Bridge of Sighs

rich, but I’ve got a little saved. I saved it with you in mind, actually, in case
you
ever changed. If you really don’t want anything from me, or want what I don’t have or can’t give you, then what can I say?”
    Noonan studied his father and swallowed the impulse to say something nasty. If he could piss him off, make him really angry, then maybe some of that pure old hatred could be coaxed back. What prevented this was the realization that though his father was offering far less than he was owed, and much, much less than what his mother was, it might just be the best deal he’d ever get from him. Trying to drive a harder bargain would be pointless. “How about a little advice?” he heard himself ask.
    This elicited a grin. “Hey, what kind of father doesn’t have advice?”
    Was this irony? Noonan wondered. Mr. Berg had taught them the three different types: dramatic, verbal and situational. This, unless he misremembered, was verbal, where the speaker says or implies something different from, maybe even the opposite of, what he means. Was his father admitting that even he didn’t think much of the job he’d done so far?
    Noonan took a deep breath, realizing that what he’d told Sarah earlier was no longer precisely true. He didn’t hate his father all the time. He meant to. He had once and surely would again. But what he said was “There’s a girl. Two of them, actually.”
    His father nodded, waiting for the rest.

PASSION CURVE
     
    N OONAN SELDOM MADE predictions about paintings, but when he did he was usually right. Sarah, he’d told Hugh, would paint herself. He worked feverishly in the studio for the rest of the day, quitting only when darkness fell. After taking a shower he discovered, much to his surprise, that he was famished, and not just for food. For about two seconds he considered dropping by Evangeline’s gallery but decided against it. Too bad Hugh wasn’t still in town, he thought next, then thought better of that as well.
    Anne Brettany couldn’t have looked more surprised to see who was pounding on her studio door.
    “Let me take you to dinner,” he said. “Anywhere but Harry’s.”
    They went to a small neighborhood place in Cannaregio, where Noonan’s appetite was better than it had been in months. Anne ate like a bird and couldn’t stop staring at him.
    “What?” he finally said.
    “You don’t
look
insane,” she remarked.
    Had Hugh told her about the portrait, or was this a more general reference to the gossip circulating about him? “You could do me a large favor,” he told her over espresso. “I’m not looking forward to this flight to New York.”
    Anne also admitted she was a wreck whenever she flew, and they decided to have Hugh book them on the same flight so they could at least hold each other’s hand.
    By the time Noonan returned to the studio it was late enough that he had to consider his options. He could take advantage of the agitation and excitement that always accompanied a new canvas and work through the night, thereby avoiding the risk of a night terror. On the other hand, he’d drunk a bottle of wine and he knew from experience that the best time to quit work was when he was going good, when he knew exactly what his next brushstroke would be and why. With some trepidation he decided to take a chance and get the sleep he knew he needed. He’d taken an even bigger chance the night before, allowing Lichtner to bunk down among his paintings. That maybe he’d luck out two nights in a row was his last conscious thought before exhaustion claimed him.
    He awoke with the sun in his face, wondering how many hours he’d lost to blessed, dreamless sleep. Standing in his bathrobe, he examined the two paintings resting side by side. Yesterday, without giving it a moment’s thought, he’d made his most important artistic decision in a long time by setting up that spare easel. He could’ve removed his father from the first one, turned the miserable prick’s face to the wall and just painted Sarah. Instead he’d allowed them to coexist, and he now began to see the wisdom of that impulse. They wouldn’t be companion pieces by any stretch, but they were strangely codependent. The light spilling from Sarah’s window had no choice but to fall on his father and the Bridge of Sighs behind him. Though one painting was nearly finished, the other just begun, they would parallel each other for a while.
    That, it occurred to Noonan, was how life had been