8 — Just a Quick Meeting
October 8, 1938
"Miss Charpentier?"
Nola winced at the way the fellow pronounced her surname, but all the same she stood and pulled together a semblance of a smile.
"Mr. Treewell's free to see you now," the fellow went on, and ushered Nola through a narrow doorway.
The space she stepped into was not at all what she'd expected. Rather than the wide, bright studios some of her artist acquaintances favored, this was a small, dull, office-like room. There was a tremendous desk dominating one side, so huge that it nearly distracted Nola entirely from spotting the man seated behind it.
He caught her attention with a solid clearing of the throat.
"Afternoon," Nola chirped.
"Good afternoon," the artist smiled, and he stood as Nola approached the desk.
He offered his left hand, his only hand, to shake, and Nola fought mightily not to stare at the other sleeve of his jacket. It hung loose, not even pinned up as most other old soldiers seemed to handle it.
John James Treewell caught her looking, since she missed his hand entirely on her attempt to shake. He chuckled, patting her hand that had come to rest on the desk.
"Relic of the war, Miss. Relic of the war. Won't you have a seat?"
"Oh. Of course. I am sorry."
"Think nothing of it. I say, you're from this country's southland, correct?"
"Louisiana," Nola said, still staring at the sleeve.
Really, it seemed in poor taste not to pin it up.
"Ah. I've never been there. I have been down around Mississippi, and once to Texas. I have heard lovely things about Louisiana, however."
"We like it," Nola shrugged, finally tearing her gaze away to the face of the artist.
"I am sorry if I've discomfited you," Treewell nodded. "I don't usually wear a normal jacket in company, but all of my custom pieces are being laundered."
"Oh. Oh, that's perfectly all right. I just..."
"I never have liked pinning back the empty sleeve. Feels odd. I usually wear a jacket made without that sleeve, but as I mentioned..."
"Laundry. Yes."
Treewell stood, crossing to a small sideboard, and with a surprising amount of speed considering his misbalance, began to make himself a cocktail.
"Will you have a drink, Miss Charpentier?" he burred, and his Francophonic tones were pleasantly ideal.
"Oh, a straight whisky if you have it."
"I have."
Presently, a very neat glass of whisky sat on the desk before Nola, and Treewell returned to his own seat, cocktail in hand.
"No doubt you're wondering," he said, pausing for a sip, "why we've met in here, instead of a more traditional studio."
"Well, I had thought the light in here doesn't seem..."
"Oh, I assure you, I will be painting your portrait in a more appropriate light. However, as this is simply a preliminary meeting, I've chosen to rest my eyes. They are not weak. I simply like to rest them."
"I see," Nola said, and bolted down half her drink.
"You're a strong drinker, I see. Reminds me of my father. He likes a good drink too, now and then, though at his age, the doctor discourages it."
"My whole family are drinkers, bar my older brother. He prefers to keep his mind unaltered."
"A clever man," Treewell chuckled.
"Mr. Treewell, your requesting to paint my portrait is certainly an honor, but I must ask..."
Nola's words trailed off into a series of polite nods. Treewell smiled.
"Miss Charpentier, I can assure you, this little deprivation is no deprivation at all. In fact, my left hand has always been the stronger and more steady. Why, I've painted steadily since the war... Well, since 1920, with no complaint."
"I see. Well, as I said, I'm honored that you wish to paint my portrait, though a little confused as to why. I'm not quite anyone important yet."
"On the contrary, Miss Charpentier, you are becoming quite important quite rapidly. I've an eye for spotting those individuals who are going to make a real mark. You will, I believe, soon be one of the most important writers in the United States. Perhaps in the world.
"I enjoy preserving, in the rather old-fashioned style of painted portraits, the images of highly important people before the ultimate peak of their fame. Anyone can take a photograph, of course. I enjoy taking a bit more time."
The door of the office opened just then, and the fellow who had shown Nola in peered through.
"Father? Everyone's back. Stepmother says you have a supper to get ready for?"
"Ah, of course. Well, Miss Charpentier, afraid I must cut our meeting short."
"It's perfectly all right, Mr. Treewell. You have the number of my hotel..."
"Indeed I do. Come along, I'll see you out."
Together they went out from the office, back through into the little front room. The fellow Nola had taken for an assistant, Mr. Treewell's son, smiled awkwardly at her as they passed through the door.
The front room was a flurry of activity now. A pair of youngish women had arrived and were trying to wrangle a lot of packages and a mess of children. Mr. Treewell looked fondly on the scene, catching one passing child gently by the collar.
"No running now, Jimmy. Miss Charpentier, I should like you, briefly, to meet my family. You've met John Jr., of course."
The awkward fellow in the office doorway smiled and waved.
"This," Mr. Treewell went on, hoisting the small child into his arm, "is James. He's very young yet, but he'll grow."
Nola, never very good with children, smiled wanly, only for the little one to hide his face against Mr. Treewell's coat.
"And that's Emily, Elisabeth, Richard, Henry, Adam..."
"Now dear," one of the young women said, crossing to hug Mr. Treewell briefly and to take James in her arms, "I'm sure your guest would prefer not to be bothered with a catalogue of the children."
"Of course, my dear, of course. At any rate, this is my wife, Cordelia..."
The woman smiled, a little coy, and shook Nola's hand.
"And that is our all-'round attendant, cleaner, and ranch-hand, Eleanor," Mr. Treewell concluded, indicating the other young woman, who was busily juggling a hat box, some large wrapped item, and joggling a baby carriage.
"Nell really is our sine qua non," Mrs. Treewell noted.
"At least I think so."
Something in her tone gave Nola a thrilling suspicion. She wondered if Mr. Treewell ever had a similar feeling about his wife and their help.
Posted Oct 8, 2019, 2:34 PM UTC · edited