Read The Whore's Child for Free Online

Robert Trevor was sweating and his forehead was smudged with several different colors of paint from his palette. There was an easel set up next to the table, and Trevor studied the halffinished canvas resting there, a landscape, as if rickety furniture were the least of his problems.
    It took him a minute to sense Martin’s presence at the foot of his deck, and even then he didn’t react with as much surprise as Martin himself would have displayed had their situations been reversed. The painter nodded at Martin as if he’d been expecting him, and he did not get up. “You,” he said, running his fingers through his hair, “would be Laura’s husband.”
    “Martin.”
    “Right, Martin.”
    “Joyce called you?”
    Trevor snorted. “I don’t have a phone. That’s one of the many beauties of this place.” He paused to let this vaguely political observation sink in. “No, the sun went behind a cloud and I looked over and there you were. I made the connection.”
    Okay, Martin thought. So that’s the way it’s going to be.
    The sun
had
disappeared behind a cloud in that instant, and Martin thought of Beth walking along the cliffs on the back side of the island. She’d be disappointed now, lacking an excuse to sunbathe topless.
    “I’m going to need that, Martin,” the painter told him, indicating the artichoke jar.
    “Can I come up?” Martin asked.
    “Have you come to murder me?” Trevor asked. “Did you bring a gun?”
    Martin shook his head. “No, no gun. I just came to have a look at you,” he said, pleased that this statement so nicely counterbalanced in its unpleasantness the painter’s own remark about the sun.
    Trevor apparently appreciated the measured response as well. “Well, I guess I’ll have to trust you,” he replied, finally struggling to his feet.
    Martin climbed the steps to the deck, where there was an awkward moment since neither man seemed to relish the notion of shaking hands.
    “There’s another of those jars under the table, if you feel nimble,” the man said. “I could do it myself but it would take me an hour.”
    Martin fetched that jar and two others while Trevor picked up his brushes, arranging them in groupings that made no sense to Martin, then added solvent to each of the jars from a tin can. Martin, crouching low, managed to wedge the leg back in place fairly securely, then stood up.
    “I didn’t mean for you to stop work,” he said, realizing that this was what was happening.
    The painter regarded him as if he’d said something particularly foolish. He was a very big man, Martin couldn’t help but notice; he had a huge belly, but was tall enough to carry the weight without appearing obese. He’d probably been slimmer before, when he and Laura were lovers. Martin hadn’t doubted that this was what they were from the moment he unpacked the painting.
    “The light’s about finished for today, Martin,” the other man shrugged. “The best light’s usually early. The rest is memory. Not like that bastard business you’re in.”
    So, Martin thought. Laura had talked about them. First she’d fucked this painter and then she’d told him about their marriage and their lives.
    “What’s that term movie people use for the last good light of the day?”
    “Magic hour?”
    “Right. Magic hour,” Trevor nodded. “Tell me, is that real, or just something you people made up?”
    “It’s real enough.”
    “Real enough,” Trevor repeated noncommittally, as if to weigh the implications of “enough.” “Well, if you aren’t here to murder me, why don’t you have a seat while I get us a beer. And when I come back, you can tell me if
my
Laura’s ‘real enough’ to suit you.”
    She had arrived professionally wrapped and crated, and when Martin saw the return address on the label, he set the parcel aside in the corner of his study. Joyce had always been an unpleasant woman, so it stood to reason that whatever she was sending him would be unpleasant. She’d