“Does that mean you find me pleasing?” he asked as he moved a chair closer and sat down in it, directly across from me.
Being less than a foot from a person of such overwhelming beauty played havoc with my already unbalanced senses. I tried to scoot back, but the couch permitted not even an inch of retreat.
“If you haven’t been to Florence, why are you so familiar with the statue?” he asked in a manner that showed he was interested. I noted the way his body suddenly leaned forward, and his eyes fixed on mine as if he could read the answer there if I failed to respond adequately.
“My artist friend and my former roommate, a nurse studying for her exams, introduced me to various subjects such as the analysis of body movements, facial expressions, and the labeling of numerous body parts. It was serious for them due to their chosen fields of study, but it was also a game to see how much I’d processed while helping them learn what they were studying, They often quizzed me on my knowledge. Not that I objected. I like to learn. Only such things are not a common thread of most conversations.”
Had I jabbered on too long? By now most of the men Judy had drawn into her web for matchmaking purposes would have been yawning and scooting their eyes about the room in search of someone more interesting. I had very few social skills and a stark inability to lie. When someone asked me something, I told the truth. Not wise in today’s world.
But Mr. Caldwell seemed intrigued. “Do you still have the nursing roommate and the artist friend in your realm? You spoke of them in past tense.”
My, he was a good listener. How had he picked up on that?
“They’re still good friends, but sadly, no. My roommate, Sammy, got a job in a hospital out in Bakersfield. The artist friend moved to Carmel where there’s a whole community of people painting al fresco. Since Cara never gained any skill with David, she decided to dedicate her art to ocean scenes, to become a real Turner, or at least she’d like to be.”
“Ah, yes. Fishermen at Sea. Turner liked angry waves, sea monsters, dark and doubt — chaos, even.”
“Yes,” I said, surprised that this man even knew of Turner’s art work. “His paintings seemed to scream for order, yet he couldn’t find any, thus the shadows and vortexes of troubled waves haunted his paintings.”