Free The Sea Grape Tree by Gillian Royes Page B

boot—of an affluent black man was still sinking in with her. It was the first time she remembered being the only white person in a group, certainly in a home, and she still didn’t know how she felt about it. True, Sonja had been sweet and nonthreatening, Carthena had been civil, but Roper’s arrival had given her the clear understanding that she was the guest of a black man, eating his food, living under his roof, having to please him with her art. And Roper was no ordinary man. He was eloquent, arrogant, stylish to a fault, and fully confident of the rightness of his opinions.
    â€œTell me the truth, how many do you sell a year?” Roper had raised one eyebrow like a mandarin in judgment. “Maybe you don’t have to live off your work like the rest of us, but the question is, do you paint for yourself or for others? It’s all well and good for people to appreciate your work, but you want them to take it home and put money in your bank account.”
    Her mother’s favorite expression had come back to her. Don’t make a fuss, dear, she’d say, always accompanied by a patting of Sarah’s hand.
    â€œThe kind of buyer I’m looking for, Roper, is someone who sees the layers in my work, who understands the intimacy of my connection with them.” She didn’t mean to imply (even though she’d thought it) that a man in his midfifties who enjoyed being the center of attention, who painted large nudes of women because he knew they’d sell, wouldn’t understand true intimacy.
    Roper was not a man to be contradicted, however generous he was to his household guests, and few had the stomach to oppose him for long. Sarah had already concluded that her host relished the presence of his guests and whatever muse they brought to his home for one reason—he enjoyed controlling them. Confident and paternalistic, he’d throw out his opinions, emphasizing every word, sometimes spacing them so that each lingered in the air with authority.
    â€œIt’s time to let your audience live the work, to put themselves in the scene,” he’d said, a smile playing around his large, square lips. “They can’t do that if they have to shrink like Alice to see them.”
    Halfway through the afternoon, Sarah realized she was no match for the man, especially since she was his guest, and she lied that she was already sketching larger works. “Do you have anything to show me yet?” he wanted to know.
    â€œI’ll tell you when I’m ready,” she’d answered, and made an excuse to go back to her room.
    Ford looked down at his roast beef and resumed cutting it. “It’s not just that Jewel couldn’t come, man. She had a miscarriage. It hit her hard, it hit us both hard.” He was talking so softly in his Southern accent that Sarah strained forward to catch his words. “We’ve had a rough time of it and she’s moved out. It’s over.”
    â€œOh, God,” Sonja said, her carrot-laden fork in midair. “We had no idea, Ford. I’m so sorry.”
    â€œHow awful,” Sarah mumbled. She liked Ford and his gentle, studied manner. He seemed like someone who would appreciate small paintings.
    â€œThat’s life, right?” Ford’s voice got matter-of-fact as he refilled his glass with burgundy. “Thought it might be best if I got out of the city for a few weeks. There are worse places than Jamaica to chill out. Sorry I didn’t give you a heads-up before I came, but I—”
    â€œWe’re glad you came,” Sonja said. “It’ll give you both some time to get over it. Maybe things will change by the time you get back.” Roper was looking at Sonja, allowing her to speak for him, but the writer had run out of words, and the sound of silverware chafing against plates took the place of conversation.
    The swing door to the kitchen opened. “Finished?” Carthena asked, her