Page 51 of Jane Deyre
“So, Miss Deyre, do you have any other talents? Do you sing and dance as well?”
I feel myself blush again. I can play the guitar and sing every song from theGreat American Songbook,but I can’t dance to save my life. I’m the kind of person who trips over their own feet. And I’ve never danced in the arms of a man. I wonder: what would it be like to dance with Mr. Rochester? Why fantasize when I know that will never happen?
“Papa,” breaks in Adele, “Jane is a really good drawer! Want to see what we made today?”
“Sure.”
Mortification races through me. I totally forgot about my Audrey Hepburn–inspired portrait. I bolt from the princess bed and tuck Adele in.
“Honey, it’s time to go to sleep. You can show him tomorrow.”Or the next day or the next day or the next day.
“Miss Deyre, I’d like to see what the two of you made now.”
Excitedly, Adele jumps out of the bed and skips over to the adjoining playroom. When she’s out of earshot, the commanding man next to me adds, “I won’t be here tomorrow. Or the next day or the next.”
Still standing, I process his words. “You’ll be away for the rest of the week?”Adele will be devastated, I add silently.She needs you. And so do I. That sense of abandonment I experienced as a child sweeps over me.
“I have personal business to take care of. I may be gone longer.”
“Oh.” The tiny word spills out of my mouth so meekly I hardly hear myself. My go-to word when I don’t know what else to say. I wonder: is he seeing someone? A woman? His wife, who may still be alive for all I know?
I remain tongue-tied, unable to probe. Adele returns quickly with our two drawings, one stacked on top of the other. With a proud smile, she hands her father, still sitting on the edge of the bed, the first drawing.
“This is the one I made! Do you like it?”
He studies the self-portrait and that dazzling dimpled smile blooms on his face. “Adele, this is terrific! It looks just like you. And are those your snails?”
Adele beams. “Yup! That’s Stripe and Speedy.”
Ward chuckles. “Speedy is a funny name for a snail.”
“He crawls much faster than Stripe. Tomorrow I’m going to have them do a race and see who gets to the finish line first.”
My gloom lifts for a split second. Given how slow the snails move, the race may last all day. As fast as it dissipated, the glum feeling returns. Ward won’t be here to see it.
He continues to examine the drawing. “Can I keep this?”
Adele’s smile widens, her tiny pearl-white teeth gleaming. “I made it for you, Papa. Now look at Jane’s.”
Ward sets his daughter’s drawing on the bed as she hands him mine. My stomach twists; my pulse quickens. His eyes stay on it. Except for a slight lift of his brows, his face doesn’t move a muscle. His expression is unreadable.
“It’s no big deal,” I mutter, breaking the awkward silence.
He continues to say nothing, his gaze still fixated on the picture of me in Audrey’s little black dress. Finally...
“Jane... I mean Miss Deyre, this is exceptional. You really do have artistic talent.”
Adele pipes in. “See, Papa, I told you Jane is a really good drawer.”
“Miss Deyre, you should hang this picture on your vision board.” He hands me the drawing. My hands shaky, I take it from him, but, reader, I would be lying if I didn’t say I was hoping he’d ask to keep it.
“What’s a vision board?” asks Adele.
“Something we can make together. But right now, it’s time for you to go to sleep.”
Mr. Rochester rises from the bed, his daughter’s self-portrait in tow. “I concur.”
“What does concur mean?” asks Adele.