The Sculptress V.S. Alexander (ebooks that read to you .txt) 📖

leave her home.” Tom looked down at his child. “Charles and I were afterthoughts in her plan of life. Not that she’s cruel . . . she isn’t. I would call her ‘pragmatic,’ somewhat like Louisa. Constance and I were both looking for comfort.”

“And she for money,” Emma offered. “She’s a businesswoman and as independent as can be.”

“Perhaps. Like another woman I know . . . and love.”

A blush rose in Emma and the feeling shocked her. Why should it be so hard to accept such a confession from a man she knew so intimately? “I don’t know about that,” she said.

“After much consideration, she decided to give up Charles,” Tom continued. “It took months, but I’ve been granted formal adoption. We Americans are quite the heroes now. I think the French bureaucracy looked more favorably upon my application because of my role in the war. I have all the necessary papers—so Charles can stay.”

“So,” Emma said, pondering the question. “You’ve come home?”

“I thought coming home might be a possibility until I saw you. Is it Linton’s child?”

“No.” Emma struggled with the words. “Linton’s dead.”

Tom’s eyes narrowed, dazed by her revelation.

“Influenza . . . with complications. When I returned I didn’t see him for weeks, and when I found him it was too late.”

“I’m sorry. I know you cared for him.”

Emma nodded, unwilling to reveal more of her feelings.

Tom looked at her expectantly.

“You don’t know the father,” Emma said. “Someday, I’ll tell you.”

“You didn’t know Charles’s mother, either. The world is full of surprises.” The boy squirmed in Tom’s lap and began to cry. “Remember when I told you at the hospital that the trust between us was gone? I meant for both of us—not just me.” He stroked the boy’s head. “I think he’s hungry and soon to be cranky. We should be going.”

“How can I reach you?”

“At the Copley Plaza. Room 405. I hope you’ll telephone me.”

“I need time to think.”

Emma opened the French doors and Tom stepped inside, the boy clutching at his shirt.

Madame Bouchard sat in her chair, a newspaper across her lap. “I heard him fuss. He’s hungry.”

Emma imagined Charles suckling against her breast, feeding on her own milk.

“Did you reach an agreement?” Madame Bouchard asked.

“Of sorts,” Tom said.

Madame Bouchard took the child from Tom. “I am entrusting my son to you, Mrs. Swan. You must be certain he receives the finest care and attention. You are a strong woman. I know my son can depend on you.” She stopped and kissed the boy’s forehead. “I will miss him, but I know he will be happy here with his father.” She extended her hand to Emma. “Thank you for your hospitality. I doubt we will ever meet again—unless you allow me a future visit.”

Emma shook her hand and said nothing.

“Good-bye, Emma,” Tom said.

“Good-bye,” she said and led them to the door.

After it closed, Anne, breathless, raced out of the kitchen. Lazarus, equally fast, followed, snuffling at the door and wagging his tail in quick, jerky strokes.

“Who was that woman?” Anne asked, trying to control her excitement.

“One I doubt you will see anytime soon.”

“And the child?”

Emma trudged down the hall, her feet plodding as if weighted with lead.

Anne overtook her, brushing against Emma’s back.

Emma sat in her chair and stared into the courtyard. Only minutes before, Tom had been sitting on that table with his child.

Anne stood by the chair, awaiting an answer.

A thousand memories flashed through her mind before she said, “The story will have to wait for another time. I need to think . . . because I honestly don’t know what I’m going to do, and, right now, I don’t have the strength to struggle.”

* * *

When the telephone jangled two days later, Emma believed Tom was calling. She had spent a restless and miserable two nights thinking about him and his adopted son. A decision would not be easy. On one hand, she wanted Tom, and his son, to be happy. On the other, she was uncertain whether she loved him enough to ask him back into her life. On balance, she considered, perhaps the most important question to answer about their relationship was one of happiness and not of love. In that case, her decision would be easier.

Anne answered the phone, then handed the receiver to Emma. “It’s Mr. Hippel.”

Alex greeted her, his voice sounding the cheeriest of any person she had spoken to in weeks with the possible exception of her housekeeper.

“Finally . . . I’m leaving for New York today,” Alex said. “Everything is packed and already on its way. My friend and I are traveling by train this afternoon.”

“Congratulations,” Emma said. “I hope everything turns out well for you.”

There was silence on the other end, as if Alex was measuring his words. “I’m sorry about this whole affair with Linton,” he finally said. “I’m sorry he couldn’t love me. In the beginning, I really believed it was possible.”

“I know, Alex. We all loved Linton.”

“Yes, I’ll never forget him. It was never really any of my business—what happened between you—but you must believe me when I say that I’m sorry you and Linton couldn’t have shared more in life. You’re right—we all loved Linton.”

Silence captured the line again, until Alex’s voice returned to its chipper form. “I do have something for you.”

“A surprise?”

“One from Linton and me. It should arrive within the hour. Good-bye, Emma, and do call upon us if you’re in New York. If you begin sculpting again, let me know. Who knows, if I don’t have a gallery myself, I’m sure one of my friends will. I can’t stay too far removed from the art world.”

Emma said good-bye to Alex and for the next hour paced about the house, annoying Anne and Lazarus with her nervous anticipation. She opened the French doors to let in the fresh May air. The sun shone around puffy clouds and the warm spring breeze tickled her skin. After treading the same floor for too long, she walked about the house,