another?”

Oh, Christ no. “Oh, no. No, thank you, Alison. I need to move along anyway.”

“Are you sure? It’s no trouble,” Alison said, taking the cup.

“No, really. Thank you, though.”

Alison smiled and turned to leave. She had nearly made it to the stairs before Lowe heard herself asking, “Alison… do you think Egan would sell this piece?”

Alison turned with a laugh. “Oh, no. Not a chance. He nearly didn’t put it on show. Call it a vanity, but he sees that one in the AGO someday.” 

Lowe nodded, sighing softly. If Alison had just said yes, and then named some price that was stratospheric, Lowe would have felt better. Even she had her sensible limits. But being told that something was beyond her reach, not because she didn’t have enough money – because you could argue to yourself that there’s always more money – but because she wasn’t the right person, or rather institution, made her want the work all the more. Alison clearly didn’t understand this, as she hustled herself down the stairs with the empty cup and left Lowe alone with Benham’s Falls, #6.

Was it really tilted? Off-centre? She could have sworn it was. It couldn’t have been that she simply had to touch it; that it was forbidden to her, so she was going to take a small liberty. No, it had to be that the perfection of the piece as a whole was marred by the fact that the lowest canvas was tilted by maybe a degree or so. It was only natural that she would want to right it; anyone would. Surely that was all that was in her mind when the canvas dropped to the floor, splitting at the corner with a loud crack, and scattering flecks of dried acrylic across the carpet like spray from the waterfalls, liberated at last.

* * * * *

There were tears and lamentations that evening; not all of them were Lowe’s. Alison hid it pretty well, but it was clear she ached inside for her son. The embarrassment was troweled on for everyone in the gallery to see, like some sort of performance art. Her running mascara; the warped, flaccid canvas with the ugly gaps as if pieces of the real world had broken off and shown the base medium upon which God wrote Creation; the stares of the other gallery-goers, part of the performance themselves. And at the end of it all, Egan’s arrival as twilight faded, and the simple look of mourning, numb and disbelieving, as at the discovery of a loved lying dead, irretrievable. Benham’s Falls. Number Six.

He held the canvas, his eyes dampening and assessing the damage. For a moment he looked to Lowe like he was about the throw it, hard, against the wall, but instead the young man set it gently on the table, muttered about touching it up, asking what happened.

Lowe came forward.

* * * * *

He smoked. She wasn’t surprised. They sat in the office of the gallery, alone, and Lowe wondered what would happen to her. Could he name a price? Could he sue her for whatever he wanted? What was he going to do to her, having done what she had, however accidentally?

“It was an accident, I guess,” he said, finally.

“It was, Egan. I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” she told him, for what, the fortieth time? Even he pulled a sour face.

The cigarette danced in the air as he gestured, like some tiny skywriting airplane, leaving a smoky trail of gibberish. “I want to say it’s okay, it’s nothing. That’d be the big thing to do, right? But I…” He paused, took a draw on the cigarette. “I had plans for that piece. It might have been one of the top five I ever did.”

“You can ask me whatever price you want, I’ll pay I, I swear—”

“It’s not about the money, Mrs. Knowles,” he whined, like a teenager, instead of man approaching his thirties. “This was going to hang someplace, stand for me after I’m gone. Something that would be on display for… for generations, maybe. This was going to be one of the pieces the world knew me by. Do you understand now?”

She broke down and cried. “It was so beautiful,” she moaned. “I wanted it for myself. I would have bought it. I don’t know why I touched it. It was crooked; I… I just wanted it to be mine.” She looked up at him. “Is there anything I can do, anything I can pay, that’s going to make it right?”

He narrowed his eyes, looking at her. The cigarette hung at his fingertips, momentarily forgotten. He said, “Do you act?”

She was immediately offended. “No,” she snapped. “What I did was an accident, but you’re being deliberately—”

He raised his hands. “Don’t misunderstand me,” he hurried. “I just had an idea. Don’t be offended, but right now, you look perfect.”

Puzzlement. “Perfect for what?”

“I paint things besides landscapes,” he said.

She nodded, still having no idea what he was getting at.

“Since the spring I’ve been working on a piece tentatively called Sidereal. It features a few animals from the zodiac, and figures from the various constellations… the central figure is the moon, in a moment of sorrow, about to be chased from the sky by the approaching sun. I’ve been spinning my wheels on the details for weeks while I figure how I want to portray the moon.” He stubbed out the cigarette and rose. “You see, she’s supposed to be crouched at a pool, in tears over her own reflection,” he said, striking the pose. “While in the water, the reflection also shows the figure of the sun, and she’s looking up out of the scene, just past and over the shoulder of the viewer.”

Lowe nodded.

“Let me sketch you,” he said. “How your face looks. Please.”

“What? No. It’s too embarrassing.”

“Please. You said you wanted to make it up to me. This is how. This is something beyond money.”

She took a deep breath and nodded.

“I’ll be right back. Don’t dry your eyes or do anything. Stay just like that.” He left, and reappeared with a large sketch pad. Without a word he squatted and set to work.

Lowe swallowed, stretched her neck a little. Egan’s fingers flew, the charcoal in his hands scratching over the paper, blackening his thumb as he worked it. He flipped the page. Drew. Flipped. Drew another.

“Can I see?” she asked, finally.

With a little grin he turned the pad to face her.

It really did look like her. Somehow, it looked more real than anything she had ever seen in the mirror. As poorly as she looked, the portrait was gorgeous. “Oh,” she gasped.

“Can I use these for my work?”

“Yes,” she breathed, before she even had time to think.

“Thank you,” he said, and he stood, closing the pad, setting in on the desk. He paced for a moment, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. As he did so, he muttered, “I don’t suppose you’d consider working with me?”

“Working?”

He inhaled, held. Sat on the desk, one knee raised, hands cupped on it. He let the smoke out. “Posing, for the figure of the moon.”

“Posing? Oh, no.”

“No?”

“I couldn’t,” she said, an embarrassed little smile forcing its way onto her face.

He said, “The figures of the constellations I’ve had have been… typical. Figures of youth, promise. Pleasant, but forgettable. They’re not the stars – pardon the pun. The figure of the moon, though, must be mature. Full. Ripe. Clearly the queen of the night. She has to stand out, and be believable as a commanding presence.”

He certainly knew all the right words.

“I’m really flattered, but I couldn’t do it. I’d be too embarrassed.”

He folded his arms. “That’s a shame,” he said. “It really is. It was just an idea. I hope you’re not offended.”

“I’m not offended at all,” she said. “But I just think you ought to find someone better suited.”

“Like who?” he said. “It came to me that you’re the one I wanted in the painting. How could there be someone better suited?”

She scratched her head, trying to find some graceful way out.

He reached into his pocket, retrieving his business card holder. Between two fingers, like a cigarette, he held it out to her. It was, of course, a thing of beauty; ornate and unforgettable. He said, “Think it over. Give me a call on Thursday. If it’s no, it’s no. If you change your mind, we can talk about a time that’s good for you.”

She stared at the card. Disbelieving, she heard herself ask, “Would I have to be… uh…”

“Nude?”

“Yes… nude.”

He shrugged. “It helps. It’s preferable. But not necessarily, no. A light-coloured one-piece bathing suit works almost as well, except it forces the artist to fudge the shadows a little.”

She stared at the card, as if it could help her make up her mind. She tucked it in her pocket. “I’ll call you Thursday evening,” she promised. “If I… did change my mind… would we be okay about… what happened today?”

“Mrs. Knowles—”

“—Lowe, please.”

“Lowe. You’re going to be art,” he said, holding up the sketch pad. “I’m just offering you the chance to complete the picture. Even if you decline, we’re already past such questions. Okay?”

She sniffed, smiled, nodded. “Okay. I’m really sorry, Egan.”

“Never mind. Just call me Thursday. Let me know if my search is over.”

Walking back to her home that evening was a strange, heady experience.

* * * * *

Wednesday nights were for Mike, although they’d been a little spotty this summer. He was always a hard worker. In fact, it was three weeks since she’d seen him. Even this time, he sounded like he was going to be busy, until she insisted. She had something to ask him.

It was “their” place on Bloor Street, where they’d spent several of their dates while they were courting, twenty years before. In the early 90s, the place had changed name and ownership, but they’d agreed it would always be “their” place. She couldn’t help wondering if it hadn’t been an omen.

Mike was there, waiting, when she arrived. That was like him. She smiled at him, because even now, he could be so reassuring. “Hi, hon,” he said, pecking her on the cheek.

“It’s good to see you,” she said, sitting. “I was starting to think you were avoiding me.” She smiled, but she couldn’t help scolding.

“Just been busy. You know how it is.”

“You were always a busy boy,” she agreed. A waiter, who had apparently been hovering in anticipation of her arrival, appeared, and asked for her drink order. “Piña colada, please,” she said, puzzled that Mike hadn’t ordered for her.

“I knew it,” Mike commented.

“You should have just told him,” she said.

“Well, it’s been a while, Lowe. I thought you might have cultivated other tastes. It’s not my place.”

“You’re still my husband, Mike. You know what I like.”

He nodded, steepling his fingers, leaning his mouth into them.

“Is something wrong?”

“No,” he said. “No, nothing’s wrong. How’ve you been? Sorry I’ve been so scarce. I didn’t mean to be.”

“It’s okay. It’s good to see you.”

“You too.”

“The shop’s been busy lately,” she said. “There’s a rage for pink carnations this summer. Who knows why? Some TV heart throb, maybe. It’s nice seeing so many handsome young men in the shop every morning in their smart suits. A nice change from old ladies and bridesmaids.”

“I’m glad,” he said.

“When business is good, debts go down,” she said. If she’d had a tail, she would have wagged it. Good girl, Lowe, good girl.

“Good for you,” he said.

“Things are changing,” she told him. No, she assured him. The waiter arrived with her drink and menus. She waved the menu off. “I already know,” she grinned. “So do you, don’t you?” she asked Mike.

“I’d like a minute to decide,” Mike said. The waiter nodded and left.

Lowe frowned. “What’s wrong with the cordon bleu?”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, but I’d like something different.”

“Oh.” She picked up the menu and opened it, like the door to a room she’d rarely been, where there might be spiders or mice or something unfamiliar.

“Have the au jus if you like,” he told her. “Don’t feel you have to order something different just because I do.”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “I’m in a rut. It’ll be fun to bust out.”

He grunted; went back to the menu.

She glanced around, looking for inspiration. Finding it, she slapped the menu down in satisfaction. “Got it,” she chirped.

“Hm? What?””

“My order. I’m going to have the braised scallops.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“You going to have that?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think.”

“Ah. What, then?”

“I’m still deciding.”

“Sorry.” She sat in silence while Mike mulled it over, and when at last he set the menu down, there was the waiter again, like some handkerchief Mike was pulling out of his pocket, ready to take the order.

“I didn’t know you liked trout,” she said.

“Neither did I, but I’ve been trying new things lately.”

“Oh really?”

“I imagine you have too,” he prompted.

She shrugged, bobbed her head around. “Maybe. I might be.”

He nodded. “I guess that’s why you wanted to see me.”

She sighed. “Well, yes. I need to ask you something.”

“Go ahead, Lowe. It’s okay.”

“Well…” She smiled, looked around, laughed. “You’re going to think this is silly, I know, but I’ve been asked to pose for a painting.”

“Uh huh.”

She looked at him. He looked at her. He was waiting for more.

“Well,” she said, “you know, modeling. Posing. I mean, I’ll probably be in a bathing suit, and I haven’t said yes yet, but I wanted to make sure it was okay…”

He sat up. “Is that what this is about?”

“Well, yes. I didn’t want you finding out, and thinking something… untoward… was going on. Sooner or later things are going to get back to normal, and I we don’t want complications.”

“Back to normal? Lowe, we’re separated. It’s been almost a year now.”

“I know, Mike, but I’m changing. You can see that. I’m paying down my debts. You know, I thought about buying a very expensive painting from the very artist who’s asking me to model, but I didn’t!” No, I destroyed it, but that’s beside the point… She laughed. “But think of it, Mike. Me, who wouldn’t sing at Neil’s Christmas party just last year, now I’m thinking of doing this!”

Mike dropped his brow in his palm. “Lowe… I thought you were going to tell me…”

“Tell you what?”

“I don’t know. That you were seeing someone.”

“But we’re married.”

“We’re separated, Lowe. Separated. You don’t need my permission to model for an artist or… or anything else you want to do. We have our own lives.”

“What are you telling me?”

He looked away. Sighed. Didn’t seem to be able to summon that waiter to interrupt, not this time. “Lowe, I’m seeing somebody.”

She couldn’t swallow. “What do you mean, seeing—”

“You know what I mean.” He took her hand. “Lowe, I’m sorry. I wasn’t seeing her before, I swear to God. I met her in April. Her name’s Julie. Oh, don’t cry, Lowe. Please. I didn’t want to hurt you. But I’m moving on. It’s time for us both to move on.”

“How can you say that?” She coughed. “I’m forty-six years old, Mike.”

“You’re still a wonderful person. We just grew apart. It’s nobody’s fault. It just happens.”

“But I’ve changed so much for you.”

“The changes that you’ve made have been changes you needed to make, Lowe. For yourself. And for… and for whoever comes along in your life. After me.”

“You bastard.”

He hung his head.

She rose, and stumbled from the restaurant. He didn’t stop her.

* * * * *

Did it show that she’d spent the night crying? Probably not. Angela was a sympathetic soul, and she probably would have asked what was wrong. Instead, she just looked up from the flowers she was arranging, beamed “Hey, boss,” as she always did, and that was that. Lowe was relieved; one more potentially awkward moment out of the way. She just knew if Angela had so much as raised an eyebrow, she would have erupted into a weepy mess again. As it was, she managed to get through the day, aside from a few sharp moments where she took hurried refuge in the restroom. The day dragged, as few days she could remember ever had, but finally it ended, and in the gloom of a rolling thunderhead, she made her way home.

The condo had once been theirs. Hers and his. Now it was only hers. He’d walked away from it. She wondered if he’d want half how. He could have the whole thing. Someplace to bring Julie, and laugh at her, the two of them. She found when she focused on that, the tears didn’t come. Her anger became a roadblock, guarding her self-esteem. Good. She decided she would hone it.

The mirror told a different story. She sure looked the part of the moon that Egan had described. She remembered she owed him an answer.

Oh, God no. Not now. The last thing in the world I feel like doing is being stared at by a man.

But she couldn’t help thinking how authentic she looked. And she winced, remembering the bottom third of Benham’s Falls, #6 hitting the floor and breaking open.

When she realized that Mike had been going to be her excuse, she was ashamed. Angry. As if she owed him anything. As if she ever had. She’d been using Mike as an excuse to dodge life for years, she realized, even after he’d broken away from her.

She looked at the phone.

She busied herself with a stir-fry… put on the radio and listened to the news.

She looked at the phone. Picked it up. Set it down.

She ate. Washed the dishes. Looked at the phone.

She went into the bedroom and got changed. She came out wearing a nightgown with Egan’s card in her hand. She sat on the couch. Screwed up her courage. Dialed.

She heard, “Hi. You’ve reached Vale Studios. Name. Number. Rank isn’t necessary, but a message is. Over to you.” There was a piercing beep.

Lowe said, “Hi, Egan, it’s Lowe. I’ve thought it over, and… your search is over.”

“That’s great.”

“Oh, you’re there?”

“I don’t always pick up right away. I’m glad you changed your mind.”

She shifted on the couch. “What do I do now?”

“I do a most of my life modeling work at a studio in Halverton. Are you free any weekends soon?”

“Well, this weekend…”

“Okay. I’ll have to call Terry; this weekend is his, but I’m sure we can swap.”

“If it’s any trouble, I can—”

“No, no, it’s fine. Don’t worry. I’ll set it up. If I can’t, I’ll call you right away. I’ll try to get back to you in either case, but if you don’t hear from me, assume it’s on.”

“Okay.”

“Do you have a paper and pencil? I’ll give you directions.”

“Hold on,” she said, and fetched them. “Go ahead.”

He told her the major routes, the turns, the tricks. “It’s on the outskirts of Halverton, off a side road, a little ways into the woods. Naturally, we like it private. Don’t worry about things; we’ll be the only ones there. But feel free to bring a friend, if you like. Whatever it takes for you to be at ease.”

“That’s considerate,” she said. “Is there anything I need to bring?”

“Well, some models wear a housecoat between sessions; but it’s summer, so you probably won’t want to bother. A bathing suit, if you feel the need. That’s up to you. If you do, a light-coloured one is best; dark ones hide the figure and mask the shadows. And bring something showy you feel pretty in, because there’s a nice place in Saxon Meadows I’d like to take you in the evening to say thank you.”

“Alright… I’ll be there Saturday morning by ten, unless you tell me otherwise.”

“Good. I’m really looking forward to working with you.”

She smiled, giggled a little. “Me too. I’ve never done anything like this. It’s kind of exciting.”

“Art is always exciting. Good night, Lowe.”

“Good night.”

She smiled, sighing, and was stunned at how suddenly her gloom had lifted. It began to resettle upon her now, but still, the change, for just a few moments, had been startling.

Friday went quickly, and while Mike’s betrayal still gnawed at her, it didn’t sit on her chest like an elephant. When she got home, there was a message on her answering machine. It was from Egan, confirming for tomorrow. She called him up, got the answering machine again, and jabbered about getting his message, confirming she’d be there, and more about how exciting it was. This time he didn’t pick up, and she wondered if he were already up there.

Here we go, she thought.

* * * * *

The alarm went off at six, like any weekday, and she got up with a sense of purpose, unlike any she’d felt in years. She set the toaster to work while she picked out her outfits; ate the toast with cheese spread and the dawn sunlight as she listened to the news.

There was music in the shower. She realized it was her. Singing. She paused to listen, as though she were not the source. She surprised herself, when she really listened; she wished that Mike, or somebody—anybody—was there to hear.

She thought of the party.

Realized, sadly, that she ought to have sung.

How should I do my hair? she wondered. She glanced at the clock. There was probably time to set it, do it up nicely. But what would Egan want? What would he need? It was a nature scene, after all, wasn’t it? Casual. That was the way to go. She tied her hair up in a simple ponytail, something that could be kept, or released at a moment’s notice, let free to crown her shoulders, if he desired. She bit her lip and smiled, reminded of her high school days.

That was long ago, she thought, and turned glumly to find her bathing suit.

In the drawer, there it was; pink and bland. Kind of like me, she thought. She stepped into it. It still fit, thank God. She wandered up to the mirror and surveyed herself. She tugged one corner of her mouth tight in dissatisfaction. It wasn’t exactly what she’d call flattering, but it was demure and unrevealing, and its uncomplicated nature would probably meet Egan’s needs. She tipped her head, deciding it would have to do, and turned, pushing the strap off her shoulder.

She caught a look of herself as she did so, her hair draped over her bare shoulder like a vixen’s tail, and she was struck by the image. She smiled, wondering what Egan would think. Maybe she’d find out. Nothing wrong with that. With a shrug, she eased it off her other shoulder, down past her breasts to her belly.

Sidelong, she gazed at herself. Her hand smoothed over her stomach, a fingertip drawn spiraling into her navel. Time had left its signature on her body, but not, she decided, in broad strokes. Had Egan perceived that? Had he, with his artist’s eye, discerned that fact through her clothes when he decided she would be the figure of the moon? Her hands came to her breasts, gathering them, lifting them. She wondered, for the first time seriously, if she dared share as much with him.

And if this far, why not…?

The bathing suit pooled silently at her feet, and she stepped out of it. In the mirror, she ran a critical eye over the form she saw. Was this what Egan imagined? Was this the figure of the moon? Was this what the man who can captured Benham’s Falls so gloriously wanted next to immortalize in art?

She picked up the bathing suit and placed it on the bed beside the other clothes.

She pulled on a sheer top and a pair of smooth, cool shorts. Into her overnight bag, she set her make-up kit, her high heels, and a strapless gown she had not worn since Christmas.

She hung her bathrobe up in the closet.

She wondered if she’d be posing indoors, or out. What the sun might feel like. How the shadows Egan had spoken of would fall across her skin.

Folding her bathing suit neatly, she put it back in the drawer.

Lowe padded to the front door. Stepping into her sandals, she slung the strap of her overnight bag over her shoulder, and turned to the hallway mirror. She gazed upon the woman there, simple, plain, fresh; neither young nor old. What was the word Egan had used? Ripe?

She smiled. “Sing,” she told the face in the mirror. “Go on and sing.”

She stepped out into the sunshine, and shut the door.